The light woke you, or was it your mother calling to you. Your eyes open slightly, the darkness faded into the ceiling of your bedroom, the light shining from just beyond your room etched out the shape of the door against the shadow. You hear your mother calling your name, irritated, you guess she has been calling you for sometime or at least more than twice. "Emi. Wake right up." She barked, but you're tired and your eyelids draw themselves shut over your dry eyes, and open and then shut again. Your retort to your mother was a groan that you meant to be words, because even though you're tired you should get up before she does something, in response to your half formed thought your arm twitches. Your mother sounds a disapproving sigh then sucked her teeth to show what she thought of that.
The next thing you hear is the light switch flicking on, then stomps soften by the white carpet that you had tried to dye baby blue. Before you're good and blinded by the sudden exposure to light, you feel your mother's toes being thrusted into your side. You yelp, and the hand you were raising to shield yourself from the light goes to clutch your mother's foot instead.
"Up I said." She waited for no reply and dug her huge gnarly toes into your ribs, twisting, grinding skin and shirt against ribs.
"Ahhhh", you sit upright and wrenched away from her, creeping on your knees before sitting down hard on your bottom. You'd curse if you could, and did, though you didn't know what it meant. "What the fuck?" You regretted saying the word as soon as you let it loose. Your eyes widened as you shot your mother a glance and tore your eyes when you saw, incredulity flash to dark anger on her face. You didn't know what that word meant, only you shouldn't say it around your mother. Somehow you know you shouldn't.
(Some things are so old that we know what they are even if it's our first time seeing or hearing them.)
You're fully awake now and anticipating… what are you anticipating, this is your mother after all. It's a bad thing to say to or in the hearing of your mother, your mind tells you this, but she doesn't care a fig, she never did, or ever would.
"What did you just say?" Your mother spits through her barely clenched teeth. Creases formed between her brows. 'Was that… emotion… of any kind?' You think to yourself. Your mother could mask anything she was feeling, you know with certainty, with you though, it wasn't masking, you could see she never cared what you thought of her the way she looked at you, through you with dead black eyes.
"Where did you learn that word?" She's angry, truly angry. Waiting for no reply she looked over at the computer, looked back at you, seemingly more angry, then she spun on her heels, and this was automatic, something her mother taught her no doubt, her straight black hair and green dress flourished as she spun towards the door, gracefully striding towards it, she shut it, walked back towards you, yanked you up by the arm.
Her face shifted to surprise when she had to look up at you. You're taller than she is, by a head at least even though your shoulders are drooped in defeat. Her initial incredulity vanished, flashing guilt and then anger, but not at you, at herself it seemed. She released your arm and sat down hard on your bed, it crumpled the sheets, you'll have to make it again, you haven't slept in it the entire break, so it irked you that she so carelessly messed it up, how very like her. Thinking of cleaning you begin to notice the acrid smell that clung to the room, that clung to you, you wrinkled your nose, making a note to leave the windows open and to burn the sheets, you'd have to "they" would be in here the moment you weren't looking.
"Look, Emi," your mother started. "Just be careful of what you do on that… the internet ok." You are too shocked to breathe for a second, she sounds genuinely concerned for you, no not you, her, she's concerned for her, about what people will think. Yes, that makes sense.
"And you can't just be looking at random things" she continued, "what with the government as it is…" She pauses for a second before adding to herself in a whisper, "Especially now that he has the reins." You were right, she was not concerned with you at all, she was just concerned with who ever that was, it could be anyone, she was well acquainted with the upper echelon of Yahsuhan society.
"Do you… do you know what porn is?" She babbled, what was she on about, could she never stick to one topic? You hated that, too confusing for you who was slow to think. More over her face wasn't the cold stone you're used to. It threw you off, it seems like concern for you and guilt in herself but she's concerned for you and you want that, you think… 'No' You gave a swift shake of the head, 'No. Never. Not her.' An image of her drunk and drenched in wine flashed across your mind. You remember lifting her and— "No", you squeezed your eyes shut and vaulted from the memory, when you opened your eyes you found yourself with a white knuckled grip around your left forearm, slowly you forced yourself to let go, there was a bruise, quickly you tucked your hand behind you. Of course your mother was still talking to herself.
'No,' you thought, pushing fear and embarrassment away with a calm anger. 'Not her, she'd never concern herself with me.'
'But you want her to.' A small voice inside you said, mocking and knowing. You thought then of the white haired dragon. But it was not her voice. 'Still yourself, dreams are for the night.' That voice was the dragon's, it seemed to warp reality, dizzying you for a second, you shook your head, to orient yourself and to shake off the thought of that voice being real.
"Good." Your mother said, as soft as the feathered bed she sat on, it shattered your anger, leaving your left arm twitching.
Your face was a pained, confused one. "Don't look for it, I'll know if you do." Your mother said.
"How?" 'Damn', you hadn't meant to answer, you simply wanted her to leave, but no, was she talking about the things you've being looking at for a week now? No she couldn't have known, but what if she did? 'No better that than talking about my arm.', You ache to rub the redness, to scratch the scar. You try not to let your eyes flick towards the computer screen. Trying and failing to not pick at your nails.
"Trust me, I'll know, remember Chunky?" Your mother asked.
"The doll you gave me when I was … how old was I," you've always had that doll, you thought. 'Why was she talking about those things now, and why did you ask, I just want her out, and far away from me?' The scar beckoned to be touched.
"It was my doll, I gave it to you." She answered not looking at you or anything really, while a faint smile played in her lips. 'Of course, god forbid she actually show some interest in her blood child..' Your mind wavered with the thought and you forced it back to your mother, settling it with some effort.
"Ok", you said half annoyed, trying to be annoyed, and then you were after a little thought. Your parents, well not your parents, your grandparents really, are very rich people and yet she couldn't buy you a lousy doll. This isn't what you want to think but you latch on to it, to hate, it feels like safety, familiar ground, so did fear, and despair but those make you quake and you hate feeling that way. Your nails were dug into your palms, leaving your knuckles white.
"Remember when you dropped it in the stream at mother's house?"
"I guess." You say, trying to recall what had happened. "That whole day you kept asking me what I had done." You say, remembering the feeling of it and crying, and… something else that was uncomfortable, another memory, a memory that might not have been that day, a memory of a smiling shadow.
"Yes." Your mother started in reply and you were grateful. Then you gave a little shake of your head, steeling yourself. 'I'm an adult, or near enough, enough not to be frightened of shadows.' "And that's the same way I'll know if you look at it. And no stumbling in the dark looking for a doll will fix this one?"
"What are you talking about?" 'No you dumb… you idiot. She was done.' You face felt serene, your hand was still tucked behind your back but you were still proud of your outward calm, you didn't need her to teach you that.
"I spent half that night up and down the stream looking for chunky, your father… he found it in the bushes." Your mother laughed remembering, it was a bittersweet laugh, lamenting something. "Happy days? If so, why have things changed.?" You flexed your forearm, you felt a pang of anger at reacting outwardly, and stopped yourself from clenching your teeth. 'Why had things changed?
"Wait then why did you say I dropped it in the stream?"
"That's what you told me. I think I cut myself too." She rolled up the sleeve of her left arm showing a pale scar from elbow going halfway to her shoulder. She gave a thin smile, staring at the mark. In a second your still face flashed anger, you hardly cared that you were showing it, your perfect teeth gnashed against each other, your nails sunk deeper into your palms, knuckles turning white. You trembled with anger, wordless sounds of fury bubbled in your chest, it came out scraping against your throat, leaving it raw, it came out in a cough. This wasn't at all good for your now raw throat, you staggered coughing and and dropped to the floor clutching your chest.
You felt your mother's hand patting your back. Anger filled you again and you forgot to breathe, and it sent you into another fit of coughing. You rubbed your throat trying to still yourself, tried to choke of the coughing and wave your mother away.
"You need to get ready for school", she said finally.
"And don't tell your father we were talking about–."
"Don't tell me what?" The door creaked open.
This house wasn't built for your father, he looked like a giant standing at the doorway, his head an shoulders were cut out of view, and those shoulders were so broad, when he lowered himself to reach in the room he had to twist himself to put one side into the room, then the other. Hands that could crush a man grabbed hold of each sides of the doorway to support himself.
'My father…' the thought, as it always did, came unbidden. His skin was black where yours was white, pale as milk now because you avoid the sun, not that it did much good to sunbathe, you never tanned or freckled like your mother, your skin would barely change except for a… glow.
But for your golden eyes and height there was nothing of your father in you, not his woolly black hair nor his dark skin. Others like you, those who are mixed always had something to tell of their lineage, coffee cream skin and curly hair. Your hair was as straight as your mothers. There aren't any in Yahsuh with curls of any sort, nor are there any with white hair, except of those old people of course.
As for your height, you're unnaturally tall, dwarfing most boys you came across, they were too intimidated to flirt, not that you wanted them to, but they could try. But this too said nothing, your grandfather was tall… after a fashion, not near as tall as your father but tall.
That seemed wrong, thinking of your father and grandfather in the same thought. You don't know why this is, "wrong" wasn't the right word, it felt eerie. You run into the proverbial wall again, your head starts to ache and you push the thought away. This makes you think of the dragon dream. Your cheeks heated as you recall it tracing its hips. "Your future with men is all but certain." You remember her saying. You remember the pitch black and shifting veins morphing into a man, a man taller than you– you suddenly notice a burning, an uncomfortable feeling you were being pinned down, you look up to find your father's eyes probing you, burning golden, waiting and demanding. You tore your eyes away wishing your cheeks weren't so red.
"Don't tell me what?" Strange how thoughts can weave themselves coherently in mere seconds, you think waiting, hoping your father would lose interest. "Girl, I'm asking you a thing."
You look at him perplexed, forgetting his glare. Trying desperately to pencil out what was happening, it may just be that your mother's queer behavior is making you think things about your father but, it seemed he didn't have that dead fish eyed look he always wore, your mother must have put him up to this.
It makes no sense, they never bothered you, never cared, never bothered to care. 'They don't, they don't. She's a… bad person and him a dullard.' It wasn't always that way, you remember your mother telling you about him when she had met him during one of her wine soaked talks… 'Wine.' Your hands twitched. "GIRL," he said firmly. You very nearly jumped out of your skin, he hadn't shouted and he didn't need to, your mouth when dry and you worked moisture into it.
'Still? What's happening?' "I… I—" You almost see the wall rushing towards you.
"It's just girl talk." Your mother say, you look down at the crudely dyed carpet, you remember just throwing blue dye everywhere. You hate all the white, you wiggle your toes, letting the soft fibers caress the spaces between them.
Your father looked at you then back at your mother, there was a slight movement of his face, you weren't fixated on how little the movements where so you caught the meaning of the expression. "I see what you're up to," it said.
"Hmmm" he said thinking, and he actually looked to be thinking, he didn't have that pained look on his face. "Get ready for school." He said, his face and voice expressionless, he bent and went under the door again, and as if he forgot something poked his head in again. "Your mother is making Keeac." He smiled. And off he went. The things that happened just then were strange, so foreign you didn't hear what your mother said when she left and patted your shoulder, this made your skin crawl, made your hand twitch.
You were uneasy now, thinking you must still be dreaming and that white haired girl was playing with you. You remember that rueful smile, and then when she… your hand when unbidden to your jaw. The pain was unbearable, it felt so real, no dream has any right being that real.
This morning was too much, too unfamiliar , you want… you don't know what you want, just not this.
"What is going on?" It was a nervous whisper outside, inside you, there were quakes, a ringing and your head took a brutal beating trying to understand. You clutch your head staggering to the floor. This is how parents are supposed to be. But they have never been like this before. What changed?
Maybe you need to be out of the house, school might just be the thing after all, so you went to your bathroom, tossed your clothes aside, hopped into the shower, it's a bath really but it has a shower installed. The old bathtub is made from Yahsuhan steel, strong and lasting, no one knows how to make anything like it anymore, this thing is probably more than five hundred years old. You shower. God it feels good, everything just melts off you, your eyes still burn with tiredness though.
You're still worried about what your parents are up to. They're right about you being late however, so you hurry up.
Standing in the mirror you look at your body. You stand rigid, too rigid, you frown, and you relax, your shoulders slumped, and you make a face, that's even worse you think, not pretty at all, not alluring. Then you remember the girl in the dream, Actous. She was so confident with her strides, you traced your hips just as she did, you smiled, you have somewhat of a nice figure. You twist around to look at your butt. You feel a little disappointed, it's ample enough, you hold one cheek, lift it, let it loose and feel it shake back into place. Firm but, you're not skinny, your body drops back into the slump, your thighs are a little too big rubbing against each other just below your thigh gap… and your legs… 'maybe I should exercise, ask mother how she keeps in shape.'
"Ahhh, I should be getting to school." You say through your teeth, gripping a hand full of wet white hair.
You toss on your uniform angrily and you stomp down the carpeted stairs, pulling on loafers your mother picked out for you, all the other girls in your grade just wear regular shoes but you look so out of place, what with you being so tall and all. Your face makes no suggestion of being an adult, but standing next to other girls, and dwarfing them does. You stop for a second remembering your mother suggesting the shoes, you think it may have been different than you remember, did she smile when she gave them to you? A tender smile? Did she say you look pretty? She did but you thought… you thought. You feel the wall moving into place and you back away from the uncomfortable thoughts, shaking your head free of them.
You rounded the corner to the dining room, larger enough to be more of a small hall. It was empty but for a single table in the center, where your mother and father were seated. You can't bare the look of them, you don't know what's happening, if anything is happening. Gingerly you walk across the yellow veined white tiles of the dining room, your loafers letting your steps fall harder than they ought to, ringing as they fell, you feel heavier somehow. You keep your eyes on your feet until you've reached the table. You pull free a chair, it makes a raucous grating noise, you wince all the while thinking you would not have noticed the sounds if it was yesterday.
You mutter a good morning, something you do every morning, you had not meant to on this, it just slipped out. You let out a breath preparing yourself, letting yourself forget your fears for a second, and then you start to think they were foolish fears, you know all your father would do is lecture you about "the great white god", and your mother would… just look at you with those dead hateful eyes, as if you had sucked all the life from her. Your hands twitched and you pulled your left jacket sleeve taut.
You looked at your father, at his golden eyes. Funny how he never mentioned the eye of god, god's eye was yellow as his and yours was, the burning sun, the gift of light to those who served faithfully, and a punishment to sinners, to char their skin and turn their lands barren, or so the saying went. You'd stop yourself refusing to remember… refusing to know anything about "god." Instead you find yourself thinking about the age of conquest. It makes sense, yellow eyes, only the people on the western continent had those eyes.
"Blacks were not supposed to have the eye of god" You find yourself whispering. You curse yourself under your breath, using the one curse word you now know. You're back at god, and why not? Does it not always come back to him? You grimace, you want to stop thinking about it but there's that tingle, the good feeling you get when you start to connect things, and you're curious about where you heard that, not from the internet you're sure, but where?
"Emi" your mother's voice cut down your half formed thoughts of… no it was gone. The thought felt almost real like your dream. Your hand brushed your cheek and you only realize you're silent when your father stared at you again. Damn it, you're thinking a lot today, and you're being too quiet. 'They're waiting shouldn't make them wait… no let them wait'…But you want to leave. You were silent for too long again and you realize you had let your emotions dance across your face for your parents to see. You flushed and bent your head to hide your face. You reach out your hands to your parents to say grace. You were supposed to lead but you couldn't bring yourself to… not to that… whatever that is. You're afraid of it, for a certainty that's why you hate it, "God."
Your father says grace after he decided staring into your soul wasn't doing any good. The prayer is done and you get up.
"Where are you going?" You froze at the question. Your father's voice had a note of genuine curiosity, not at the stupid kind, he just wanted to know where you were going before eating.
"I… I'm late and I can't stay to eat." This was true enough, you glanced at the time earlier, you don't know what time it is now or remember what it had been but the feeling of lateness was on you. There was also the matter of them acting queer all of a sudden, you had to get away from that.
Your father looked thoughtful, then he glanced at your mother and drew his eyes from her before she could catch him. He looked like he did something wrong just then, you've never seen him look like that before. It was clear he would take too long, you kept your eyes from meeting theirs, gave an annoyed sound, spun on your heels, letting your shoulder sag as you moved protectively. Realizing how stupid you looked all the times you've done this, you made a note never to do it again, and another note as it popped in your head, to do something about your thighs if it could be helped… but why, you were too tall, no boys liked you, no girl talked to you, you imagined yourself laughing and talking about things that didn't matter, no this was not you Besides there was Ada. He was too short though and an Ashanti, even if you got pass the height, which you never could, Ashanti couldn't have children not that you want children, you just know that anyone but Ashanti having babies with Ashanti would end up dying in childbed or wanting to die from the string of stillbirths and dead toddlers…many have tried.
You think too much, you remarked, realizing you were muttering to yourself again. You hop over your bike, pumping the pedals as hard as you were able, letting the wind toss your hair and worries behind you. You gazed up at the red leaves and blossoms and again you thought of the dragon girl. "Actous." The wind blew the name away and for a moment the world was brighter.
"A man can [obscured] be a man, and it is hard enough to become one, no [obscured] can [obscured]
It is [obscured]. There is something [obscured]
But It can be done.
— "Words of the Dragon" a compilation by [obscured] of the [obscured] taken from "Days of the saint"
by B