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It’s his first week back at school. The stares follow him; the whispers are just loud enough that he can’t help hear them. The expressions coated with pity are present on every face, nobody really knows what happened. Nobody knows where he spent the last two years and he doesn’t bother to tell them. There are no words to ever describe what Tarsus was, a nightmare can only be sketched but the picture stays in the mind of the dreamer.
Instead he does what he’s supposed to do, speak to the teachers when they ask questions, follow the instructions to his classes, try to participate in life. But he’s nothing more than an observer, to participate would require him to remember how life was before and that would require slogging through all the memories he’s trying his best to lock away.
The lasts therapist his mother drags him to every week, wants him to remember, she wants him to understand and accept. He knows she won’t last long, or make any more headway than the others…because she doesn’t understand. From her clean, well manicured nails, pristine clothes and graduate school crafted thoughts of life, she’s lost. She’ll never understand what’s wrong or how to fix it…because she never spent a stint in hell.
He can’t remember and yet he can’t stop. Every day he fights to lock that time away, far back where he’ll never think of it… far back so that he can pretend it never happened. He doesn’t want to talk about the planet that haunts his nightmares or the things he seen and done. He just wants to forget.
He sits in the cafeteria and stares at the children around him. They laugh, they play, and they live.
And he just watches. Half- eaten lunch trays tossed aside, voices yelling so loud they could be heard halfway across a courtyard, plump full bodies and childish pranks…it’s life, and it’s so wrong.
He feels like he’s drowning, submerged in a sea of normalcy. A boy settles next to him. The teen tries to start a conversation; maybe he takes pity of him. Maybe it’s one of the teachers’ attempts to help him adapt. Either way, he doesn’t care.
“Hi, you’re Jim right?”
Kirk stares at him….the boy looks slightly unnerved, but to his credit tries again. “So, uh me and a few others we’re going to watch a holo after school you…”
The teen trails off as Kirk doesn’t speak, doesn’t even look at him anymore. Kirk stares at the food lying untouched on his own plate and picks at the bread of his untouched sandwich then whispers in a voice so tired it’s barely audible. “That’s not important.”
“What?” The other boy leans closer and Kirk turns to look at him. He sees a startled look across his face, and knows it’s his eyes. Their dead, he’s heard his mother mention that to the therapist after he leaves the room and waits for them to finish discussing him. He’s knows they reflect all the death he’s seen, and… all the death he’s brought. He knows that they look like death and there’s nothing that can change that because he feels like he’s dead.
“It’s not important…” Kirk turns away not bothering to watch as he hears the other boy walk away after a moment. It’s the truth, it wasn’t important, nothing much is anymore. Holos, eating, sleep none of its important--a corpse doesn’t need to do any of those things. He wishes his mother and the rest of them would see that.
He wishes they would just let him die. He accomplished the only thing left to do, eight others got off that planet of hell because of him and now he just wants to let go and curl up, cold and unfeeling with the others who are lying in the ground because of him—because he wasn’t fast enough—or strong enough—because somehow someway he should have saved them too and—he couldn’t. He wishes he could just die…then he wouldn’t hurt so much.
The bell for next class rings and as the other kids shove last bites into their mouths and dump trays into the recycler he carefully packs his untouched lunch away. He can’t bring himself to eat it most days, but he can’t bring himself to waste it either.
A part of him knows he’s safe on Earth and another part knows that he’s never safe, because Tarsus was safe too and then it was all blood and screaming and the stench of death so that he’ll never be able to get rid of the odour from his memory.
He’s walking to class, through a ceaseless mass of people doing his best to ignore the students around him. Doing his best to remind himself that the screams are just kids playing and not people crying out as they lay dying. He does his best to remember that there’s no need to lash out at the people bumping into him because it’s not a guard moving closer, holding him, pinning him and making him wish he was dead. He does his best not to bolt as children run past him, because they’re not trying to escape a firing squad they’re just going to class. It’s Earth not Tarsus. He repeats the words over and over in his head but it does nothing to still his hammering heart.
And for the most part he succeds, he catches himself as his feet unconsciously quicken. He doesn’t whip his head all the way around as somebody shrieks mere feet behind him. He pulls his hand back just in time to stop himself from breaking a girls arm as she briefly touches his.
He makes it to class and settles down in his seat. He sits as close to the door as he can get but far enough away that he still has another escape, part of him knows he doesn’t need to do that but he still does. Kodos came and cleared the classroom the day it all started; he saw lines of children led unwittingly to their deaths.
Silence settles as the teacher walks in. The Holoboard activates and a lesson plan flashes on screen.
Open App 6.15 and read screen one. His fingers skim across the Padd resting on his desk, but he doesn’t read. He can’t calm himself enough to read the words. He knows this chapter; he remembers skimming over it a few nights ago when yet again he woke up from a nightmare. The words hadn’t made the screams still rolling through his head or the nausea in his gut better that night.
Minutes pass and then the teachers speaking. “Earth and the galaxy’s history have been marred by many such events as you just read. “
Kirk looks up, watching the teacher as she strides back and forth talking, behind her pictures flash past on the screen, dates and locations underneath.
Two towers toppling- September 11th –21st century
Two gigantic mushroom clouds engulfing cities, Japan 20th century
Dark skinned people packed on ships, so tight their bodies are crammed together- Slave trade, Former United States 16th century
People running as vessels fly overhead strafing crowds. Augments marching throughout cities, rounding up people for selection. 21st century
He stares at the pictures, and sees two images for every one. There are people running in terror during the Second World War as fire rains down from the sky, but there’s people running as ships flew overhead, bolts of lasers flicking out, and bodies disappearing in halos of light.
There’s emaciated bodies packed on top of each other and being shoved into crematoriums by smiling guards with SS on their uniforms and theirs troops wearing Kodos’ uniform piling corpses-- aliens and humans-- so they can burn them.
The teacher continues speaking. “But we have made so much progress, the entire galaxy has, and what has happened in the past doesn’t happen anymore, we have grown past our prejudices and we have learned from history.”
A sour taste coats his mouth and before he knows it he speaks. Everybody in class turns to look at him. “That’s not true.” He repeats the words again and his teacher frowns. “James,” he flinches as she uses his name, it reminds him of thick lips whispering it heavily into his ears as rough hands pet his body.
She doesn’t notice his reaction or maybe she doesn’t care, he can’t tell anymore. “If you have something to say, why don’t you wait until you’re called on?”
He doesn’t speak again, and she frowns even more, an odd look crossing her face as she stares at him. He knows she as well as the other teachers knows something happened to him, but he also knows none of them know exactly what. They know he was away for a few years and came back very changed, but they don’t know why.
The teacher chooses to ignore his outburst and continues the class. A quiz is given which he knows he failed and can’t bring himself to care. Then they’re each called up , one by one to read sections of the chapter—It’s about the holocaust, he doesn’t need to read it, he doesn’t need a reminder of history—he’s already lived it….The past is his present.
James ignores the bored voices reading out passages; he lets his mind wander instead of listening to the words. It’s easier to just drift away. Then it’s his turn. “James”
“James”
It takes the teacher three times before he turns his head and looks at her. She stares at him a tad irritated and somewhat worried. Her mouth opens to say something else but he shuffles from his seat to the front of class. She clears her throat and says quietly. “Section 6.11.3 please.” He flicks to the right screen and begins to read, he doesn’t want to. But he knows if he doesn’t do his mother will hear about it and then he’ll be dragged to another therapist or counsellors who will then try to make him talk and force him to sit for hours while they try to “connect”.
“During World War II, several million people were murdered, by the Nazi Regime. Auschwitz was one of the concentration camps which had the highest body count of record to its name. “He pauses but manages to continue. “One of the most common method in which they committed this atrocity is through the use of gas chambers, people were herded into the room and…”
Crouching on the roof of an abandoned building, watching as the guards stripped the prisoners of their possession, clothes anything they could. Then they were marched one by one into the building. He knew it had once been a recycler and he knew that now it would serve a similar purpose, people weren’t that much different from Garbage in Kodos eyes.
He blinks, and glances around, he’s only stopped talking for a few seconds but everybody is staring at him. He swallows and continues, trying to rush through the pages so he won’t have time to comprehend what he’s speaking. It doesn’t work.
”Thousands of people died indirectly from the Nazi’s cruelty. Many were ravaged by disease, others—others st-st-starved to death…”
The entire house was empty except for the front room. Lying there were three bodies, a mother and two kids, the skin was pulled tight against their skulls, clothes hung off their frames, and even from feet away it was obvious what had killed them. The slow, death of starvation.
“Continue James.”
He looked up, his throat felt tight. The words were blurring on his Padd. “No.”
“James, this is history class you—“
He didn’t wait for her to speak; his entire frame was trembling now. It’s history, so far in the past. It’s supposed to never happen again, but it already has and it’s too much. He can’t read about something when every word is a reminder of how he’s lived it. “I’m not reading anymore of this shit“ He tries to make the words firm, but his voice is trembling so the sentence is mumbled and his eyes are burning.
The Padd drops from limp fingers, pieces of plastic fly across the room and the screen shatters. He’s shaking so much it feels like a single breath will knock him over.
The teacher is moving closer now, her lips move, but he can’t hear the words. She reaches towards him, looking worried. He doesn’t see the expression, just the hand moving towards him trying to make connect. He stumbles back, catching the side of a desk in his back. Words come out, whispered, like a broken plea “I’m not reading anymore.” I’m not remembering anymore. The last words were left unsaid, but he means them with every fibre of his being.
The teacher frowns even more, he manages to stumble farther back, away from the other students staring at him and the teacher speaking words he can’t understand.
He reaches the back of the room. His back is pressed tightly to the wall, legs locked to hold himself up, skin pale as ghost and she’s still coming closer .It triggers another memory. She reaches out grabbing his arm and he desperately rips himself free. He pulls even tighter into himself and he can’t help the strangled whimper that breaks free from his lips or the trickle of liquid that starts down his legs. He’s lost in nightmare for a moment, and he’s back on Tarsus. Hands holding him tightly, a body pinning him. The thick smell of sweat, blood trickling down his face and rough skin rubbing against his own rhythmically as a silent scream lodges in his throat. He wanted to run but couldn’t.
It’s not like that now, he can move. He can run. He does.
He breaks away as she tries to touch him again and he shoves her back, then he’s racing out the room. Classes are letting out; he ignores the students littering the corridor and runs until he finds an empty classroom. Somebody finds him almost an hour later cowering in the classroom. Too far gone to even cry out when she touches him, instead he pulls tightly into himself burying his head in his knees, his arms wrapped around his shoulders like he’s trying to hold himself together. School’s let out by the time he moves and this time his mother touches him. Numbly he stands up flinching as the school nurse tries to pull him up him. He lets somebody guide him to a seat. He’s vaguely aware of the principal (whose arrival he didn’t even notice), the school nurse, his teacher and his mother all discussing him. They think he can’t hear them but he does.
”He’s not ready for this amount of stimuli yet.” The school’s nurse clipped assessment starts it off.
Then it’s the principal, concerned and questioning. “What exactly happened?”
“I’m sorry principal Carmichael it’s very traumatic I can’t really discuss it” His mothers’ tones are equal parts sad and in control…only he hears the desperation in her voice.
‘”He freaked out in class, the incident was very disturbing. –“
“Do we know what caused this?”
He zones out as his teacher answers they’re all talking about him, but nobody’s talking to him. He could take the kids, the noise, the questions and the stares but he can’t take the memories.
The brief conversation washes over him and then his mother comes. She stares at him awkwardly and speaks. He doesn’t get all the words, his mind is too distracted. But he knows what she wants, numbly moving by rote he follows her out the school, legs still trembling slightly, pants still damp, and flinches that he can’t help when the principal abruptly reaches out to pat his back.
It’s late at night. He’s curled up in bed, not asleep he avoids that as long as possible, and it keeps the nightmares away for just a little longer. He’s still breathing fast and his stomach aches from a dinner that wouldn’t stay down. The light is off and he’s staring out the window. He feels a weight settle on the edge of his bed and automatically bolts upright, heart hammering in his chest and his own remembered screams in his ears. But this time it’s not a hairy hand caressing is face, or a rough voice whispering lewd phrases. It’s quiet and soft and something he misses even though he never really had it before. He doesn’t know how to react. His body stills and he stiffens as hands grasp his shoulder pulling him into a hug.
The words are almost silent and he feels them whispered against his head. “What went wrong today Jim?”
He doesn’t speak, instead he trembles and this time he starts crying. His mother lets him lie back down and immediately he curls up again. Her face is pinched, her eyes worried but he doesn’t answer.
He can’t figure out the words to explain how he’s trapped in a nightmare.
And…
He’s sure she wouldn’t understand anyway.