Chasing the Night

Papa tells me I was found next to the tired, fainting fence posts in front of the house. Abandoned, unwanted, unloved, an orphan. It’s peculiar how none of those things defined my life now in anyway.

My life was conceived wrapped in pain, but raised enveloped in love.

Memory of that especially fragile time is hard to recall. The only thing I won’t ever forget is the accident.

The sky was heavy, clouds bloated, rain dripping out like a wringed cloth. I don’t remember whom I was playing with, but it doesn’t matter; they left anyways. My clothes were a little sluggish, mud and grass squeezing through my toes. We raced to the far end of the paddock eyes set on vaulting the fence first. Every child knows the thrill of imminent victory. My clearest memory however, all too bitter sweet.  Like the speeding athlete crossing the line, unable to resist the temptation to see by how far they have bested their rivals, I turn to humbly brag according to my winner’s rights.  Too late I turned back to vault the fence. A sliver of adrenaline sprinted down my spine as I careened too fast, with no other choice due to my momentum than to desperately pull my knees to my chest.

 

It’s an unspoken law that time slows down the instant you realise the coming of imminent disaster. My arms shot out instinctively as I caught on the top of the fence. They broke first. My arms did nevertheless, break my fall as well as themselves. I stopped tumbling just in time for the cart that rumbled around the corner. Had it not been raining, the cart man probably could have stopped in time. As it was, rain stole away the majority of the traction in the cart wheels, and as the ground softened, the wheels sunk, making it difficult to change direction. I hardly felt the impact, only the impossibility and strain in pulling in a breath under the crushing weight.  Blood mixed with rain and mud. Eyes shut, still no pain, everything was quiet. Just the strange tugging in my chest as my lungs desperately gasped for breath. I didn't notice when the cart was raised off me. I was overwhelmingly tired.  Lightness, no more tension in my chest. Floating up into the air, relief.

 

 

 

 

 

 

And then there was Papa, his arms around me, raising me up into the air, held against his chest. Sound rushed back to me, but echoingly I heard nothing but the steady comforting rain, and Papa’s steady comforting heart beat.  Eyes shut again, I noted absentmindedly his shallow gasping breath.  The world rocked, and every step Papa took made the ground look like it was lunging towards me again, a harsh mimicry of the second I spent falling, crashing towards the ground. The world hurt, but it was ok. It was all alright, because with the suddenness of Papa’s arrival, came the suddenness of safety. With his presence, came an assurance of protection. With the mere contact of his warm embrace, came love. Because he was there, only because Papa was there, I knew everything was alright.

 

That same assurance stayed with me indefinitely. How beautiful it is when a single person has the power to chase away any doubt. What a tragedy that life has an awful habit of teaching us that our hearts belong locked up inside our chests, lest they be broken. But that’s what made Papa special, because he showed me that wearing my heart on my sleeve was not a weakness, but a strength.

 

I healed quickly; at least it seemed that way under Papa’s gentle caring hands. I was at the age where I began to become more conscious of the happenings of my life. Clearer and clearer, I realised that Papa was the only one who cared about me. I was grateful though, and I was happy. Here now, one person who cared about me like he did, was a whole world’s difference away from when I was left next to the tired fainting posts as a child.

 

Papa made me go to school then, when I was healed. Scars would never fade, not from that accident atleast. But, with that undying youthful optimism, ever present belief in Papa and his prompting, I managed to stride past the fear of being the one outside the circle.  I hadn’t gone to school yet, Papa told me I was due to, the month of the accident. He told me that I had come to the age. I guess the accident made me younger again in his eyes. Now, once again, I was “old enough”. For what, I wasn't sure.  My torso was the most misshapen part of my body. One shoulder damaged in such a way that although healed, bones would not reknit themselves into the socket. It gave me a little lopsidedness that I’d eventually grown used to. Self consciousness once again over ridden by Papa’s unwavering playfulness, and his choice to name me not a monster, but an arm pirate. In hindsight, the name made little sense, but at the time, it was a reference to how pirates had those funny stumpy wooden legs. My shortened arm and lopsidedness was a pirate’s leg.

 

School was a misery. Every childish, irrational fear, multiplied a thousand fold by the general insensitivity and incessant teasing of what Papa and the introductory lady largely labeled as “friends”.

Friends, I didn’t want them, I didn’t need them. Not these ones. For whilst Papa turned my abnormality into wild dreams of adventures and excitement. They turned it into just that, an abnormality, an abomination. Many people mistaken children to be pure and innocent, incapable of malicious torment. Those people never gave would be tormentors the ammunition they needed to shoot you down. I didn’t either, but I didn't have a choice anyways, not with the way I looked.

It’s ironic but sadly impressive, how someone can make something so superficial as to appearance, hurt so very deeply. Break times made me wish I were invisible. Break times broke me. When you are alone, it’s hard to pretend and act like you aren’t. Because when you are alone, you aren’t surrounded by friends, but instead, empty space.

 

Three people approached me. I can’t pretend I didn't feel it. That hope, a little ball of knots in my chest unraveling and expanding.  That glimmer of pretence that for a brief time, I wouldn't be alone. As soon as they were close enough to speak, I was punished for hoping. “Hey it’s the cu mor glas a bhais”. “Oh they were right, her arm is messed up”. I turned a little where I sat, my good arm wrapped protectively against my twisted one. Hand lowered awkwardly as soon as I realised they didn’t intend on return a greeting. “Hey, why do we call her that again?” “Isn’t it obvious, grey dog of death, she looks like she’s gone through a meat grinder”. “No one wants her, I heard she was dumped as a baby.” It was clear to me that they weren’t planning on talking to me. I waited for them to bore before I ran. Out the square, out the gate, out the school and away from them. I ran as fast as I could, racing just like that day at the paddock, but against words. No matter how far and hard I ran, despite the way sweat stung my eyes and wind forced the stinging into tears, I couldn’t outrun the fact that my story was “The Ugly Duckling” without a happy ending.

 

 

 

 

 

I only slowed down once I was stepping past the tired fainting posts of our house. Eleven years I remember them, perpetually falling and slanting. I felt like joining them.  I ran blind until I was face to face with our front door.  In pain, drawn to the only place I felt at home, but in proximity, reason started creeping back into my mind, imagining Papa sending me back to school. My arm was frozen reaching for the doorknob, wanting so badly for the only person who knew how to comfort me, and then remembering the viciousness reminding me, “no one wants her”. Her. Me.

 

My body was standing in front of my house, but my mind living back at the school, where sticks and stones didn’t break bones, but words tore my heart to shreds. A tear grew in the corner of my eye, escaping with a rush of emotion, glistening silently down the edge of my nose, dancing fluidly around my upper lip. Papa was there before it hit the ground. Like always, just like always, he was always there. He told me everything was ok, as if since the start of school, I wasn’t the last one to be picked for a team to play games. He told me with arms around me that everything was ok, with gentle whispering, as if when we needed classroom partners, they didn't avoid me like a plague. He told me with hands through my hair that everything was ok, as if I chose to be a pariah. As if I chose to be hated and despised and reminded daily, that I wasn’t worth anyone’s time of the day.

 

Papa stopped; he knew. He knew infact, that everything was not alright. He didn't say anything. Froze, in that moment that I will always remember, because it was a once in a lifetime. For once, Papa didn’t know what to do, he didn't know what was wrong, and that meant he didn’t know how to fix it. I loved Papa’s eyes; his warm delving, surrounding, open, vulnerable, brave, strong eyes. An easily understood enigma. A perfect contradiction that made more sense than it should. They made so much more sense when you looked into them. Brown eyes, but the colour didn’t matter, Papa always told me to look deeper.

 

Those same eyes, now, no longer any of the things I loved them for in the past. They were afraid. The man, who put the very stars in my sky. Sprinkled stardust on my pillowcase. The one who painted my darkness aglow with nothing more than his words and his wisdom. Papa was the one, who found a little girl’s soul locked up in a dark room, and rather than stand outside and tell her to open the curtains, came and sat down in the darkness with her. He was my hero, and he was scared. My papa.

It became so much clearer then. So much easier to understand what I needed to tell him, what I needed, not wanted him to know. And he, like always, just like always, wrapped me in his arms. I was reminded what it was like to be broken again. He held me in his arms, just like that day; it was ok that my heart was collapsing from exhaustion. Too much pain, but he was right, it was ok. Not broken physically, but emotionally, but just like that day, Papa was here.

 

Word’s crept out like ghosts. Just whispers on the wind. “They call me the cu mor glas a bhais.”

 

Silence, a pause. He must not have understood, I thought. “It means grey dog of death.”

“I know” Papa said. “I know what it means, but they were only half right. You are my big grey dog.” A trace of a smile from the Papa I remember. A reminder of the adventures under the covers of sheets, the wielding of pillows as swords and shields. “You are still my treasure. No matter what you do or who you are. You can be the cu mor glas, but that will never stop me from holding you close. You can be a violent, volatile, raring wolf, but I will still stroke you gently like a little pup.”

“Papa, they, talk about how I have nothing, how I am nothing. How I am only my shattered shoulder and nothing more. Papa, it’s a cage, it’s a prison. I can’t escape it.”

He paused again, and with the wisdom I had came to expect, he spoke just five words, “caged birds sing the brightest”.

“The world doesn’t deserve you, but you deserve the world.”

 

He chased away the darkness. The same man, who taught me that I could love without fear, showed me that I deserved to be loved unconditionally.  Just like he wrapped my wounds with bandages when I was broken and bleeding, he cradled my heart with his words. Papa was a good man. Papa loved the cu mor glas, the ugly duckling.  He chased away the night.