DIARY OF A HUMAN TARGET
(BOOK ONE): TAINTED YOUTH
written by
ISIDORA VEY
Copyright © 2016, Isidora Vey
All rights reserved.
This book may not be reproduced,
in part or in full, digital or otherwise,
without prior written permission from the author.
This diary is a work of fiction.
Any similarity to persons and events
is entirely coincidental.
Chapter 1: Distant Innocence
I don't know when I first started feeling like a target; maybe on the day I was born, on 21st June 1963, a Friday with a new moon, after an eight-month-gestation and artificial throes. Everybody was taken by surprise because, as it is known, babies born at the end of eight months don't survive.
But maybe not; anyway, my first years were very innocent. My infancy memories fade away in a hazy nirvana, as time seemed flexible and non-linear and space stretched languidly to infinity, since children of that age can hardly tell the difference between dreams and reality.
Back at those times, my parents and I often used to go to the local cinema. I was particularly fond of watching Greek of foreign movies, although I had a small problem: I always got scared when the screen lit up, the moment when the blackness of the dark canvas was dispelled by the blinding light of the projector. For this reason, just before the film started, I stood up on my chair, turned my back on the screen and waited for the movie to begin. In the meantime, those sitting behind me were pretty annoyed: “Turn round and be seated!” I often heard but paid no heed. My parents told me the same but I just couldn't face the screen unless the film had started for good. What was I really afraid of? What did I fear that would flash before me on the black screen?
I was about three and a half years old when a doll of mine lost a leg, which made me very upset. I took the toy in my hand, got out in the yard and threw it away with might and main. The doll flew over the two adjacent building plots and bumped against the wall of aunt Penelope's garden, about thirty metres away. That seemed strange to me and I ran into the house to fetch my mother. I told her what had happened, but she did not at all believe that I had managed to throw the doll so far. “That's impossible! Don't tell lies!” she scolded me and got into the kitchen again.
During those years I was quite innocent and credulous, always ready to trust anybody about anything. I also had no problem giving my toys away to other children, although they usually didn't let me even touch theirs. Pretty soon, they all started calling me “stupid” and I could not understand the reason why.
It was a warm spring morning and I was walking along the street, together with my mother, when two boys of my age, sitting quietly in their garden, called me: “Hey you, come here, we want to give you a present!”. My mother attempted to dissuade me but I wouldn't listen.
“So, where is the present?” I asked.
The two boys giggled but said nothing.
Then, a sudden slap on my face gave me quite a jolt.
“This is the present!” one of the kids said and then they both burst into wild laughter. I started crying and got away at once, more bewildered than sad. This was just a prank, alright, but why don't I ever come up with such tricks? Why can't I ever think of making fun of anybody? I wondered. I was only four years old then, but I could already sense I was different from the other children.
In the mornings I used to play alone and carefree in the open field next to our house. However, there were two older girls who passed by quite often. As soon as they saw me, they always stopped and sought to scare me, telling me that they were witches: “We come from Africa and we know all about magic! If you don't sing to us, we shall make you like this!” they hissed and showed me an olive-tree leaf. Fearing that I would be either beaten up or turned into a leaf, I started singing immediately.
One day, when I was four and a half years old, my mother and I paid a visit to Mrs Daphne, who lived nearby. While the two women were chatting in the balcony, I spent my time exploring the garden, the yard, the stairs. I had ended up on the terrace, when I saw a girl of my age playing in the next garden. I smiled to her spontaneously; she looked at me angrily and called me “pig”. I didn't get it at once; I thought I had heard wrong.
“Hi! How are you?” I asked politely.
“You, pig!” she cried again.
I walked away sad and returned to my mother in the balcony. Ten minutes later, the bell rang and the hostess went to answer the door. It was another friend of Mrs Daphne, together with her daughter. I was really taken aback when I recognized one of the two African girls who took pleasure in frightening me. Hardly realizing how it started, we soon had a bad fight; she pushed me down and hit me, shouting in a strident voice: “I am African, I know how to cast spells and I can kill you!”. I burst into crying and I wanted to leave at once.
One night, as I was riffling through my father's medical book, I saw a picture that shocked me more than anything else in my life till then: It was a drawing of a human skeleton. I was scared out of my wits at the thought of some horrible illness that could reduce a man like this! I asked my father immediately and he explained to me that all people are like this inside and this is what remains when they die. Speechless with terror, I ran to my bed at once, determined to fall asleep at once and forget all about it. However, when I woke up next morning, I realized that a traumatic experience is never forgotten.
On 12th November 1967 my younger sister was born. She was brought home a few days later; I remember, the weather was incredibly cold and the wind was blowing with a vengeance. Some months later, she took her name, Alice.
At first I didn't have any particular problem with her. Nevertheless, as time passed, I could see that our parents and relatives liked her more than me because she was “such a smart girl”, “all airs and graces”, “a cutie”. Moreover, no matter what mischief she was up to, she was always excused because she was “the little one”. I, on the contrary, was often thrashed over a trifle and nobody ever excused me for anything. Let alone I almost forgot my name: I was no longer Yvonne. I was “the big one”.
My best friend was Gregory, my father's godson, who was two years younger than me and lived in the same neighbourhood. Sometimes I can still hear his shrill voice ringing in my ears: “Let's go out and play!”. I also used to play with Urania, the baker's blue-eyed daughter, who was two years older than me. The three of us had great fun together playing in the fields every day, living the most wondrous adventures in our imagination. I reminisce a scene, when I was about five years old and I was leading four other children into a field, all of us holding thin twigs in our tiny hands, as though they were scepters.
In contrast to the other girls, who could hardly wait to grow up, get married and have children, I openly expressed my aversion to the role of housewife and mother. I simply liked running around and exploring the fields instead of helping mum with the housework. I used to avoid dolls; I preferred playing “Indians and Cowboys” with the boys rather than “mother and children” with the girls. For this reason, the housewives of the neighbourhood disliked me a lot and had no problem in showing it to me. In fact, they foamed with rage anytime they saw me playing in the streets and called me “tomboy”. Especially aunt Pauline, Gregory's mother, kept on trumpeting forth that when she was at my age she could manage the whole housework by herself. As about her mother, a fat old hag always loaded with fancy gold jewels, she literally hated me. She called me names and threatened me to beat me up, whenever she saw me. One day, while Gregory and I were playing quietly in his yard, the old hag rushed out and took
him quickly inside the house, shouting to me: “If you don't disappear at once, I will tear you asunder!”
My father was seldom at home because he worked as a captain in the merchant navy. I remember, it was a sunny summer day when he and I paid a visit to a colleague seaman. First, we gathered olives in a green field. Then, we went to the seaman's house, which was a nice traditional cottage with a spacious whitewashed yard. As soon as I entered the bedroom, I saw an old rifle hanging on a wall. I raised Cain to make them give it to me. After a lot of hesitation, the host's black-dressed mother took down the gun and handed it to me. Beaming with happiness, I took it out to the yard and started aiming at stuff. The old woman brought me a chair. “Oh, the girl may faint!” she exclaimed full of concern, but I couldn't understand why I may faint. Because I'm a girl, maybe? Anyway, I found out soon that I couldn't hit anything because the rifle had no bullets. I definitely wanted bullets, I made a song and danced about it, but they refused to do me that favour. In all probability, they didn't have any bullets at all.
Another day I was feeling bored because my friend Gregory was nowhere to see. Namely, I was looking forward to playing with some impressive cowboy pistols he had -a recent gift his aunt Calliope had brought from America. After lunch, I decided to visit him. I entered the house through the back door and found nobody in the kitchen. I slowly walked to Gregory's room, there was no one there either. I peeped through the ajar bedroom door and saw that the whole family was fast asleep inside. Being very careful so as not to make a sound, I searched among Gregory's toys, found the two shiny golden pistols, took them in my hands and went off at a run. As soon as I arrived home, my mother saw my new toys and she started shouting:
“Tell me right now, where did you find these guns?”
“I found them on the road!” I replied quickly, with my most innocent face.
“These pistols are too expensive to be Greek! Start talking, did you steal them from an American boy?”
“No, no, I found them!” I insisted.
A little later, aunt Pauline rolled up; my mother showed her the guns and aunt confirmed that they belonged to Gregory. I awkwardly excused myself that I had taken the toys “by mistake”, I said I was sorry and gave them back. “Never mind, but Yvonne left the back door open when she left!” aunt Pauline said calmly.
A few days later, I met Gregory in a big building plot next to his house; we decided to play stone-throwing battle and barricaded ourselves behind two opposite heaps of gravel. All at once, I grabbed a huge flat stone and hurled it at Gregory. Yet, borne along by my own impetus, I didn't aim well; the stone flew really high and landed behind a two-metre wall at the far end of the field. Right then, a pained woman's voice was heard: “Oh, my head!”. Gregory ran quickly and disappeared behind some thick leafage; I didn't find the time to escape, so I just hid behind my heap of gravel. In no time, an old man appeared and yelled at me angrily: “I know you are hiding behind the gravel, show yourself or I'll come and beat you!” I hesitated for a few moments, but I finally exposed myself and was obliged to get a blasting from the old man, for ten long minutes.
It took me many years to realize the oddity of the event: the stone had covered a distance of about 30 metres, at a height of 2.5 metres. Even as an adult, I doubt whether I could throw a stone that far...
Wondrous things used to happen to me back at those years: Sometimes I emptied my mind from all thoughts and spontaneously had a strange feeling that I were hollow inside, as if my body were devoid of inner organs; or I felt like sinking in a dark vortex, only for a split second, before I started up agitated. Some other times, I had the odd impression of being cut off from the world that surrounded me; everything and everyone else seemed to turn up around me in coordination, like a sinister three-dimensional kaleidoscope. Almost every night, when I went to bed and closed my eyes, I had a weird yet delightful experience: I felt like whirling deeper and deeper under a vertiginous night sky; at the zenith of my virtual universe, thousands of colourful stars sparkled like fabulous treasure.
... Too bad that such experiences will become rarer and rarer as years go by, and they will disappear for good with the advent of adolescence.
Chapter 2: Class A Junior