Alive || 86: Eighty-Six [ vers. ENG ]

alive

If I could go back in time I would shoot myself.

The first thing I would do when I got back to my childhood body would be to walk the alleys of the internment camp. Instead of looking for my friends, I would run to the first soldier patrolling the area. He would glare at me, slightly annoyed - the same way I had grown accustomed to over the years but to which I only knew how to respond by a smile when I was younger.

Then, as quickly as I could, I would run to him, steal his waist gun, take off the safety and end my future suffering.

No one should have to live this life that I have lived. Or rather, survive this hell.

If a child is not born from two Celena parents with a right mind, then he or she should not have to go through the hell that I lived.

Dad, mom, because you have been so selfish, I can only say these words: I hate you.

That day when I understood that you would not come back, I laughed. I had gained a few years and the naivety in my eyes had faded. The light was no longer reflected in them. Only darkness was in my sight. Ah. I don't even think you would have recognized me.

You got what you deserved. Full-blooded Celenas had no business being here. Your high hopes of rebellion were in vain. If you loved me as much as you said you did, you should have accepted your privileges instead of throwing them away to mingle with the Eighty-Six and disguise yourself like them. At least for me, you should have...

The year you left, the very second the blindfold of lies fell from my eyes, the harsh reality caught up with me with brutality.

Eighty-Six or Alba, all were now the same to me. The cruelty of one was reflected in the other. And for me, a Celena being in a camp and not in the city behind these walls, I could only accept being the target of the hatred they could not pour out on those superior to them.

These years in this camp and these four others on the battlefield have taught me one thing:

The Alba's inside are right, the Eighty-Six are not humans; they are animals, pigs, yes. But they too have no more right to claim to be human.

After having my hair shaved as close as possible as soon as it got in the way, being hit in the stomach, in the back and everywhere else until I spit blood, ending up with a twisted wrist, a broken arm, or an eye that only opened halfway, having my head in the mud, on the verge of drowning, or being threatened with being burned alive for months before one of my tormentors finally did it; I had begun to find some good in my misfortune.

My hair could always grow back. The pain would always subside. A dysfunctional arm, wrist, or eye didn't bother so much because the other one was still moving. And the mud? It had always had a good effect on my skin.

However, all these words were not enough to make one continue to put one foot in front of the other. This hope that the Republic of San Magnolia, our homeland, had offered us was the only light that kept me going.