In the arms of no one

Prologue ---- You could go through your whole life hearing, reading and quoting the famous words that David Fostor Wallace conveniently stole from the bible, "The truth will set you free." But no one ever mentions the last sentence of that quote. You know, the bit that made those words his and not the words of some ancient, biblical character. Because honestly, after the truth has taken you by the balls and ruined your life, all you're left with is a suffocating sense of seasonal depression; at best. Worse case scenario, the truth can leave you heartbroken, with innumerable mental health issues and either completely alone or feeling like it. Personally, I relate more to the quote by infamous poet and playwright, Oscar Wilde. "The truth is rarely pure and never simple." My truth has never been simple and purity has only ever been comfortable in the company of angels. And I have never been one of those. Vallon --- "What do you mean?" the sound of my baffled voice comes out weak and pathetic even to my own ears. The heavy pounding of my anxious heart makes my chest feel tight, and my breath comes in short, harsh gasps as I stare with an expression that I hope only shows my confusion; and not the deep-seated fear that I feel trying to choke me with its invisible hands. The fact that I was even able to get the words out of my mouth is a miracle in and of itself. Half an hour ago when I was making my way home after almost getting my ass handed to me at 'The Quad', I never envisioned that I would be stepping into a storm full of s**t as soon as my tired legs carried my battered body over the threshold of Copson Manor. The high decibel screeching that 'welcomed' me home as soon as I opened the door, makes the pounding on my - everything - feel so much worse and it doesn't look like it's going to stop any time soon. f**k! At first, I was shocked into silence. The world seemed to turn into a topsy-turfy mix of emotions that I honestly couldn't quite believe what I was hearing, and whether I was hearing it correctly. A sublime feeling of relief that someone had finally divulged the putrid details of what a 'secret session' entails, or at least details of what the last 'session' looked like from the outside looking in, quickly followed in it's wake. Grim satisfaction fills my mind as I remember holding the steak knife threateningly while whispering that I am just dying to do some serious damage if he decides to initiate another 'session' in his ear. That was over six months ago. Six months of radio silence, peace, and quiet. The small smile twitching on the corners of my lips wants to morph into a full-belly laugh but quickly drops, as the tone of my mum's gritty voice with her disparaging commentary finally hits me. I, of course, tried to defend my honor, because if she wasn't going to stop and listen to me, let alone believe a word that was coming out of my mouth; who else would? Just like every other typically insecure female, my mother skipped past 'girl power' and went straight into 'it's all your fault' and 'your a lying w***e' mode. No amount of reasoning, hysterical screaming or logical truths full of all the seedy details, was going to change her mind. Biologically speaking, the woman standing in front of me with a disgusted look on her perfectly made-up face is my grandmother. Grandmama, as she likes to be called by all her grandchildren, present company excluded. I've been calling her mum my whole life, because that's how long I have been in her care. The origins of my parentage was a very well hidden family secret for a while, at least it was a secret kept from me. As a matter of fact, that particular secret was kept from me by every single person in our town. Newcomers to Levin were eventually told, which surprised me at first. But then, I wouldn't be surprised if my family threatened loss of jobs and home. Come to think of it, it probably wouldn't be considered a family secret after all. Even though I've now known for a while who my egg donor is, my grandmama is the closest thing that I've ever had to a mother, since her daughter dumped me on her lap and left with her boyfriend. She eventually married said boyfriend and moved on to having the twins. I'm happy for her, I truly am. But I kind of wish that I had some form of mother-daughter relationship with her, or even a sibling relationship with Timothy and Charlotte. The most interaction I get from any of them is at family functions and is limited to one word only. "Hi." I was made aware of the sordid details that revolve around the beginning of my life at the tender age of seven years, when one of my cousins yelled it at me in the school yard because I wouldn't share my little tub of yoghurt with him. Up until then, I had always thought he was my nephew and addressed him as such. So you can imagine how it felt to be on the receiving end of the biggest town secret of all time. With anger distorting his cherubic face, he angrily shouted for every ear in the school yard to hear about how I came into grandmama's care. How my mother and biological father broke up because she couldn't stop cheating and he couldn't stop beating her for it. In that one conversation, the details of who my real mother is and how I am the unfortunate product of a Maori miscreant came to light. I finally understood why I was always made to feel like a burden to my family, something to be endured but never really understood. An outsider. My whole world fell apart that day, and I couldn't do anything about it but find a quiet spot under the trees, trying to keep my emotions from falling from my eyes for the rest of lunch break. As a tribute to teenage rebellion, I recently took to calling my bio mum, "Mother" and my stepdad, "Step Father". It annoys the f**k out of her and her husband, but it's not like I'm lying or anything. The last few times I called them this, I caught the amused smirks of my younger siblings, who unsuccessfully tried to hide their snickering at my antics behind a couple of coughs and the synced movements of their raised hands. Creepy as f**k! Despite the obvious years showing on her face, my mum is still an incredibly beautiful woman. With hair that is more strawberry blonde than salt, aristocratic features and expensive attire paint Patricia Copson in a very poised and elegant light. A woman from the right side of the tracks, someone who belongs to a family with old money and prestige. People say that I have a mix of her eyes and the eyes of my biological mother. My mum's dark green eyes and my biological mother's cerulean blue and peppermint green eyes have made me a freak in our community. Because, apparently, my eyes have a strange glowing quality. But to make matters worse and to further that sentiment of peculiar abnormality, is the added fact that my eyes change colour with my mood. Like my own personal f*****g mood ring for the whole world to see. Fully dark green when I am angry, light green when I am sad, cerulean blue when I'm happy and my normal eye colour for every other mood, as far as I know anyway. Right now, I'm betting my eyes are a mix between dark and light green. No one else in my family has this strange trait, which is why when people make snide remarks about my eyes, my family in turn say nothing to defend me. My eye colour is where the similarities to the Copson family thankfully stop for me. No one else on my mother's side of the family has my blue-black hair, full pink lips, my wide almond-shaped eyes, little button nose, warm caramel skin tone and high cheekbones. Unlike my near six-foot-tall biological mother and mum, my short five foot three inches often leaves me the butt of all family jokes; add on the fact that I have a curvy hour glass figure and you get "The dumb fat Maori girl" . Realising that my thoughts have distracted me, I focus on what my mum is about to say as she opens her mouth with a sneer scrunching up her nose. I wonder if anyone has told her that she looks like a jacked up rat when she wears that expression? Probably not. s**t, I just got sidetracked and missed a whole butt load of her ranting. I shake myself to better pay attention - well I better since it's my life she's trying to annihilate. "...exactly what I just said. You're moving to your Aunty Elizabeth's house in America. Tonight!" She takes some agitated deep breaths through her mouth to calm her sensibilities, I guess. Her eyelashes flutter in a flurry of movement that makes me raise my brows in morbid fascination. She opens up her mouth and spews out more acerbic contention. "I need to get you as far away from here as possible. I will not have you disgracing the Copson name again. First your uncle and now Victor?" She gasps while holding her chest, shaking her head vigorously as if this hurts her more than it hurts me. I mean come on! There are more important things than the integrity of a stupid surname! Things like - I don't know - poverty, racism, gender prejudices. But oh no, we have to focus on our 'good family name' and how I'm f*****g that all up because I just happen to be attached to it. Point me in the direction of my real father and I'll happily take his name instead! Problem solved! "When will your lies stop, Vallon? I should have left you with that...that animal who spawned you!" She shakes her head vigorously, "But oh no! I had to go and take your ungrateful filthy ass in! And that's what you do to repay me? Your family? Ruin our f*****g reputation?" She shrieks loudly at me in a dark fury, while I stand there in stupefied boredom. Again with the name thing, I have a solution, but she won't ever tell me who my real father is beyond "that animal" or "that man", so why even bother? Anyone who knows Patricia is aware that she believes swearing of any kind is below her social standing. As a member of one of the three prominent founding families in Levin, we have certain rules to abide by and cussing is definitely breaking the rules. I'm not saying that she doesn't partake of the 'sailor dialect', but when she does, it isn't usually quite this loudly. She continues to look at me as if I'm a stranger to her; as if I was the one that couldn't control my hands; the reason for people's mouths f*****g flapping like squawking chickens with no life outside of their roosts. In the space of one night, I have regained the reputation of the slutty homewrecker, the liar, the attention seeker, the trouble-making w***e, and no one will believe the truth of what really happened. No one wants to listen to the "mixed blood short fat Maori girl." There I stood in the foyer of the house I was raised in, facing the sleek furniture and pristine surfaces shining to perfection, trying to stand tall with my shoulders back and my head proudly high when all I really feel is shame and disgust for myself, while strangely my mind feels adrift from any sensations in my body. She's going to do it. She's really going to send me away. She doesn't believe me. No one does, mum obviously dances to the tune of her own narrative, because trashing the truth and feasting on the lie is a better way to live your life. Here's another truth for the trash can of facts: mum allowed all of this to happen. She opened the door to the monsters and welcomed them in with a glass of Remy Martin Louis XIII and a f*****g smile. And that's why I know in my gut, her threat is not idle, it's an actual move. To say you know something is vastly different to acknowledging the evidence right in front of your eyes. Because most of the time, when you say you know something, it does not always encompass the true meaning of visual evidence coupled with the sickness roiling in your belly, as instincts tell you to protect yourself, protect your mind from further fracturing. You know what though? I'm right too, damnit! This is all her f*****g fault. If she was home more often, if she didn't leave me to my own devices while she gallivanted around the world, then none of this would have happened. Or maybe it would have, but definitely not the number of times that it has happened, and boy did it happen in high numbers. "I've had enough!" She yells, making me jump in fright, which I immediately hate myself for. I'm not weak! I know weak. I understand helplessness and I am not either of those any more. "Your mother won't have you move in with her, Derek and the kids. No one else is willing to take you, because everyone is worried you'll make up more bullshit!" She starts pacing down the foyer and back again in agitation, her steps heavy and her shoulders tense, "The only person willing to take you in is your Aunt Elizabeth. Lord knows why my youngest daughter would allow herself to be subjected to your filthy, lying mouth. I have no idea why anyone would, after all the stunts you've pulled!" Her usually calm voice shouts loudly at me before ending with a loud bird-like squawk. Her chest rapidly moves up and down with her visual distress while her hands shake at her sides. I bite my lip to stop myself from telling her to calm down. That would be a f**k up of epic proportions. Show me a woman who will take those words and actually stop and do it. There is none because, for some strange reason, telling a woman - myself included, to calm down while angry totally steers them in the direction of sirens, flashing lights and a cordoned-off murder scene. Peering up at her from my vantage point, a deep sadness for what could have been but never had a chance to grow into fruition, almost breaks my cool exterior. Gone are the soft smiles, whispered giggles and gentle humming from the moments in my childhood when she was present in my life. In its place is a woman who has shown me time and time again, that she doesn't know me nor does she wish to remember the me before I was forced into this disillusioned existence called life. I have loved this woman as my own mother my whole life, but that doesn't seem to matter to her right now. I wonder if it has ever mattered to her? Her face flushed red, and contorted into an ugly mask of fury because of something that was never in my control, until recently, that is. With a grimacing clench of her teeth, I watch as she forces deep breaths into her lungs, once again trying to find her sensibilities. Suddenly she's clearing her face of all emotion, her green eyes becoming hard like kryptonite. Cold. Hard. Detached. She takes two fast steps in my direction and I cringe, cowering because I know what's coming and even though I'm capable of defending myself and giving back more than she could ever dish out, she is still my mum and I refuse to raise my hand no matter what. I watch with sadness bleeding from my pores as she lifts her left fist and punches my face three times in slow succession. She no longer cares if anyone sees the bruises that will inevitably be on display come tomorrow morning. Falling to the ground, I force myself into a sitting position huffing out breaths of shame, allowing only a minute to wallow before wobbling to my feet to once again face her with my head high and shoulders back. I struggle to take in deep, stabilizing breaths trying to block the burning pain, my eyes sting with unshed tears, and my nose drips blood onto the collar of my tshirt. I only just noticed more drops of blood on the polished foyer floor because she pointedly glares at the offending liquid. Shit. How the f**k am I going to get her to let me stay? I give into the temptation of anger and my ass will not only be covered in more bruises, but I won't get to choose any of my belongings to take with me, because I'd be out the door faster than you can say child abuse. My already tender body probably won't be able to take much more damage, so that's out. If I decide to beg and cry, guess what I'll get? More bruises because sniffling, bumbling idiots are below the characteristics of a fine lady of respectable standing. So that's out. The only thing that I can think of still may not work at all, but if I don't try, then I might as well just give up all together, and that's not something that I have succumbed to, in the past. Ever. "I guess you really don't want dad to come home, do you? Because I can call him and ask him to come home to stay, but only if you let me stay." She knows that I'm not talking about my biological father, because that's just silly. I've not met the man. I've only had one real father figure, William Copson. My mum's husband and my biological grandpapa. Even though the words disgust the f**k out of me, I still pushed them out of my rigid lips. I try not to grimace at the tackiness of it all while keeping a stoic expression on my face, forcing my eyes to remain dead of emotion so she doesn't see how I've just grossed myself out. Manipulation and blackmailing has always seemed so selfish, something I've not wanted to participate in at all. But I'm desperate. To my surprise, my gander at manipulation has the complete opposite effect I was hoping for, because I was hoping she would be tempted enough to offer a grounding not exile. Instead, my mum raises her eyebrows in delighted surprise, tilts her chin up and lets loose a laugh so long, loud and maniacal, that I start to worry I've broken her. She dabs at her eyes and smiles with an almost proud expression on her face, which would have been believable if not for the cold as steel look glinting in her eye. "Oh Vallon, you stupid, stupid child!" she responds with a giggle that doesn't suit the elegant image she's worked so tirelessly to maintain. A war battles in my mind with the need to keep stoic and in control over the confusion that makes me want to hit back with the uncertainty her actions and words have instilled. It's what she wants though. She wants an opportunity to call me out for being childish and stupid. Instead, I allow a sarcastic lift of an eyebrow to be all that I offer her. A thinning of the lips is all that I get for my efforts, which gives me great satisfaction, but then she opens her mouth and obliterates what I thought was my secret weapon out the window, down the street and across oceans to where she's shipping me off to. "Your dad isn't here because he's got another family in Spain. We're still married in the eyes of the law, but he is never coming back. Just like you. Never. Coming. Back." The sharp intake of a single breath is the only tell I give away, because I cannot break down, I cannot falter. The pain is excruciating, it burns and aches from the center of my chest and spreads out as the last bit of hope dies. For years, I had hoped that my dad would come back for longer than the annual week-long stay after New Year. To stay here with me for real. I was little the last time he lived here full time. A preschooler I think, maybe just before I started Primary School. Back then, I was still safe. I was daddy's little Princess, well loved and well protected. That's a long time to hope for the permanent reappearance of someone who had no intention of being a stable and constant part of my life. Mum smiles maliciously as she states, "Good girl! Don't let anyone ever know your intentions or emotions. You also managed to deliver a good carrot to boot! Thank goodness, I taught you something at least." Her evil smile turns into a contrived little pout, "To bad the threat behind it is lacking in value." She raises her left arm and checks the watch on her wrist. "Go pack, you're leaving on the five-am flight to North Dakota and it's already just after one am. The rest of your belongings will be shipped over." Without further fanfare, she turns and glides away as if she hadn't just broken my heart twice in one night. I am leaving to go to a country that I have never visited before. f**k! Fuckity f**k! As the fuckery of my life looms heavily in my near future, I realise that, unlike everyone in my family and I do mean everyone, I have never even left the North Island of New Zealand. I turn towards the staircase and move to take the first step when my mum calls out to me as casually as an old lady on Sunday morning at church. "Vallon." I stop mid step but refuse to turn around, she doesn't get that type of respect any more. "Pack warm clothes mostly, I hear it's cold at this time of year over there." I nod my head and move to take the second step, "You will share a white Christmas with your aunt and her family." She says it as if I'm the luckiest girl in the world going on a holiday, instead of a girl who is being banished four days before Christmas. There's something seriously wrong with my mum's brain, I swear! I don't say anything, there's nothing else to say. With a deep breath for fortification, I continued to climb the staircase, down the hall in the west wing and finally into my room to pack for a life on another continent. A life that will not have any of my friends, my family, if you can even call most of them that, or the hope that I have to eventually find my birth father and his family. A life away from everything and everyone I know. I'm f****d!