Hadrian's Wall (7 page)

He was screaming in anguish. I wanted to
give in and obey him, if only to stop his suffering, but I
couldn’t. I had to hurt him to save him.

My look to him was one of goodbye before I
turned back and opened my arms to the cliff.

* * *

M
y
father’s body was covered with a white bed sheet.

I remained seated for a long time, clutching
my doll, until I understood that I was left to my own devices.
Suddenly, his body moved and a spot of blood began to form on the
bed sheet, soaking the fabric. I looked around desperately, but
there was nobody to help me. The blood dripped on the floor,
seeping towards my shoes.

* * *

T
he
old man with scarlet eyes was smiling, but there was no kindness in
his smile when they reached out to me. He had a branch of laurel on
his head. He said,

“Litterae entrata non-sine
sanguine.
”

* * *

The ground shook with the clap of thunder,
while lightning streaked across the sky the color of blood.

The gates of the mansion opened slowly,
while the social worker pulled me by the arm to the front porch
where the Reverend was waiting for us. That was supposed to be my
new home. They guided me in and introduced me to other children.
Suddenly, everyone started to laugh and sing, “Poor Melissa, nobody
loves her.”

They had scarlet eyes. I wanted to flee, but
I was surrounded.

“Now you belong to us.”

* * *

T
he
celebration took place around a huge bonfire. A group of youths
celebrating the harvest, singing and dancing to the sound of a
sitar...

Wine glasses were empty, but for not long.
Maybe I was a little drunk, but the fact was that I felt happy and
relaxed. It was so good!

Suddenly, my waist was surrounded by strong,
protective arms. He began to whisper gently in my ear, making me
sensual promises. I shuddered with anticipation.

His virile laughter indicated to me that he
knew exactly what he was doing to me. I was like putty in his
hands, but I also had the secret satisfaction of knowing that he
would lose his enviable control very soon...in my hands.

I snuggled myself into those arms. Now, I
belonged to him, body and soul.

* * *

T
he
trail skirted the abandoned railroad tracks, partially hidden by
the large dead trees. Autumn had arrived. It was very cold and the
sky was overcast.

I was breathless, but I kept running. The
winged creature was chasing me and I desperately searched for some
shelter. Then a group of children threw pebbles at me, hurting my
back, causing me to bleed.

“Crazy Melissa! Crazy Melissa! Crazy
Melissa!” they chanted in unison.

* * *

A
long the wall, a decisive battle took place.

Powerful men had their teeth bared. Armored
warriors with yellow eyes fought fiercely against others whose eyes
were scarlet. Yellow eyes were fewer in number, but were infinitely
stronger. Something precious was at stake—their freedom.

The heads stuck on the stakes served as a
warning to the dead: Don’t you dare get up! There was blood
everywhere. The blood stained my diaphanous tunic.

In the distorted reflection of a shell, I
saw that my eyes were no longer brown, but scarlet like the evil
creatures. I also saw the image of the jade-eyed warrior. He was
standing right behind me, watching me. When I turned, his eyes
became yellow and his face revealed intense suffering. He dropped
the blood sword on the floor.

I stretched my hand to him. He stretched his
hand to me.

“You promised,” I reminded him.

* * *

The spiral of madness suddenly evaporated.
The last forty days finally began to make sense as memories have
emerged slowly from the dark waters of forgetfulness.

2

ON MY OWN

The day of your birthday should be a
special day. It’s when people who supposedly love you gather to
celebrate your birth. It means that you should be important to
them. There’s a reason for your existence, which may be unknown to
you inasmuch as God’s purpose for you isn’t always made clear.
Scholars and holy men may well have tried to learn how one finds
out what one’s purpose is supposed to be, but I think it’s
essentially a matter of faith.

Birth is a real event...a
fact,
but it also
involves faith and magic. People seem to think that any being
coming into the world brings with them a divine spark—that he or
she has an important role to play in a much larger plan and that
plan fits in mysterious, sometimes torturous ways. Our mission on
earth is to decipher the plan and apply it to our life. I believe
there is a divine plan for everyone, but this is only a
theory.

Lately, I’d been wondering if there
was a reason for one person to live and another one to die...like
me and my daddy. Why did someone who led an insipid life as I had,
remain alive, breathing, while another who would have done much
better is forced to leave this world? People excited by life, who
enjoy the world and do good things, people who are always there
when others need them...they deserve to celebrate many
birthdays.

It wasn’t right that my father died
while I continued to live. I was caught up in what I decided to
call my “existential trap.” On the one hand, I depreciated my own
existence, and on the other hand, I clung to it tooth and nail,
waiting for something that would eventually justify my loneliness
or fulfill my wish for the sun to shine on me.

Where did my insignificant life fit
into the divine plan? What did my birthday represent? More
importantly, “Who cares?” After all, I was merely the remains of my
parents’ plan. The “parent candidates” preferred to adopt younger
children, especially babies...preferably
perfect
babies with no adjustment problems.
Nobody wanted a six year-old girl with a psychiatric
history.

My frequent hallucinations were a puzzling to
adults, in particular the child psychiatrist appointed by the state
welfare department. He attributed my episodes to “severe
psychological trauma” given that they started with the death of my
father, on the day when my mother abandoned me.

Because of my hallucinations, other
children did not want to play with me. I was subjected to teasing
and cruel jokes, which led me to seek refuge in my drawings. I
loved to draw. It was a way to express my anguish and longing.
Whenever possible, I would hide somewhere and make up stories of
adventure—portraying scenes that impressed me and imagining places
that I’d never seen before. My fertile imagination made it possible
for me to design the world as I wanted it to be. On the other hand,
books and movies were my constant companions, carrying me away from
my fears and the reality that my life was devoid of affection or
the companionship of the other orphans. I had no friends, no
family, no one who truly cared about me, so books and movies became
my confidantes. Through them, I was able to “know” the world that I
knew I’d have little chance to see and experience for
myself.

So time went on. I grew up and shut
myself away. There was one point, a line that I crossed when I
became the one who didn’t want to be adopted. I no longer believed
there was a chance to find parents who might really love me. To be
honest, I thought I didn’t believe in any kind of love; but even
more, I believed that I didn’t deserve to be loved. Voluntary
isolation was a way to avoid feeling what hurt me most, what filled
all the nooks and crannies until it reached the deepest recesses of
my life—the hurt of abandonment.

Of course, reaching my
18
^th
birthday, becoming an adult (at least according to
the law) would not help to change this panorama. In fact, it was
quite the contrary. I felt as if suddenly I’d been thrown overboard
from a ship at sea on a stormy night. The huge waves would toss me
around like a dog plays with a toy. I would be at the mercy of
nature’s fury until the sea swallowed me. Because I would be 18
years old tomorrow, I would have to leave the orphanage and give my
bed to a new child—another lost child, another rejected child.
Would they have better luck here than I had?

The panic enveloped me as I walked to
the Director’s office. I had always had managed to have an
apathetic attitude whenever I’d visited the Director’s office, but
this was the first time I had difficulty disguising my nervousness.
I think it was because I’d finally realized the seriousness of my
situation. There were no good prospects in sight for me, which I
knew was partly my fault.

For starters, I had no
qualifications. Although I’d finished high school, my academic
records did not indicate that I was a good candidate for college.
Throughout my high school years, I had not been
involved in any school activities, nor did
I
participate in
any
social events—no
school dances, nothing whatsoever. I had completely estranged
myself from everything. I did n
ot even try to get into any advanced
courses that might have helped prepare me for college. I didn’t
participate in the science club, the chess club, or the reading
club. I was not enrolled in any independent studies that were
offered periodically. In short, I did absolutely
nothing
to help my academic
career or my social life. Now, my only hope was to get into the
nearest community college.

At that time, I guess that I thought
that exempting myself from all events was the best way to keep
people from noticing me. My art work brought me a little attention,
so I tried to restrain myself so that people would not my talent or
ability. I wished for people not to see me, not to remember me, but
in such a small community, people don’t let you forget.

Starting in my first year of high
school, and with only slight variations, all of the years that
followed while I attended that school, I was known as the “Bride of
the Flying Monster.” Other nicknames emerged—evil and creative,
like “Carrie.” That
was
the most
interesting
one, as far as I can remember. My terrible colleagues spent
their precious time creating all manner of humiliating treatment
with which to torment me. I don’t know which was worse—the
beatings, the stones thrown, or the bullying
humiliation.

The only nice thing about my school
days was the advisers never pressured me to excel. After all,
everyone knew that I had mental problems and they didn’t think that
I could learn anything beyond the basics. Some adults believed that
I could be a dangerous person and that my place was not in
mainstream education among “harmless children.” Oh, yes, they were
very harmless!
Not!

How did I know what adults thought
about me? Well, I did not intend to listen to their conversations
from behind doors, but as is so often the case, the stars conspired
to make this happen. Although I didn
’t feel comfortable about the situation, I
had to recognize that spying on the adults there had its advantages
because, in the end, you always find out what they really think
about you, even when they hide their thoughts behind artificial
smiles. Eavesdropping gave me an advantage over them—they couldn’t
fool me, much less hurt me with false displays of
affection.

I lived as if I had an alter ego. In
front of adults, I acted like Peter Parker, but when nobody was
looking, I turned into Indiana Jones. Melissa Baker, who didn’t
open her mouth and didn’t relate to anyone, but when she was alone,
she invented great adventures which she carried out in the forest
and surrounding rural properties. I was always saving the world
from
aliens,
finding treasure buried by pirates and conquerors, or chasing
villains created in my fertile imagination, and occasionally spied
on adults—accidentally, of course!

As an invisible being, I felt
powerful and also unattainable. Because I was unfettered, I mapped
all of the area’s byways and created my own hideout in an abandoned
barn, a long-forgotten place in the woods that was still standing.
It was there that I established my drawing studio and where I kept
my treasures and “spoils of war”—books, comics, toys, and my
drawings. The barn was my “fortress of solitude.” Unfortunately,
my
double
life
could
not prevent what was about to happen. My hideout could not hide me
from life.

Eighteen years old...for all legal
purposes, I’m an adult woman, but I didn’t feel like that.
Actually, I had no aspirations to be an adult. I didn’t know what I
could possibly want as an adult who thought that she didn’t deserve
to live. My only real wish was to be able to maintain secrecy about
my seizures, perhaps because my innermost secret desire was to be
considered a
normal
girl, one worthy of having a normal life. I feared that
someday a crisis would propel me straight into a sanitarium where
the doctors would probably lock me up and throw away the key if
they knew my secret. Most definitely, that was the one thing I
didn’t want, so I needed to keep people out of my personal
drama.

* * *

Director Janet Winfield gave me a
cold smile when I entered her office. I
’d read about that expression—the
“professional smile.” In her case, I thought it fit perfectly.
Sometimes I wondered if she’d become de-sensitized because she’d
experienced the shutdown process too many times. Did she really
care about an orphan’s fate after they left the orphanage or did it
matter to her at all? Although I’d been here a long time, I didn’t
know the answer. The only thing I knew for certain was that she
always showed a toughness that scared me. She never got to know the
children, at least not enough to know what they needed or wanted. I
also believed that she harbored a certain resentment of me because
I hadn’t endeavored to improve myself—at last as much as she’d
wanted. Maybe she didn’t want to grapple with a problematic child
any longer than necessary. Well, now she was finally going to be
rid of me.