Miika

An Essay by Miika Writing is hard for me. Painful even. But I've been studying hard with Charity…and the computer helps with spelling and…grammar. When Charity gave me this assignment, I wanted to do a voice-print…but she insisted I type it out manually after first scripting it by hand. I can't believe Charity asked me to do this. But even more, I can't believe I agreed to. Not that she hasn't probed before. She's asked about my background many times in a variety of ways...but she never insisted and always backed off when I asked her to. She probably would have backed off on this too…but I guess I must be ok with it. I trust her. And the Captain. That in itself is a tremendous leap for me. My history does not lend itself to trust. Nor is my past something I'm inclined to examine. But Charity wants to know. And I want to please her. The laws of biology insist that I must have had a mother and father, but I never knew them and don't know who they might have been. If I have any siblings, I don't know who they are. For the first thirteen years of my life, I was bounced from one foster home to another. For a short time, I was even kept in a Sylie facility for orphans. It was entirely run by females except for the Headmaster. And the only "orphans" there were female as well. There are no orphaned males…they're far too valuable. There were a few of us humans, but not many…all of us young, under the age of nine. Which was probably a very good thing. I've seen what Sylies do to girls after they've gone through The Change. A statistical analysis would insist that I had some happy and caring foster homes in the many I floated through. Generally speaking, humans are decent folk. But if I had them, they were when I was very young. I don't remember any of them. The best I remember were the ones where the 'rents just didn't care…they fed us and gave us a place to sleep so they could receive their monthly subsidy, and the rest was up to us. Usually it was "survival of the fittest." There were those who liked to hit when they were angry or drunk…and the stars forbid when they were both. That was typical. I don't remember getting used to it, just seems like I've always been. The worst though…the one that made me chuck it all and strike out on my own so young…is so very hard to write about. And now I'm glad I'm writing, because I know for sure I wouldn't be able to say the words aloud. I went to live with them when I was twelve. The "mother" was very sweet. It actually took some getting used to. She seemed to genuinely care. I began to trust her. And then I deeply trusted her. She liked to ask me about my feelings, and listened to my stories and my fears and soothed them away. But the "father"…he was very different. I never liked him, but wouldn't tell her that. I didn't want to upset her. It began slowly…very gradually with little advances from him. He made my skin crawl. And then I heard some horrible stories from a "sister." It wasn't long before I learned first-hand that the stories were true. Less than true perhaps, because they hadn't said it all. While this was going on, I was communicating with someone I'd met on the "net". I told him I was 15, but other than that, everything I told him was true. We talked constantly, though my folks couldn't afford a visual link-up. His voice though, was warm and soothing. He told me he loved me. No one had ever told me that before. And I knew I loved him. I told him what was happening to me and he promised me he would come and rescue me and take me away from it all. He even sent me a picture. An old-fashioned photo in an expensive frame. He was very handsome. I felt like the luckiest girl on earth. Or would be, when he finally came to take me away. One night though, the "father" got shitfaced and angry and horny all at the same time. It was not a good night. But the worst of it all was when he trashed my room and broke my precious picture frame. That seemed to snap him out of it, and he apologized with tears in his eyes and stumbled out of the room. While picking up the pieces, I looked at the back of the picture for the first time. In very faded ink was the name "Jerry" and the date on it was over fifty years old….my "boyfriend's" name was Darnell and he was only a couple years older than I'd said I was. Or so he'd said. I was devastated. I wrote him and asked him what it was all about…and never heard from him again. I was miserable. The one person I'd been able to lean on had turned out to be a total fake who sucked up my emotional trauma like some twisted vampire. Well, "mother" couldn't help but notice something was dreadfully wrong. She pressed, in that very gentle and caring way of hers. She pushed all the right buttons. And before I knew it, I was pouring out the whole sordid story. How I'd planned on running away with Darnell…….and why. I told her what her husband had done to me…and to others. In the span of a few words, she'd turned into a pillar of ice. She slapped me hard across the face. I'd been hit so many times and in so many different ways, I should have had calluses across my face. But that one weak-armed slap hurt more than anything I'd ever felt in my life. She shoved me away from her, calling me a lying little whore and accusing me of trying to destroy her family. She called the Services that night to come and take me out of her home and put me somewhere more "suitable" for a whore such as myself. Well…I just left before they had a chance. The only thing I took with me was the picture. I've carried it with me ever since - the ink on the back has long since rubbed completely off. It serves to remind me to never, ever trust anyone. But somewhere deep inside…when I'm not afraid to look…I know I also held onto it out of hope. Hope that that boy might someday find me, and take me away from my hell into his promised land. Yeah…right. After that, it's basically your standard space-rat life. I nearly starved to death in the beginning. A gang of boys led by a Tanderian took pity on me and took me in. They pretty much taught me to survive and how to steal. I was like a little sister to them, though it wasn't a particularly affectionate relationship. They worked my ass off, but I learned fast. They gave me the name Miika. I don't remember having any other name that wasn't forged on legal papers. I wasn't with them for two years before most of them were wiped out in a battle with a rival gang. Since then, I've been totally on my own. I learned that you have to use whatever tools you have to your best advantage. A young girl out on the street - with nothing but the clothes on her back and the photograph of a fantasy - doesn't have much to work with. But she has enough. I did what I had to do. There were some good times I suppose. Rare moments of partnering up with someone for a brief time before being inevitably separated. I've seen lots of space and places most humans can't even imagine. I know lots of races and languages. Most of the time though, was sheer boredom…waiting for the next heart-pounding change in my life. Many of the times were frightening or even terrifying. But I survived them. And now I'm here. I don't know why. I can't shake the feeling that it too will be ripped away like everything else that might have been good in my life......