Vey - Diary of a Human Target Book 1 One - Tainted Youth

DIARY OF A HUMAN TARGET

Copyright 2016 , IsidoraVey

All rightsreserved.

This book maynot be reproduced,

in part or infull, digital or otherwise,

without priorwritten permission from the author.

This diary is awork of fiction.

Any similarityto persons and events

is entirelycoincidental.

Chapter1 : Distant Innocence

I don't know when I first started feeling like atarget; maybe on the day I was born, on 21st June 1963, a Fridaywith a new moon, after an eight-month-gestation and artificialthroes. Everybody was taken by surprise because, as it is known,babies born at the end of eight months don't survive.

But maybe not; anyway, my first years werevery innocent. My infancy memories fade away in a hazy nirvana, astime seemed flexible and non-linear and space stretched languidlyto infinity, since children of that age can hardly tell thedifference between dreams and reality.

Back at those times, my parents and Ioften used to go to the local cinema. I was particularly fond ofwatching Greek of foreign movies, although I had a small problem: Ialways got scared when the screen lit up, the moment when theblackness of the dark canvas was dispelled by the blinding light ofthe projector. For this reason, just before the film started, Istood up on my chair, turned my back on the screen and waited forthe movie to begin. In the meantime, those sitting behind me werepretty annoyed: Turn round and be seated! I often heard but paidno heed. My parents told me the same but I just couldn't face thescreen unless the film had started for good. What was I really afraid of?What did I fear that would flash before me on the blackscreen?

I was about three and a half yearsold when a doll of mine lost a leg, which made me very upset. Itook the toy in my hand, got out in the yard and threw it away withmight and main. The doll flew over the two adjacent building plotsand bumped against the wall of aunt Penelope's garden, aboutthirty metres away. That seemed strange to me and I ran into the house tofetch my mother. I told her what had happened, but she did not atall believe that I had managed to throw the doll so far. That'simpossible! Don't tell lies! she scolded me and got into thekitchen again.

During those yearsI was quite innocent and credulous, always ready to trust anybodyabout anything. I also had no problem giving my toys away to otherchildren, although they usually didn't let me even touch theirs.Pretty soon, they all started calling me stupid and I could notunderstand the reason why.

It was a warmspring morning and I was walking along the street, together with mymother, when two boys of my age, sitting quietly in their garden,called me: Hey you, come here, we want to give you a present!. Mymother attempted to dissuade me but I wouldn't listen.

So, where isthe present? I asked.

The two boysgiggled but said nothing.

Then, a suddenslap on my face gave me quite a jolt.

This is the present! one of the kids said and then theyboth burst into wild laughter. I started crying and got away atonce, more bewildered than sad. This wasjust a prank, alright, but why don't I ever come up with suchtricks? Why can't I ever think of making fun of anybody? I wondered. I was only four years old then, but Icould already sense I was different from the otherchildren.

In the mornings Iused to play alone and carefree in the open field next to ourhouse. However, there were two older girls who passed by quiteoften. As soon as they saw me, they always stopped and sought toscare me, telling me that they were witches: We come from Africaand we know all about magic! If you don't sing to us, we shall makeyou like this! they hissed and showed me an olive-tree leaf.Fearing that I would be either beaten up or turned into a leaf, Istarted singing immediately.

One day, when Iwas four and a half years old, my mother and I paid a visit to MrsDaphne, who lived nearby. While the two women were chatting in thebalcony, I spent my time exploring the garden, the yard, thestairs. I had ended up on the terrace, when I saw a girl of my ageplaying in the next garden. I smiled to her spontaneously; shelooked at me angrily and called me pig. I didn't get it at once;I thought I had heard wrong.

Hi! How areyou? I asked politely.

You, pig!she cried again.

I walked away sadand returned to my mother in the balcony. Ten minutes later, thebell rang and the hostess went to answer the door. It was anotherfriend of Mrs Daphne, together with her daughter. I was reallytaken aback when I recognized one of the two African girls who tookpleasure in frightening me. Hardly realizing how it started, wesoon had a bad fight; she pushed me down and hit me, shouting in astrident voice: I am African, I know how to cast spells and I cankill you!. I burst into crying and I wanted to leave at once.

One night, as Iwas riffling through my father's medical book, I saw a picture thatshocked me more than anything else in my life till then: It was adrawing of a human skeleton. I was scared out of my wits at thethought of some horrible illness that could reduce a man like this!I asked my father immediately and he explained to me that allpeople are like this inside and this is what remains when they die.Speechless with terror, I ran to my bed at once, determined to fallasleep at once and forget all about it. However, when I woke upnext morning, I realized that a traumatic experience is neverforgotten.

On 12th November1967 my younger sister was born. She was brought home a few dayslater; I remember, the weather was incredibly cold and the wind wasblowing with a vengeance. Some months later, she took her name,Alice.

At first I didn'thave any particular problem with her. Nevertheless, as time passed,I could see that our parents and relatives liked her more than mebecause she was such a smart girl, all airs and graces, acutie. Moreover, no matter what mischief she was up to, she wasalways excused because she was the little one. I, on thecontrary, was often thrashed over a trifle and nobody ever excusedme for anything. Let alone I almost forgot my name: I was no longerYvonne. I was the big one.

My best friend was Gregory, my father's godson, who was twoyears younger than me and lived in the same neighbourhood.Sometimes I can still hear his shrill voice ringing in my ears:Let's go out and play!. I also used to play with Urania, thebaker's blue-eyed daughter, who was two years older than me. Thethree of us had great fun together playing in the fields every day,living the most wondrous adventures in our imagination. I reminisce a scene, when I was about five yearsold and I was leading four other children into a field, all of usholding thin twigs in our tiny hands, as though they werescepters.

In contrast to the other girls, whocould hardly wait to grow up, get married and have children, Iopenly expressed my aversion to the role of housewife and mother. Isimply liked running around and exploring the fields instead ofhelping mum with the housework. I used to avoid dolls; I preferredplaying Indians and Cowboys with the boys rather than mother andchildren with the girls. For this reason, the housewives of theneighbourhood disliked me a lot and had no problem in showing it tome. In fact, they foamed with rage anytime they saw me playing inthe streets and called me tomboy. Especially aunt Pauline,Gregory's mother, kept on trumpeting forth that when she was at myage she could manage the whole housework by herself. As about hermother, a fat old hag always loaded with fancy gold jewels, sheliterally hated me. She called me names and threatened me to beatme up, whenever she saw me. One day, while Gregory and I wereplaying quietly in his yard, the old hag rushed out and took himquickly inside the house, shouting to me: If you don't disappearat once, I will tear you asunder!