They marked their bodies

I’m writing this not for others, but for myself, to try to understand what all of this means to me, to my beliefs, to my future, to understand myself. Maybe I’ll never publish this, but if I do, it means that in the end I took a very radical decision.

For an Atlaxian like me, from my category, it’s not strange to wander through the galaxy accepting any job. Since I was born, they have explained to me that I am just trash to society, an obstacle to progress, an undesirable. From a very young age I grew up in misery with a single objective: to survive until I was old enough and had the money necessary to pay a smuggler to take me away from my family, from my world, to seek a better future.

Almost all of my status do the same, they poison our minds with stories of those who left as undocumented immigrants, found fame and fortune among the aliens; but they never tell us about the billions who don’t make it, who end up dying of hunger on the harsh journey, killed by border guards, victims of slavers and biological material traffickers.

Now I understand, I understand that everything they taught me on my planet were just lies to get me to leave, to not interfere with their perfect society, and, if I managed to survive, to send money to my family to sustain the economy of that decadent empire.

How did I end up here?

I could say that it was through contact with many undocumented survivors, refugees from other worlds, other species, other ideas. The mixture of feelings and experiences took shape in my mind over time.

But what finally made an impact was the war between the Roglen Empire and the FdPU. Don’t ask me why they were fighting, to survivors like me politics don’t matter, neither does the morality or justice of the wars. We are survivors and wars are a way to survive.

When I enlisted in the mercenary forces I was the only Atlaxian, so they paired me with a group of humans. When I saw them I felt immediate empathy for them, their bodies were marked by scars and strange patterns, some very simple and others quite complex and colorful. At that moment I didn’t give it much thought, in the end they were survivors like me, expelled from their society, who coincided in this same place to fight the same war.

Our service lasted two years, we lost many, but those who remained formed a strong friendship. Throughout all that time I never asked about the meaning of their marks or their value in their society, and they never asked about mine.

When the war ended, David, one of the humans I grew to care about the most and who saved my life so many times that I can no longer remember them all, told us all while we were at the base waiting for our final payment:

-We should tattoo something to remember this moment.

-Yes, let’s do it!- was the exclamation of everyone, and they began suggesting images, colors, and body parts.

-I have space on my left butt cheek- said Enriquez, and everyone laughed.

I didn’t understand anything, so I asked:

-What is this about tattoos?

Everyone looked at me confused.

-Well, this- said Claudia, pointing to what looked like an orange flower on her shoulder -or that- she pointed to the swirl on the back of my hand.

I explained that my marks were birthmarks, that all Ataraxians are born marked, and that these marks determine our social status. Everyone nodded understanding immediately and explained to me how an artist used a tool to decorate the skin with ink. They also told me about their tattoos, some had deep meanings, others told stories, others were reminders, and even some were superfluous or had forgotten why they got them.

To me, all of that was fascinating. Each of their stories seemed more fascinating than the previous one, I was captivated, never having imagined that someone could change their skin marks at will, for me it was always something you were born with and died with, something that determined your fate, never having thought it could be any other way.

So I told my story, how my marks defined me as trash and how that led me to seek a future away from my planet.

-It’s terrible to judge someone for something they are born with, at least we came here because we earned it, but you haven’t done anything except being born- said David.

An uncomfortable silence fell, until Oscar said:

-Well, since it will be your first tattoo, it’s your honor to choose what it will be, it should be something very meaningful-

And now I’m here, in my cabin while we travel to the docking station where we will get tattooed and then each of us will follow our own path.

I try to think about which design to choose, but I can’t concentrate; all that comes to my mind is hunger, humiliation, the misfortune I was subjected to just for being born, not even being born different, since many others were born with marks like mine, but for being born with a stigma that someone, I don’t know who or why, decided was unworthy and repulsive.

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