Unmarked

2. Don't Wake Mum

Stepping inside the shop, I'm welcomed by the familiar soothing smell of fresh laundry. I've grown up surrounded by the scent of detergent and conditioner. It's the only constant in my life.

The shop is, in fact, a warehouse which doubles as our home. The large space is packed with constantly humming washing machines and dryers, as well as a couple of random pieces of furniture we've salvaged from dumpsters.

The muffled snores of my mum taking one of her many naps is still audible over the sound of vibrating machines. She refuses to sleep longer than an hour, preferring to break up her day with twenty-minute snippets of sleep. It allows her to continue working through the night and complete all the washing whilst also reducing the nightmares. The nightmares are the true reason for her odd sleeping habit.

Sitting at the table, my fingers trace the faded grooves in the worn wood surface while I wait for her to wake. It won't be long, and I know better than to disturb her.

One of my earliest memories is her terror contorted face as I tried to wake her. Her hands quickly encircled my neck, cutting the air supply off to my small lungs. She'd stopped within seconds but to my younger self, it had felt like an eternity of suffocating agony. The faint bruises faded in days whereas my recollection of that moment is permanently etched into my brain. I've never woken her since.

Life lesson- Don't ever surprise or wake a severely traumatised individual.

The worn mattress she sleeps on is positioned on the floor. A blanket lays crumpled next to my mum's scrawny curled up body, exposing her skin which is covered in an array of various markings. My eyes follow the multitude of images marked into her wrinkled flesh, and dark sharp shards of jealously tear at my insides. I sit, allowing the emotion to cut through me. It will pass quickly. It always does.

I know every emblem, brand and image etched into her skin. I've memorised each distinct intricate design. There are many.  Animals, various objects and mottos along with numbers and letters fill every space on her body. They all differ in colour, application and style. Every image has a different meaning, a story of her past achievements, her life history, of her likes and experiences. It tells me what school she went to, awards she won, the age her milk teeth fell out, her favourite past-times at different points in her life. The only similarity they have is they're all permanent.

Everyone has these markings on their skin. The day you're born you get your first one, The State applied birth brand. As the days, months and years pass, your skin is slowly adorned with your history until death takes you from existence.

Some markings are applied by The State free of charge, ones which show your qualifications and you need for jobs or further studying. The right arm is dedicated to these permanent words and images which highlight your successes. They are not compulsory yet everyone has them. Why wouldn't you want everyone to see how well you've done?

The only compulsory markings by law are your birth brand which features in between the collar bone, your family emblem on the right wrist and your engagement and marriage seal on the left wrist. The rest are optional and personal; for aesthetics and memories. Everyone has them. Every person fills their body over the years until their whole bodies are adorned with a beautiful rainbow of life in images. Almost everybody, there is always an exception.

My mum's back is not visible from where I sit, although I don't need to see it to visualise the intricate curls and detailed birds, every feather carefully designed and etched. All the birds hold banners containing the names of her family members, none of whom I have met. My name doesn't feature on her back. I must have been born later, at a time when she could no longer get any more brands added, not without being found out for what she is.

I'm not the only one who has to hide her true self. My mum must too.

The snoring stops and my mum slowly uncurls herself. Standing up. her figure is still hunched from years of physical labour and crushing secrets.

She shuffles towards me and pats me on the arm gently. Her thumbs and index fingers on both hands are missing, her leathery skin is cold and rough against mine. It always has been, as far back as I can remember, coarse and worn. She hasn't aged but is permanently fixed as a haggard lady from who I appreciate every sandpapery kiss and hug I receive.

She gestures at two piles of neatly folded sheets wrapped tightly in clear plastic and an opaque bag hiding contents of skimpy undergarments. The movement gives me a glimpse of her ugliest markings. They are the markings of her tainted past, markings no one wishes to receive.

Two black large squares are seared into her left wrist covering her engagement and marriage seal. A third on the right wrist covers her family emblem. She is a member of a different family now, a family no one chooses to become part of.

They were burnt into her skin upon entry to a labour camp, a place once condemned too, you rarely leave.

The State tell us labour camps are a place of rehabilitation, a place people are sent to cleanse themselves until they are ready to be reintroduced to our wholesome and pure society.

It's a lie. Labour camps do not mend people. My broken mum is evidence enough. And no one gets out of a labour camp. I've only ever seen one person with the same squares and they were being killed for escaping a labour camp. Which means her square brands mark her out. They show she should not be part of society. She fled the labour camp and is still fleeing. We are both hiding from The State.

Yet, I can't help but be envious of my mum's marks, even the brands placed on her as punishment and identify her for what she really is, a convict. At least she has a past, one which is considered tangible and real. What do I have?

Nothing.

"Are these for the Reflection Centre?" I ask and she nods silently in response. Grabbing the bags, I head towards the door. "I'll be back late today. I'm going to look for a leaving present for Teddy."

She waves what's left of her hand in acknowledgement, slowly walking off towards the machines to start the next round of washing. Working alone, she isolates herself from society. She has to because of what she is.

If life was different, I doubt I would be with Teddy because I wouldn't be here. I'd be somewhere else entirely, attending school with a mother who could leave our home and sleep at night for long periods without clawing at the sheets and attacking anything within reach.

If life was different, I could be myself and I'd have options and freedom. However, my life isn't different so there's no point in imagining anything else.