Indigo

I never understood why everyone fussed over me.

I understand that I was a unique looking child, as I was constantly reminded of this. Eyes often followed me everywhere, so often that my mind rarely registered it anymore. It was a normal part of my day.

My family gave me the name “Elizabeth” after the Hollywood actress Liz Taylor. My light indigo eyes transfixed them all, much like my namesake transfixed an entire generation of lovestruck men and envious women. Though I never felt the same mix of admiration and jealousy. Not exactly.

My birthmarks were also a thing of beauty, I was told, something my family held in high regard. Two angled, long birthmarks at the top of my back. “Your wings.” That is what they would whisper, as they ran their fingers lightly over my back while helping me dress. When I was alone, I would often touch them as well. I didn’t understand this interest, it was just skin. No raised skin, no pain when I touched them. But I played along, as I enjoyed the attention that they gave me. I felt special. Even if it was for something as simple as a birthmark. Something that I didn’t even ask for. On special occasions, I was always dressed in a backless dress. People would gasp and whisper at the sight of my “wings”. I held my head high, as I felt proud in spite of how mundane it was to me.

My family is more than your average family. I had many brothers and sisters, parents, cousins, aunts, uncles, grandparents even. They all looked different, but our differences were beautiful, celebrated. We may have looked different, but we still chose to be family. And I was happy.

I slept in a room swirled with jewels and gold. The ceiling was glass so that I could see the many twinkling stars at night, my former home. That’s what I was told. At night, I would stare at these stars and try to force memories to come back to my mind, memories of a past in the stars. But those memories never came. I would sink into a depression at night, knowing that I had no memories of this past that I was told about. I should be able to remember, but I couldn’t. To deal with this feeling of inadequacy, I took to inventing memories in my mind. In my mind, I came from a beautiful world of milk and honey, surrounded by my family. It wasn’t too different from the world that I inhabited now.

I was well taken care of. All of my daily needs were attended to, without so much as a thought on my part. All of my interests were encouraged warmly. My paintings were hung around the public buildings. When I showed interest in learning different languages, a tutor would suddenly appear. If there was not one available within the family, they were brought in to help me meet my goals.

I was special, and I was treated as such. I didn’t know why, but I didn’t mind. It felt wonderful to be special. It meant that I was loved. And I loved my family in return. My home was my happy place.

That was until the day, at eight years old, that I was “rescued” from my family. I did not know that I needed rescuing. My mind could not comprehend why I would need to be liberated, when I already had so much freedom.

Men with scary, dark clothes and surrounded by boxes rushed in with what I later learned were guns. I didn’t know what they were at the time, I had never seen them before. But I knew to be afraid of these men and the things that they carried, as the rest of my family screamed and cried at the sight. One by one, they were dragged out, hands bound, and placed into waiting vehicles. I wasn’t familiar with that either. I heard so many of my family members screaming my name, telling me to run. But where would I run to? Our home was full of unfamiliar people, people with angry faces and loud voices. They looked like they meant harm. I had also never stepped foot outside of the compound. I didn’t know what to expect or how to survive outside of these walls. Was there a world beyond this? I was frozen with fear.

It was at this point that a tall man came to speak to me. I was hiding under my covers. I didn’t want to be the next one dragged out, hands bound and terrified. Screaming and crying over the end of my world.

He calmly sat down on the end of the bed and spoke to me plainly. Asked what my favorite foods were. Asked if I liked movies or school. I was silent at first, as I did not understand what he was asking of me. However, I began to ease in his presence. His voice was warm and calming. He didn’t appear aggressive like the rest of the men. He was dressed differently. He also had a grandfatherly nature to him, which I started to warm to.

Eventually the man told me that I could not stay here. My home. My sanctuary. This was my greatest fear. A hole ripped open in my chest, and I felt as if I was dying. “Where will I go?” I finally asked.

“We will take care of you.” He replied.

I asked if I could take anything with me, but the man shook his head. “You will have everything that you could ever want or need where you’re going.”

On the way out, when I thought the man was looking away, I reached out and took a necklace from my bedside table and shoved it into my dress pocket. I kept my hands in both pockets so as not to raise suspicion, feeling the smooth figure on the necklace as I left the only home that I had ever known. What I couldn’t know was that the man did see this, but he didn’t stop me. He took pity on me, and allowed me this one comforting reminder of my home.