FIVE

~CASSANDRA’S BEGINNING~

At five years old I was nothing if not shy. I was most comfortable half hidden behind Daveed’s leg, fingers clinging to the rough denim of his jeans. If I close my eyes and concentrate I can still recall the texture of the fabric, the scent of cloves that accompanied him everywhere. He was so tall then. So solid. I thought there was no wind that could topple him.
I was his constant little shadow. To be away from him for any length of time was uncomfortable. Six hours a day was devastating. I spent most mornings in tears, begging him not to leave me. I shook with chills and hot flushes as I hyperventilated, my little body racked with emotions so much bigger than me.
My distress was dismissed by everyone who witnessed it. But if there is one thing to know about me it is that I do not make idle threats.
I told them I didn’t want to be there. I showed them - albeit unwillingly - that I didn’t want to be there. The nightmares that plagued me at night left me shaken come morning. Twisted branches ripped at my flesh and insects dug under my skin to lay eggs. My eyes were bruised. I missed the smell of home, missed the spices of Portuguese food, missed the casual comfort of simply laying down when my thoughts ran too fast. I wanted to be silent, rather than stumble through archaic Bible passages with a speech disability. Nuns would bark at me for slouching, my special aid worker would roll her eyes as I failed to recite a tongue twister, and above all else, I struggled to make friends.
Loneliness is heavy in its isolation but to feel its weight and to not understand it is another thing entirely. The children in my class were mere conduits for their parents’ bigotry but their words were still the same; I was a bastard. Mum and Daveed were never married and could barely stand to be in the same room. Daveed was treated with cotton gloves, the Father Who Stayed, while Mum got the snickering of two dozen Catholic mothers. And all of those mothers' children would cut me off in line to the water tap, or would trip me as I walked, or punch my gut. I was the cannon fodder of the class.
With the exception of two girls - Krysin and Bea. One was the only other kid with separated parents - although she was not a bastard - and both were a part of immigrant families. Both had mothers who genuinely cared for me, and made an effort to chat to Mum whenever they saw her.
But four people in a toxic community is a drop in an ocean.
My plan was simple - I would wait until the end of recess, remain in a toilet stall until all the students went back to class, and then I would slip out of a hole in the ten foot tall fence. I would run all the way home and into Daveed’s arms. It was a success for the most part. No one noticed I was gone. I dashed across the concrete soccer field with my heart fluttering in my throat like a canary in a coal mine. I crouched down before the gap in the fence… and couldn’t move.
Cars rushed behind me at rapid speeds, pushing my curls from my face. All I could think of was being smeared along the asphalt, my bones snapped and cracked, dying while staring up at the blue sky. Or worse - I would survive on a machine like my mother’s patients. I would never speak again, or live out the dreams that I held in my heart of hearts. I would never run toward my Nonna as she called out, “querida!” I couldn’t find the courage to gamble on it.
My memory becomes a black hole there. Suddenly I was in the same cubicle I had hid in earlier, hysterically sobbing. The grinding of the metal gate skittered down my spine while I desperately grappled for air - if I could only fill my chest I could be quiet as whoever it was used the bathroom and left. But oxygen slipped from my grasp like a spirit.
Two Year Six girls found me. I still remember their twin expressions of horror as they took me in. And then again, my memory skips forward. I dragged my feet and tried to rip my arms free from where they held me fixed between them, their fingers gripped so tight I felt each individual digit like a brand. One of the girls opened the outside door to the Prep classroom at the same moment a wind picked up the heavy wooden door and slammed it against the brick. My teacher and special aid worker were standing before the rest of my class who were following their actions, as though they were in the middle of Simon Says. The only sound was the howling gale and my wet hiccups.
My teacher immediately whisked me into a meeting room that adjourned the Principal’s office. He wasn’t there - not this time. The vice principal came to the room and once they called Daveed he was there within minutes. (Notice that I said they called Daveed. Only Daveed.)
We sat around a huge round table that reminded me of King Arthur. I suppose what happened was obvious from what the two girls had said, or perhaps I explained myself during the black holes in my memory, but I don’t recall ever being asked what I wanted to achieve through my actions. I sat on Daveed’s lap, enveloped in his scent of cloves and soil - he must’ve been gardening. His hand on my shoulder was a steady presence, a conduit for warmth to flood my little body. Neither woman asked what home was like. Eventually the conversation turned to what was happening during class time, and my teacher explained the tantrums. The screaming. The terror.
The ‘separation anxiety.’
I don’t understand how I was so let down around that table that conjured thoughts of knights to dance in my mind. My vice principal turned her gaze to me, weighted in a way that made me uncomfortable, and told me, “It is not Godly to act like that Selene. You need to be a good girl for us, for your Dad. We do not tolerate this kind of behaviour.”
Daveed squeezed my shoulder. A prompt to answer. I sniffed and nodded. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I won’t do it again.”
The woman nodded, pleased enough apparently, and then my teacher said, “We should get back to class now, Selene. Say goodbye to Dad.”
Something snapped behind my eyes and then came the full shut out.
I remember the double looped texture of the carpet from where I laid on the floor. My form shook from skirmishes across my skin, all fighting for dominance. I clinged onto Daveed’s ankle as he shuffled toward the door. A beat echoed in my ears, an animal instinct taking over. The vice principal and my teacher tugged me back but I was quick - I dashed to my feet as Daveed opened the door. If he left me now then it may as well be like I’d never see him again. I would be a lost kite without a tether, a balloon with no string. Let me go into the stratosphere until I floated high enough to finally explode.
I reached my hand out blindly and found purchase in a single belt loop to his side. I clung onto it with all my might as he slid further over the threshold. “Don’t leave,” I begged. “Please. Please take me home. Don’t leave me. Please don’t leave me alone.”
He caught my gaze for a moment, my own eyes staring back at me. “This is for your own good.” His voice was as final as the last tug he gave before he slipped out the door.
I didn’t try to follow him. I only stood there, barely as tall as the knob, palming my face with the sleeves of my sweater.
Daveed picked us up that afternoon and bought us Slurpees. Mum called that night, asking, “What happened at school today, Selly Belly?” I didn’t want to be in more trouble so I said, “Not much.” The next day I arrived to a new class seating plan, putting me right between Krysin and Bea. It felt like a small mercy. When I went to sharpen my pencil I glanced up outside to that hole in the fence; a tradesmen sent up a flurry of embers in the air like fireflies as he welded it shut.
I wonder how much of myself is still standing there, begging not to be alone.