she'd already been aware of the space between herself, and those around her, generally speaking. especially when her mother was involved, and with her meaning at all times.
but it rarely bothered her.
if she met a stare that dove deeply there, she'd not been afraid, not did she shirk from the facts laid bare but she didn't broadcast it either, these things.

ansela was crazy.
everyone who had ever met the woman, child, teen, girl, they always said the same.
Sicily, her mother(her poor mother, her sainted hollow greedy husk of a mother) screamed this very fact, in her face, weirdly, on the constant,as she grew. so it wasn't a secret.

not that absurd when you think on it. they had come from different times, you see. so the love that lingered there, in between them, confused and ill gained as it might have been, was the norm, and as you might have guessed, young ansela grew to relish the thought, as she much preferred insanity, abnormality, to the alternative, such as it was.

a daddy's girl, that's what she had been. from the womb till the wound, five years all told, she'd adored and following after searching to climb up on him, to be held, hugged, loved. Salvador Melchizedek DeMar he was marked to be, by moniker and for all she knew the man had hung the moon.
it was Sal who woke up late nights, sitting by her bed, Sal who looked deep into her baby face, and willed her to feel loved, no matter what, even tho Sal had never known peace in love, himself.
theirs was innocence, and merely there. the universe itself. unfolding as it should.
sunny days when they'd both played in the water, and yes, other women had worked their hands into her pruny, little fingers, while they fawned and gushed as she'd held onto them in the pool. it didn't seem strange to her that they smelled like her father, it was comforting, as they were of good cheer, this in much contrast to the vision of her mother, in scary opposition to her usual experience, this felt different,in the arms of a nurturing bosom , that wasn't shaking her little body or hurling insults , no choice but to sit inside those arms, chubby baby arms locked on,holding tight, eyes wide, searching everywhere only for Sal. waiting for rescue,as she would, yes, and for his attention, always with the hope that he'd hold her up high, and smile into her face, gazing at her with smile, with love as she looked down at him, from above. but this was not to be their life for long, of course.

women had not been the usual breadwinners by then, and a change had barely begun those years back when, the vote was only fresh by twenty some odd years. hell. the poor dears had only recently become more than property.
but sal drank, which was bad, and he was a womanizer, which served him worse, till the tongues in town related the facts as all such fuel is for fodder, that the man let his wife work, while he cared for their daughter, in the home. for shame! and he drank and since he didn't use discretion there. he managed to stay only as long as he could bear, five long, cruel years. trying to give the child some sense of warmth, nurturing, unconditional love. it only seemed right. but she wouldn't let them be. not a chance. apart from that love she'd been only a witness, could only join in to see. not hardly.
and so the years told nothing after that much of love. they're dark remembrance not withstanding, and, like others of her breed,she'd had to bear up under it, not much of a choice other than this existing. this, life. so there became loneliness, heartbreak, and a great crushing need, in her more each day.
so she cried a great deal, until she couldn't anymore.

only icy memories contained even a bit of the truth.
that the woman had never loved the man she married, and she didn't care much for the child, other than to torture the man with, demoralizing his efforts, from her squeaky chair as she rubbed tired feet.
loser. drunk. worthless.
night and day, day in and day out. it didn't matter that
his eyes grew so sad, before he left
no one could blame him he'd been ordered out of his home enough times. he'd only lingered, hoping to make it thru, spend another day with this toe headed shadow, so sweet a this, his child, he'd never seen such, and it set an ache deep in his well of the worst sott of pain.
never wanting to leave her, the little. he'd stayed almost too long for anyone's good.
the drink. it made him want to hurt her back. which couldn't happen, even with the constant degredation , which was bad enough, but the child, and he came to the point where his love had seen her pain enough, and his heart couldn't stand another second more. the little angel, she couldn't be expected to become a pawn in thier war. and while it's understandable that this
was what he thought at the time he'd had to depart or die from the cruelty of it all, but that's where he was very, exceptionally, utterly, wrong.

later on, as in other domesticated fiascos and the parting of ways plays out,as you can well imagine many many lies were told, probably on every side. the clucking, hateful females inherited here won't be a beacon of hope, just, so you know. but she grew up, Ansela del Mar, and against all odds, continuing to be loving, sweet. and while she did not understand this at the time (still too young, the poor dear) pleasing her mother was a daily chore, and a daily disappointment if you'd have expected she'd know, (she didn't, she wasn't there) (work) (etc) -
but the sitters, they were a bit of bad influence during this dark departure, as of the best sort of fun! of course, they'd come and go, but they'd been a much needed light in her dim world . and to such a person this is enough. to stay keeping on, to smile, to hope.
that is, they all were, all except for one.
they'd been breathing the same stale air together these two, lady little, and lady tall, for an extra two years by then. they moved, apartments,. no more yard, or the place she'd been since she'd first become of this world and had been,so the matter at hand had given way to court proceedings, money grubbing, and, this was where the lies were born. out of greed, grown women in this, 'family ' has commenced to speak all sorts of atrocious untruths, and,in front of the child, who stood not for it, not a bit, nor did she bite her tongue, in this, not aware of the harm, the side she'd been only capable of being on, as she'd been the only one to actually see, her father, indeed! why the whole lot of them weren't worth one moment as she'd considered a lifetime of horror, but in comparison,with sal? and it wasn't an attitude but a fact, she'd screamed.. no one. ever. was to speak I'll of her father, ever, in her presence, ever, again. foot down(in mouth, actually) this statement was immediate, and loud. no sense in blurring this muddy mess, one could plainly hear and see. so, while, you'll probably not disagree,this made her amongst her kin, the opposition. the enemy you see. of them, all.
that's when ansela began to understand, that it was her turn, to watch, and witness love, from outside of it, alone.
she'd born it well, and didn't care much for most of life, actually, never trucked with liars, or cheats, then or later, intentionally. this only made her presence, less than pleasing most days. others. she simply became invisible. if spoken to, at all, noticibly short, they became forevermore,a distant relative, living in the home. so the sitters, she needed them, you see, ty see her, and treat her with great, often loving care.
like air when it's denied a soul, for certain. and for a child, well, like I say, she bore it well.
so when this, exceptionally perverted person, who came to be her caregiver was charged with taking her in her care, no one cared, that she'd been, touched, among other truly disgusting things, and so, being only real to herself, alone, it never left her thoughts, after the fact,you know? not, even once, after that, even once over, and she remained in safety, lurked there, the memory, all of the memories, what horror she did endure, there were marks, she showed them and screamed, until she'd been forced to go no more, but, it never, really left,... she'd been too abused, you see. physically, sexually. emptied of innocence, to be sure.
to see a child that little, she was very tiny, you didn't know that part, did you? too small, and, it just marred the girl she was, if you will, so much so, that she stayed perpetually continuing to be, something, strangely,apart. and, for a small, sweet girl, it was not the undoing, but the beginning of the pull, that unraveled the string.
it's been said that children are resilient, and, if you'd asked the minor child, one insane, very small in sized, seven year old little girl, she'd have had to agree.
time out of mind, life had taken from her ,imminently what every human being wasn't living without ,as far as the eye could see, but, she didn't know that, did she? now, ansela turns nine years old, on a chilly late, grey November day. this would be a marker for future time lines, as you will see in time yourself, as well, in all it's sad infamy. actually,the start, some greater minds than mine agree, of adulthood for little Ansela. with her formidive years merely moments in front of her, and the past, hunting for her attention at every turn, and haunting her nights in her nightmares and grieving for Salvador in dreams, one could certainly see,at least, that's how it felt,& she might have agreed, if she'd been asked, but I'm certain that by now, you'd not expect her to be.
you'd be correct, but also incorrect, too. the absolute inescapable need for therapy , still, too far ahead, I'm afraid.
by ten years old, ansela had gotten a little taller, (about the size of an average child, at 6 years) . she's got straw colored hair , very fine, and long, but always looks in need of a good brushing,( as did her enormous eye teeth), but she did have cute freckles (that she aborred), skinny as a pole bean but bright as a summer day, the young thing had gained a sense of herself, and in doing so,claimed this, as her own, proudly, and began what will later be considered her lighter side, of time, in life. most just call someone who has this energy about themselves, their sense of humor, or funny people, and she was, very funny. she'd found it was pleasing to most people, this, and she enjoyed the laughter. thinking she'd caused this to happen, was enormous, and touched her in such a way, as it was bound to be, cathartic, adults would think. but we will see it to be a pattern, throughout, pervasive in defense, as well. a big thing for little girls.
a sprite of a thing, ansela has developed serveral habits, far too young, yes, but not totally unexpected as she was already smoking, daily, drinking some too.
hot summer days would find Ansela running though the woods, searching for a creek to swim, behind her mother's apartment, and the neighborhood boys a close second behind but never able to catch up to her.
it was a picture of audacity, how she'd flown through childhood in much the same manner. and as if she smelled the unavoidable
tragedy just ahead, she was usually bound to keep running, never minding the mosquitoe bites, or the humidity of the deep woods in the deep south on a hot summer day(or night) or the sweat that burned her eyelids, or the criss cross of weed grass cuts on her stick legs constantly. she was almost even free. her birthday passed but no one sent cards or threw her a party.
not whenSicily was in and out of hospital rooms, sick from the chemo, but blissfully absent now, more completely.
the odd moments she'd see the family members of her mother they'd begun to taunt ansela with an imaginary yet, very real description, of impending death, and maintaining the ever present picture of her mother, in a coffin, at the forefront of her young mind, daily. fear reaching out for her mind. as if it didn't already belong to this mind state.
trying to reach her, they'd said. as if that were and excuse to scare a child in this way, as if it were morally sound, even.
no one would allow the subject of Salvador, or Ansela's repeated requests, just only to speak to him, at least, and then more of her years , again,went by like this. smoking, running, crying, dreams of death and dying, fear of complete abandonment now, of losing all she'd had left, this was the state of affairs for the girl we have come to know, from nine to nearly thirteen.
© JennJ