Let me tell you a story about trauma, ignorant guidance and the unsuspecting.
—
This was the only memory she remembered when she looked at her reflection in the bath and drowned in familial expectations.
“Nessa!” Her mother was on the patio. “Come here.”
Across the lush lawn, the sun’s radiance gifted warmth to a child with gleaming golden locks. A trick of light seemed to form a halo hovering over the girl’s head. Abruptly, she turned around. The girl’s head was held high and her fingers were bunched in two tiny fists in front of her. Her chest puffed out as she took a deep breath; her cheeks were tinted pink and inflated like a harvesting chipmunk. Finally, she bent over and let out a squeal in excitement.
“Mommy!”
She lifts her head and grins, showing her baby teeth. She ran with her arms flapping behind her as if she had grown wings. A kaleidoscope burst into the air, startled. Soft shades of heart-shapes scattered in a dance. She paused to point. “Butterfly!”
The girl frolicked before dashing through the grass again. Her miniature bare feet leapt from the warm green edge to the cool gray space. Slapping against the concrete, she hurried towards the picnic table in front of the cottage porch..
Her blue eyes lit up in wonder when she stopped. Who are these people?
“Nessa.”
Though young, she immediately recognized her mother’s tone. Nessa reached down, near the hem of her dress, and pulled slightly. She bowed her head and curtsied. The women gathered around the picnic table clapped their hands in delight and beckoned her to come close.
Like a wounded puppy, she stepped cautiously towards the women. The air vibrated with left over exhilaration, but also tinged in tense silence.
Who are they? Her eyes flitted towards her mother who only nodded.
In a split second, they sprang forth. Hands akin to claws lunged for her in all directions and the glass like silence shattered in chatter.
“She’s adorable!”
“What’s your name?”
“Yeah, introduce yourself, sweetheart.”
Nessa tried to speak, but with smothering breasts and pointy fingers pinching her cheeks, it proved too difficult; she could only squeak.
“Her name is Vanessa.” Her mother, an epitome of grace, lifted the teapot from its tray. The table wobbled from imbalance before she poured steamy liquid into each ladies’ cup. “These are your aunts, Nessa.”
Nessa could only hiccup in reply as she was still coddled by her aunts.
“Is Nessa short for Vanessa?
Putting down the teapot carefully to avoid an upset, her mother replied. “We were originally going to call her just ‘Nessa’ –it means pure, holy and butterfly— but Vanessa is her official name.”
“It’s perfect for her. So innocent.” One of the aunts cooed and another one picked up the drink. Their flighty attention stretched.
Nessa tried to untangle her way out of the bony arms that wrapped around her like a spider’s web; muffled grunts of dissatisfaction came from her pursed lips.
“Stop that, Nessa. Go play in the garden.”
Suddenly, the arms around her loosened and she slid off one of her aunts’ lap. She still didn’t really know who they were, but “okay.” As if rehearsed, Nessa tilted her head to the side, then waved at her aunts before twirling towards the lawn. Her cotton white dress fluttered in a semicircle before racing after her as she ran; it was loose on her two year old frame.
When she stopped, a ways away from the adults, she felt the wind caress her cheeks and comb through her hair. The sun’s heat warmed the top of her head gently as if patting her for being an endearing, sweet child.
It was a while later before the sun reached its peak. Vanessa squinted when her eyes met the ball of flames in the sky; it caused spots. Shaking off the white voids in her vision, she continued her expedition.
Fwoosh…
Something’s rustling. Vanessa could hear the chirps of insects and the tweets of birds. She held her breath. What is it? Where is it? Her curiosity sparked— it was a mystery. Vanessa turned slowly to the left, then to the right. She spun, searching for the source. Her dress chased after her helplessly like a puppy chasing its tail. Giggles joined the chirping, tweeting and rustling.
Shortly after, she stopped. Beads of sweat lined her temple. The greenery around Vanessa was bright under the sun’s unyielding hard glare. Her feet staggered unevenly in front of her, teetering left and right. She tumbled in front of one of the bushes along the white picket fence.
“Oompf.” Groggily, she pushed herself up after a few attempts. Vanessa’s hands reached out and pushed the undergrowth away. Peeking cautiously into the gap, her eyes caught sight of a pupa. A cocoon.
The sunlight glinted off the sleek shell. It was the beginning of a new life; innocent and untouched. A little crack was forming and before long it was left with nothing but a husk. A creature with shriveled up wings tore its way out. Its abdomen was swollen, but it seemed to deflate slowly as its wings expanded with throbs.
Vanessa snagged it. “Butterfly!” Clutching the creature, she leapt with new-found enthusiasm; she wanted to show the adults her namesake. “One…two…one, two.” Increasing in speed, both hands clenched to keep control. A few more hops, she suddenly stopped and remembered. “Butterfly?”
Loosening her hold, she peered closely into the hand caging the insect and shrieked.
Her entire body jumped as if she had been stung by a bee. The newborn was tossed into the air. What is that? Its wings were crumpled from being taken away before there was time to unfurl. It was crippled.
Adults rushed to towards Vanessa’s wailing. Her pudgy hands were swinging in a tantrum and her hair was a frazzled mess. Trying to soothe her screams, they tried to figure out what was wrong.
“B-butterfly.” Vanessa was shaking slightly. Her eyes were wide with fear and her face was blotted red like the Devil’s. She was pointing at the demented creature that tried to stay aflutter.
The aunties followed the direction of Vanessa’s finger. “Ew. Is that what you named Vanessa after?”
“That’s not a butterfly. It’s a moth. It’s not her.” Vanessa’s mother tried to pacify her child and explain to the aunts. Hints of disgust were strewn into her expression. “Vanessa means ‘bring to light’ or ‘make appear.’”
The moth sank ever so slowly as if trying to delay the inevitable. Before it could see any of the fleeting wonders of the world, its wings were crushed by an unsuspectingly cruel palm. It had no choice when it entered this world.
Painstakingly, it fought to stay in the air. Silver powder sprinkled from under its pinched wings like trailing blood. Ultimately, it returned to earth. Its body trembled in fear and quivered as its life drained away. The sole evidence of its premature existence was that beautiful, yet stifling powder mist.
Vanessa screeched again. It was like she crushed a piece of herself. Only a silver haze remained in her hand.
“Let’s wash your hands Vanessa, sweetie.”
And the wings twitched one final time.
Now that we’re older and wiser, take with you what you will. Fill in the words in between. What did you hear? What did you see? What can you imagine?
—
My memory is horrible, so it can’t be expected of me to remember all that I wrote. What I retold was generally the main points: how innocent Vanessa was, what kind of exterior forces affected her, Vanessa’s newest experience and how she was unwittingly taught. I never really explicitly told how she became “corrupted,” or what kind of similar experience she came across as she grew older because I wanted to let the listeners imagine her experiences.
I gave my friends some time to think about my story. Not everyone came back to me with an experience, but a few did. They told me about their immediate reactions to emotional arousal. Others told me about what kind of habits they had and why they became habits. The latest experience that returned to me was my friend who was talking to her grandma. She had always wondered why she constantly asked leading questions rather than questions that allowed for a wider breadth of answers. At first she assumed it was because she liked to act all-knowing. (I’m sure that’s part of the reason.) But, it was when she started talking to her grandma that she realized: whenever she asked a question that invoked a wider range of answers, her grandma would never answer. Only when she asked a leading question, a yes-or-no question, would her grandma answer. It was something that frustrated her a lot. She wanted to obtain answers different from the ones she thought of, but her habit of asking leading questions, limit her. Now that she knew why she was had this type of habit, she said she would be able to figure out how to ask more open questions. I guess knowing the reason was important to her.
By telling my story in a somewhat vague manner, I was able to listen to my audience’s side of the story. I believe that is the most valuable part of telling my story.
