"The First Christmas"

Posted on Sun Jan 9th, 2022 @ 11:57am by Lieutenant Tate Sullivan Ph.D.

Mission: MISSION 0 - History Speaks
Timeline: Flashback, Tate Sullivan, Age 8
836 words - 1.7 OF Standard Post Measure

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Michelle Sullivan looked down at her newly adopted daughter, her green eyes making eye contact with young Tate's bright blue ones. The elder Sullivan held onto her adopted child's hand loosely, but Tate could tell she was resisting the urge to hold on tighter.

Eight year old Tate Salinger, now Tate Sullivan, knew she wasn't going to run. As angry and conflicted as she was in this moment and as she had always been since her adoption just a couple of months before, a part of her knew she was happy in her new family. Just acknowledging that, however, was enough to remind her of the pit of dread in her stomach, a pit wrapped in anger.

It was just like the pit she felt this Christmas morning as she unwrapped a series of presents and suddenly realized she would never have another Christmas with her biological mother again. Partly feeling guilty for being so happy and forgetting a moment about her former mother, just as quickly, she was suddenly filled with resentment toward her adoptive parents for trying to replace her mother with themselves. What is that what they were trying to do? Some days, she didn't believe that, but days like today left her feeling so uncertain. The only thing she knew for certain now was that she needed to be here right now.

"Yes," Tate offered resoundingly. Whether she was sure or still vibrating from anger and panic, no one would know, but hearing the certainty in Tate's voice, Michelle stepped forward in the queue with Tate, handing the corrections officer both of their IDs as the mail checks the name against the list he held before ushering both of them inside the cold, drab building.

The two were directed to the prison's large visiting room, and the surroundings were truly surreal, even for the elder Salinger who had often treated prisoners in this very prison. The large visiting room was decorated in holiday colors, in this case, the colors associated with Christmas on earth. Red and green paper chains hung from the ceiling, a large Christmas tree was in the center of the room, and holiday music from all over the galaxy played over the loudspeakers. Tate was certainly not the most galactically experienced traveler, but even Michelle couldn't be certain the music that was playing was an all connected to any winter holiday remotely close to Christmas. The loud clicks and squawks that would sometimes punctuate melodic sounds were worse than Klingon opera. It was as if the staff had decided to make things appear festive at the last minute, their efforts only reinforcing just how pathetic and miserable the entire environment was.

Corrections officers lined the back wall of the room, their phaser rifles pointed downward, but their eyes scanning the room, ever hyper vigilant, ready to spring into action should visitation get out of control. In one corner of the room, a holo screen depicting a fireplace with Christmas stockings hanging from the mantle, a rotating image of a Christmas tree with presents beneath it, and a holographic Santa rotated behind prisoners taking keep sake images with their families. Tate knew it was going to take more than a holographic screen to make anyone forget where they were, but even as the cynical and sarcastic thought crossed her mind, another part desperately hoped she could soon commemorate the stay in the same way.

"This way," Michelle directed, pulling Tate along to a metal table with attached stools. The table was clean, but had clearly seen better days and was cold to the touch. As Tate was pulled along, she scanned the room of women of all ages and all species in their matching indistinct uniforms. Part of her was desperate to the woman she had called Mom until just recently, and another part of her pretended to be bored.

"Tate," a voice called out breathlessly, familiar, of course, and stronger than the little girl had heard in a long time. Still, Tate was experienced enough with her mother's addiction even if she didn't have the words, to know that brighter eyes but paler skin with wrinkles didn't mean that the illness Ava Salinger suffered from was any better.

Ava stood there, arms as open as they could be while still cuffed, while Tate remained rooted to her seat, the freeze portion of the fight, flight and freeze response alive and well. Like a never ending mental slideshow, scenes played in the young girl's mind, some good, but mostly bad. How many times had she begged her mother not to drink or use? How many times had she picked her mother up off the floor of their home because she had passed out?

Feeling the rage bubbling up in her throat, the young Tate did the only thing she knew to do: she stood up and she ran.

Michelle stood up and went after her, offering a hasty apology in her wake.