"MARBELLA" by Alessandra Azzaroni

© 2003 by Alessandra Azzaroni vcaoriginals@yahoo.com.au

STORY LAST UPDATED ON 05/02/2003

AUTHOR'S NOTE

Written in Australia.

PROLOGUE

It is with great unhappiness that I admit to myself that I can never go to Italy. In my childhood, it had never been quite number one on my list of countries to visit, but still it saddens me that I cannot ever go that romantic land.
    However, it was only recently when I found out that Italy could never be mine. I was reading a novel, partially set in Italy, but one word immediately had me throwing the library book across the room, where the pages crumpled as they hit the wall and ricocheted onto the carpet. I ran, then, from my own little hobby room, ran out of the house and collapsed at a tree. I trembled like an earthquake, and I certainly felt the shocks strike every nerve in my body, jolting me like lightning bolts, electrocuting my mind, my heart and my soul.
    Marble. I hate to write this word, for marble was the very essence of my fear. I used to think it was a thing of beauty. Marble was a rose - beautiful, achingly so, but it could hurt you terribly, more than you could ever imagine it could.
    I never ended up picking up the thrown-aside novel again. Adriana Trigiani's Big Cherry Holler will never be complete in my world. The mention of the word "marble" in it has now prevented me from ever going to Italy.
    But while I will never complete reading that story, I will, however, do my best to complete my story. I know what the public is like, for my mother has told me. The public adore reading about other people's hardships and pain. The Germans said it best when they labelled the term with Schadenfreude - taking pleasure from other people's pain.
    I considered titling this account Schadenfreude, but I knew I couldn't. The English-speaking world has been tainted with a reluctance to touch foreign languages, German in particular. So I thought long and hard, before finally deciding on something simplistic to title my tale - Marbella.
    Don't be confused, though. This particular Marbella was not a place in Spain that the Irish tourists loved. This Marbella was a true house of horrors to my fragile sanity.

CHAPTER ONE: MY MOTHER

It is only natural for daughters to view their mothers as role models. In one respect, mothers are the closest things young girls have to knowing what they, themselves, might be like when they grow to their mothers' age. Mothers are the closest things to our selves. If they are "successful," in our vision, then we tend to believe that we will be, too, and so we want to be like them, basing ourselves on them, if we can. We adopt their mannerisms, and little quirks, and while doing so, we may lose our own, and lose our sense of identity. We try to become our mothers.
    Like many other young girls, I tried to model myself upon my mother. I used to be such a quiet child, I'd been told. It took me much longer than it should've to learn how to speak. When I first uttered a comprehendible word, it was "Mama," and so from then on, that is what I called my mother. Other people growing up in my land called their mothers "Mum," but I always referred to mine as "Mama."
    My father told me that as soon as I'd spoken that one word, he knew that I'd try to model myself after my mother. "Dada" was a much easier word for young children to say, and therefore he expected me to say that, but alas, I did not.
    As I grew up through the months and years, I took note of almost everything my mother did, when she was around. I noticed how she breezed quickly into the house, walking with the speed of a woman on a mission. But she never had a mission, I thought. She'd come to me, bringing with her the scent of roses in her perfume, and she'd kneel down to cuddle my small, young frame.
    Her white-blond pin-straight hair fell in a professionally frizz-free sheet of satin, the ends touching the very bottom of her linen-covered breasts. Her eyes were an almost indescribable blue, so pale that people would refer to the colour as "ice-blue," though I personally believed that ice was clear. Her dainty nose, her thin lips and delicate smile were all inherited from her Scandinavian ancestors, people who lived so far north that their looks couldn't help but reflect the icy conditions. I'd never really thought that blond people were very attractive, at least not in comparison to my mother. I believed that white-blond was truly the only blond in the world, and if it wasn't white-blond, I would call it "yellow," a colour I never thought deserved to be a hair colour. I hated yellow, for I knew that I didn't look good in it. Yet, that may have been a trait that I copied after my mother, who had never worn yellow at all, as far as I knew.
    Her strawberry-painted lips would turn up at the sides into a smile, and I couldn't help but smile, too. I knew she'd want me to. She never wanted me to be unhappy, ever. I always had to smile for her, never was I not to. She wanted to surround herself in all things happy, calm and peaceful, her own personal Wonderland. But I knew that such a place would never exist for me. I wasn't my mother, and therefore I couldn't ever have what she had.
    I almost wondered if she cringed when she cradled my head in her hug. I couldn't help that my hair was so dark, but surely darkness disturbed her light, and so I was afraid that she would stop loving me at any moment, and I just hoped that that would happen later, rather than sooner - though not at all was my number one priority.
    But she would pull back gently after her hug, not jerking herself away as if she'd been zapped. And she'd still be smiling. "Layla," she would say, "it's been a good day." She would never elaborate on that, but simply stood up straight, and would wander around the house, searching for my father to greet.
    And there I'd be, alone again.
    I knew what she did for a living. She was an actress, had been so for many years. She spent a lot of time in America, auditioning, filming and whatever else actresses did to fill in time off set. My father would stay with me at home, sending me to public schools for my education.
    But I still thought of Mama while she was away, and I tried to memorise all I could of she. I visualised her vibrancy, how she lit up every room with invisible fairy lights when she entered, the people turning to her, and she would greet them all in turn, spending enough time with each of them for them to believe that she truly was interested in them and what they had to say. But I knew she was not. Australian society was just "too different," she'd say, to that of America's. Did "different" mean better, or worse? I wanted to know, but I was afraid to ask, afraid to hear the answer. I feared hearing that we were worse here, that we'd never have what America had. But I didn't want what America had, though. America seemed too false a place for me to ever believe, or take seriously. Australian life seemed just more down-to-earth, more understandable, more on the level… but maybe I believed that because it was mine, and it was what I knew, what I had experienced.
    I wanted to be vibrant like her, I wanted to capture attention, I wanted to soar with the birds as high as I could go… and I wanted to be loved. I wanted to be loved like she was. I wanted people to find me as enchanting, and more so, than they found she. An impossible dream, I told myself, but it was what I wanted.
    So I was never a true "wild child," but I tried to make sure that I had a bright and bouncing personality, not enough to generate electricity like she did, but enough for people to make notice of me, and to enjoy my presence. I never got into mischief, but I went through my childhood with a dazzling smile, or so I thought, trying to build rooms with my merriment. I was lively, or so I chose to believe in my rose-tinted vision.
    My father was concerned for me, though. He was well aware of the almost obsession I had with my mother, and he so much wanted me to be different, to make sure that I had my own personality, and not just a false façade of what I wanted to be. He wanted me to realise that I was not my mother, I never would be my mother, and so I would have to think about myself, which was a word that was scarce to me. What did I know of myself when I had my mother in my life?
    But he sat me down at the age of seven, and asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. I knew what he didn't want me to say, which I think you can predict what, so I chose my words carefully. "I want to be an actress," I said clearly, self-assured. I turned to look at my mother for approval.
    She smiled, not displaying any teeth, so it was a small smile, and she gave a slight, almost unnoticeable nod of her fragile head. Then she laughed low, rapid and breathy, over so quickly that I even questioned myself as to whether I had really heard it or not. "Or you could be a comedian… or shall I say a comedienne," she said in her alto, husky voice, and I feared that she was mocking me. Was this what I had been trying to hold off? Had she lost her love for me, and was she poking fun at me, her very own daughter?
    "You've got such vitality to you, Layla, you could probably make many people laugh," she continued. "Do you like making people laugh?"
    I hated myself then. I hated the way I acted around my mother, how I was always so very careful as to not ruin her day. I didn't want to displease her, and I never wanted to be embarrassed around her. Why was I so afraid of her? Why couldn't I be comfortable in her presence, like other girls my age were with their mothers?
    Did I like making people laugh? Yes, I did - but only conditionally. If I was making light of something that wasn't myself, yes, I did like making people laugh. But not when people laughed at me, for whom I was - or rather what I was trying to be.
    "Yes," I replied softly, "yes, I do like making people laugh."
    "Isn't that brilliant, Grant!" she exclaimed to my father, clapping her hands together, still smiling brightly. "She can be a comedienne," she emphasised. "Isn't that wonderful!"
    "It certainly is something, Selena," he answered, though his tone of voice wasn't anywhere near as lively as hers was. He wasn't enthusiastic about my response, maybe because he thought I was spoiling my mother by always agreeing with her. But I was young and impressionable… was it so wrong of me to be influenced by another?
    Yes. It was. It was foolish of me to be so focused on being someone else. I really was an actress at that tender age, but only in my own mind. My father could see right through me, as though my act was nothing more than a clear sheet of glass, something with its own fingerprints and smudges, and the occasional crack.
    My father was a twisting mystery to me. I barely knew where to start with him. I had a feeling that he disapproved of my mother, disapproved of who she was, what she did, her effect on me… everything about her. Why was he married to she? Why was she married to he? Why did my sceptical father want to spend his life with a Wonderland-believing wife who couldn't face the trouble of the world? Why didn't she worry about poverty and the lack of human rights in Africa? Why didn't she worry about the youth of Australia falling under the power of too much alcohol and drugs? Why didn't she worry that one day her daughter might lead a life in the red-light district of St Kilda? (Of course, this never actually happened, but why didn't she fear it like other mothers did? I knew why she didn't - she wasn't part of that world, so she knew that I wouldn't be, either.)
    My mother, although appearing in public as wonderful, lacked morals, lacked knowing what the real world was like, lacked being a genuine person. Instead, she appeared to be almost a warehouse-manufactured vision of what the "perfect" woman should be in the public eye.
    It was time I knew that I should never be like her. But I was still lost in the trance of her ways, as if she was a cult-leader and I was merely just one of her many followers. I knew I should've screamed at myself to get an original thought once in awhile, but I didn't.
    I feared myself. I may have feared Mama, but I feared myself in a different way. I was afraid that I didn't know who I was, what I was like and everything else about myself. The stage was for acting, not a real life. I should've been smart enough to know this, but I was probably the dimmest-thinking person I knew, though I pretended otherwise. My mother wouldn't admit her faults. She wouldn't talk about herself. So neither would I. I wasn't about to break out of the plaster bust I'd created around myself. I wasn't quite ready to be myself yet.
    I feared that I never would be.

My mother may have seemed glamorous as an actress, but my father wasn't without his first-class living. He was one of the owners of a rather successful film company, which was how he and my mother met. She had been working in America, trying to get film and television roles, and he had helped oversee the production of a film she was cast in. Both Australians in a foreign country, they'd become instant companions, Mama told me. My father had kept his Australian accent through all the years of his life, but my mother's was a little strange. She was born in Australia, but she didn't really sound like it, and she didn't sound American, either. Her accent was a cross between Australian and English, and I had a feeling that it was put on. I often wondered if everything she did was put on, or if she really was just the way she seemed.
    But I remember one time in my childhood when I didn't smile for her. Instead, I did what was the worst thing to her - I cried, and I cried in front of her. More to the point, I cried because of her, something that she didn't normally do. She intimidated me, surely, but never did I cry, except for this solitary time.
    It was the day that every female experiences, when she transforms from girl to woman. This dismayed me. I didn't want to have a problem such as this. I didn't want to have any problem, whatsoever. However, life was never quite like that. We didn't get what we wanted, we didn't lose what we wanted to lose, and this was how things went. As always, I thought of my mother, and wondered if she experienced what I was experiencing. Maybe she had somehow bypassed that stage in her life. I believed that then, for I wasn't quite sure how children came about, and I didn't have any want of knowing.
    Since I didn't know what to do, I found Mama in the house, and told her what had happened. So she brought me into her bedroom, which was separate from my father's, and explained the change in me. I didn't take to it well. I was downright upset about the whole matter, and I knew that I was not acting the way she wanted me to. I wasn't smiling. I was frowning, I was pouting, with my lower lip jutting out.
    "Look at yourself, Layla!" she demanded, speaking harshly, which she almost never did. Yet, she had never really seemed to have a reason to. "Look at yourself!" She grabbed me by my shoulders, and positioned me in front of the full-length mirror on the inside of the bedroom door. "Do you see yourself?"
    For me, this was a harsh reality. She was forcing me to examine myself. I reluctantly lifted my head, and glanced at my reflection. But it wasn't just a glance, for she held my chin up, making me look and look at myself. It was a harrowing experience, considering I'd never done anything of the sort before, as strange as that may seem.
    So I looked. And what I saw hurt me. I was far too different from my mother - how could anyone tell we were related? My hair was not white-blond like hers. Mine was the colour of dirt. Her eyes were an intriguing ice blue, and mine made me think of a worn-and-torn football oval. There was the green of stomped-upon grass, and the brown-black of the mud. Officially my colour was listed as "hazel," but I could never associate that with myself.
    I wasn't growing old gracefully. I was thirteen, and my posture wasn't perfect. Because of my discomfort, my eyebrows were pinched in the centre above my nose. I couldn't hold my fingers straight; they curved inward, where my fingernails would often scratch my palms. This was not a trait I picked up from my mother. This was something that I had brought upon myself, but had never realised until now. I wasn't smiling. I looked almost ill, with my non-pristine complexion and dowdy facial expression. Who was I kidding? I could never be like my mother, for she was far too different, far above me, and I would never be up to that level. Even though I hadn't really done anything wrong, I felt like a failure. This was the first reality check of my life, and I hadn't taken it in good stride.
    "Well?" she persisted. "Tell me what you see, Layla. Are you a woman or not?"
    I couldn't stand to look at myself any longer. Maybe she was doing me good, but at that moment I felt like I had an anvil on my chest, preventing me from breathing properly, and it plugged my throat. I couldn't speak. I couldn't handle reality now. I couldn't handle her demands to face myself, and I certainly couldn't face myself. I didn't like myself. I knew, in those dark alleyways of commonsense in my mind that are rarely on display, that I didn't really have a reason to be so distraught, but I was not a "normal" girl. Despite my usual cheerful exterior, I became upset rather easily, and I took everything personally, which caused me heartache.
    My eyes filled with tears like mercury rising, and soon I just burst. I couldn't cry quietly, so I sobbed, and tried to flee from my mother.
    "No, Layla, get a hold of yourself!" she said, raising her voice. "Don't you run from yourself any longer! Look at yourself, and accept who you are. You have faults, Layla - get over them. You are not perfect, and you never will be perfect. It's time to stop playing pretend and start facing the real world now!"
    Had she said those words to me when I was older and perhaps more confident I might have been able to retort back that she wasn't real, and she never would be. But I lacked courage, and I couldn't speak to her because of the weight of the anvil, so I cried on.
    "Stop it, Layla, stop it now!" she commanded, and I tried desperately to, but I couldn't. I started choking on my own sobs, hurting my throat even more than the anvil was.
    "Layla Marie Westfeld! You stop that right now, do you hear me?" She was yelling, and this frightened me even more. When earlier I had tried to escape, I was now too frozen to move.
    "If you don't shut up, I'll shut you up!"
    I had no idea what she meant by that. Without further warning, she grabbed me by the hair, and I didn't put up a fight as she banged my head repeatedly against the mirror. I even stopped crying, which would've pleased her, had she been not so involved in her violence. I could feel that places of my head were bleeding, maybe forming scars later on, but I didn't move. I hadn't known that my mother was powerful enough, but I heard cracks forming in the mirror as it connected with my skull. It was such peculiar behaviour from an ordinarily dainty woman, and even stranger that this was my mother, and not just any other woman in the world.
    But I was barely aware of what was happening. It was like I was under her spell once more, although I thought she would've preferred it if I had been paying attention, paying attention enough to hear the sound of my skull against the glass. I thought of my bones, and I imagined them being played like a xylophone.
    "Selena, what are you doing?" I faintly heard. My father was home. He'd put a stop to this. He'd stop the pounding of my head against the mirror, crumbling my skull into dust and mixing it with broken glass. I was an old street, all gravel and broken beer bottles and car windows.
    Despite my haze, there was something running through my head, thundering like a pack of animals in the savannah somewhere.
    "You are not perfect, and you never will be perfect. It's time to stop playing pretend and start facing the real world now!"
    How could I even start? I didn't even know what was real anymore. In that respect, I almost became my mother.

CHAPTER TWO: MIND GAMES

I remember not having any real thoughts in the car trip to the local hospital. But I do remember being able to vaguely hear my parents talk. I cannot remember their exact words, or indeed most of what they said, but a particular part of their conversation stuck out to me like the sun on a cloudy day…
    "Alright, Selena, look what you've done. How are we going to explain this to the hospital staff?"
    "We'll say she did it herself."
    My father scoffed. "Don't you realise that the first thing hospitals do with child violence is blame the parents? They'll blame us."
    "They will not," my mother disagreed. "Australia has one of the highest youth suicide rates in the world. If need be, we can use that as a defence."
    My father could still see the problem with my mother's logic. "But won't they be able to look at her injuries and tell that she didn't do that to herself?"
    "Can you?" my mother challenged.
    "That's different because I saw you inflict those injuries!"
    Silence followed this, but my father soon spoke up again. "Besides, won't Layla tell them the truth?"
    "Layla is an actress - actresses are perfect liars! She'll stick to our story."
    "But surely she has her own-"
    "She does not. She's been following my lead since her birth, and she won't give it up now."
    "Well, not now that you've showed her what you're capable of. Now she'll be too frightened to do anything her own way because she fears what you will do to her…"
    "Oh, be quiet, Grant, don't you give her ideas! We have a story, and we'll stick to it… You do love me, don't you, Grant?"
    I blanked out after that, but I didn't have to be awake to have known what had happened. As I gained consciousness, I could sense the decision my father had made as easily as I could sense rain coming on. I knew my father had agreed with my mother. He always had, and he always would. I could never understand why he would eternally bend like trees in the wind for her, and not just divorce her.
    But then again, if I always bent for her, then why couldn't I understand why he did, too?
    We were two different people. I didn't have to explain myself to myself. There must've been a place of me internally that knew why I did - and didn't do - what I did and didn't do. I had to know, because otherwise I wouldn't cater to each and every whim of my mother's. I just couldn't explain it. That must have been the same unexplainable reason that he had. We loved my mother. Wasn't love enough?
    But what was love? Who could explain it? I certainly couldn't.
    As my eyes opened, I became aware of the decision, and I saw a kind man with Indian features and wearing a white coat smiling down on me. "Good morning, Layla. Glad to have you with us again," he said softly.
    I struggled to sit up, but he gently placed my lifting shoulders back onto bed sheets. I knew this was a hospital, despite having never been in one before. I was tucked in tightly, and my head felt extremely heavy, weighed down with possibly the same anvil I had felt on my chest earlier, travelling through my body like cancer. The private room with the blue paint, the white bedding, the tiny periwinkle-blue flowers in a tiny plastic vase on a small table by my bed… it all seemed somewhat familiar.
    And then I remembered. For years, I had been fed on the entertainment industry. Though the public had almost never seen me with my parents, I knew all about them. My parents had brought me up watching film after film, whether they be local, American or foreign, and I had seen a lot of them. Some I had liked, some I had not and others I had had no opinion of. In fact, after viewing too many motion pictures, I noticed too many similarities, comedies weren't humorous to me, dramas seemed too unrealistic and I couldn't understand why people were singing and dancing in those musicals.
    I had seen hospitals on the silver screen, but more often on my television, through video, so that's why I felt as though I had known this hospital before. After awhile, all hospitals seemed to run together until they were indistinguishable from other hospitals. Real or just sets, they were all the same.
    "Layla, can you open your eyes a bit more for me, please?"
    I did as I was told, struggling as I was, and a tiny light shined in front of each eye in turn. The light clicked off, and the man, who I presumed to be the doctor, smiled. "Okay, can you follow my finger, please?"
    With my eyes, I traced the paths of one of his index fingers, north, south, east, west and all around. My head still pounded like gunshots, but I was able to keep my eyes open, though I wanted to close them desperately.
    "Alright, just stay awake a little longer, Layla. I can see you want to sleep."
    I willed with all my might to keep my drooping eyelids raised for just a little longer.
    "I'm Dr Rajah, Layla. Do you remember why you're here?"
    Thinking? I couldn't think. I could barely keep my ears attentive. "Head… hurts."
    "Well, you remember that," he commented. "I'll let you nap for half an hour, alright?"
    I didn't signal any confirmation, except for immediately shutting my eyes, and drifting off into oblivion.

When I awoke from that, I saw that there were no people in my private room in the hospital this time. I wasn't tired now. I felt almost ready to get up, and move around. Surely it was Monday now, and I would have to go to school, despite being hospitalised. I could still get out for my lessons after lunchtime.
    I sat up, and cleared out my eyes with my fingers, wiping aside the sleep and gluggy moisture that came with waking up, and I felt something strange at the sides of my face. As I reached to smooth down my hair, I got a shock.
    I could feel cotton bandages on my head, small ones in various positions, and I could feel them as I cleared my eyes, too. I moved my fingers around to find my forehead slabbed in a large one, and there were small ones near my temples.
    Bandages. I had never worn any before in my life. Band-Aids, yes, for childhood cuts and scrapes, but bandages were as confusing to me as the Arabic alphabet.
    My confusion was interrupted with the arrival of Dr Rajah and an assistant, clearly doing the rounds, knocking and opening my door to peep in. "Oh, you're awake now," the doctor commented. "Do you think you could answer some questions for me, please?"
    I said, after clearing my throat a few times, "yes," and the doctor came into my room, his assistant leaving. I made a few sounds to make sure my vocal chords were still working, for I didn't want to risk moving my head and dislodging the bandages that were beginning to cage me in.
    "Can you remember your name?"
    "Layla Marie Westfeld." I wasn't sure of many things in life, but I was sure of that.
    "And can you remember why you ended up in the hospital?"
    Suddenly, I could. It all came rushing at me like a thunderous waterfall, and I desperately wanted to trap out the sounds of my memories, but I couldn't. It was peculiar how I couldn't make myself do what I wanted to do, though I could easily do what my mother wanted me to do. Maybe I was destined to be a "yes" person for all eternity. I probably didn't even have a soul, not that I knew what one was.
    "Mirror," I forced out. I wasn't sure what else to add.
    "Your mother said that you were trying to cause yourself a brain haemorrhage in order to commit suicide. Is that true?"
    I didn't dare move my head, and I didn't dare disobey my mother. I didn't want me to be taken away from her and my father because she abused me. But she wasn't abusing me. She was forcing me to face myself, and maybe I felt the pain because facing myself hurt me. Maybe I really had just imagined Mama slamming my head against the mirror. Maybe I had just imagined my father calling out my mother's name, asking rhetorically what she was doing. Maybe all that was my mind at work, my imagination at its most extraordinary. Maybe I had slammed my own head against the mirror. Maybe I did want to have a brain haemorrhage and die.
    Once again, I didn't know what was real anymore.
    "Yes," I replied. I had taken awhile to answer that question, and I hoped that the doctor took that as a sign of me taking my time to admit to my own suicide attempt.
    "Well, we've had trouble getting you back to health," Dr Rajah informed me. "You had glass embedded in your forehead, and you were bleeding from various cuts, but we've extracted all of the glass, and you should recover well."
    Recover well? What did that mean? I was alive, so was that what he meant by recover well? Maybe it just meant that my bandages would be removed with time.
    "However, you have been scarred, Layla. Scars don't really heal, you know?"
    "I know," I said blankly, automated like a computer-programmed robot. But I really was listening to what he was telling me. I just chose to go about it expressionlessly. It's what my mother would have wanted me to do. I could act. I didn't have any awards to speak of, but the whole world was a stage.
    "We had to shave off part of your hair to treat your wounds," he continued. "But that should grow back soon."
    "I know," I repeated, my voice at a very low tone, the way it always went when I didn't speak much.
    "We're going to have to send someone from the psych ward down to talk to you."
    "I understand."
    "Good." He paused for a moment. "Would you like to see your parents?"
    I actually had to think for that one. I didn't want to see either of them ever again, but the sooner I did, the sooner I would be allowed out of hospital. But wouldn't hospital be a much better location for me to live in, as opposed to the tension of my mother's house? But the longer I stayed here, the longer I would be prolonging the inevitable. I had to move on… it's what my mother would have wanted, and darn I ever to have an original thought.
    "Whatever will make me leave the hospital faster," I answered.
    "Alright." He smiled. "Your mother is waiting here. I'll send her in, and I'll organise you an appointment with a psychiatrist."
    "Thank you, doctor," I said mechanically. Politeness…
    "Always be polite to everyone you meet… Keep everyone on your side, and then you'll live your life freely…"
    I pushed my mother's words out of her head. But what would I know about living life freely?
    I watched him leave the room, and as soon as Dr Rajah left my vision, I clenched my eyelids shut, and tried not to cry. The clenching had the tape of my forehead bandage stretching, so I immediately released the tension, though I kept my eyes closed. Had to breathe carefully. Had to open my eyes to show no sign of weakness when my mother arrived. It was all about strength. But what could I ever say to her? I could remain mute, never saying another word to anyone ever again.
    But what would I say to the psychiatrist? I was so out of touch with reality that I didn't even know if Mama had really hurt me, or if I had been violent with myself.
    "Layla! Oh, my poor baby…"
    I opened my eyes, kept my expression blank and made no reaction to my mother's cooing.
    She came right up to me, sat down next to me on the mattress and pulled me to her in a hug that I did not return. "It's alright, darling, I'm here for you now…"
    "I'll leave you to it," I heard Dr Rajah say. I couldn't see him because all I could see was my mother's woollen long-sleeved top. I heard the sound of the door shut firmly.
    My mother kept me in a hug. "You're a good girl, Layla, such a good girl telling the truth," she told me.
    The truth? Did that mean that I really had attempted suicide? Or was she playing mind games?
    "It's alright, we'll get you the help you need, and we'll help you get you back on track." She pulled away slightly, so that she could look at my face. "Your father and I love you very much. It takes a lot of courage to admit your faults, and you've done it, Layla. You confirmed to that doctor that you attempted suicide, so now it won't take you long at all to admit to all your faults, and then you'll get the help you need to have you grow up right."
    "Grow up right?" I echoed in question.
    "That's right." She held me to her again, and I could smell the roses clearly. "You're thirteen, Layla, but women usually grow to be eighty, at least. You've got plenty of time to blossom." Her voice shifted to a whisper. "And we'll see about having those scars removed with surgery, don't you worry. Of course, we'll have to wait until it's time to take your bandages off first…"
    I tuned out, but I knew she continued to ramble on. I actually wanted to keep my scars. I wanted to use them as a reminder of my faults. I had to promise myself that I would never attempt suicide again, for it would fail, just like this attempt.
    I actually believed now that I had turned suicidal. It wasn't a possibility to rule out - it was certainly possible, and I could have actually done it. Or Mama had done it. It could've gone either way, but I liked to think that I was so psychologically advanced that I could convince myself that someone else had abused me when I had really abused myself. The thought of that was absolutely fascinating, and I marvelled at my own mind power. Here I was, finally good at something, and something that my mother didn't view as a "fault." She was proud of me now, proud of what I was almost certain I had done.
    My mother could love me again! I had always loved her, but maybe along the way she had lost love for me, but now it would be back and stronger than ever.
    "We're going to have to pull you out of public school, of course," she said to me now. "After all, it would be painfully embarrassing for you to be around your peers after this incident." She pulled away from me, and sighed, sadness on her face. "You're only thirteen, and your peers would have so much trouble trying to understand why you tried to commit suicide… God knows this country has had far too many youth suicides. You don't know how relieved I am to actually have you alive with me now! If you had been home alone…"
    She couldn't have been acting… could she? If she had, wouldn't she just keep up the façade for the public, and be truthful with me?
    Suddenly, I was aware of the pains in my stomach and my back, and I could feel a thick wetness down near my vagina, on the bed sheets beneath me. I was bleeding. This had been the thing that had got to me so much, I remembered. This bleeding had come upon me, and I had talked to my mother about it.
    Then hormones must've caused my wild emotions to go out of control, and so devastated was I by this new bodily change that I had attempted suicide…
    Or was I just playing mind games with myself?
    "Mama… it hurts," I whimpered.
    "Your head, honey?" she asked, seeming concerned.
    "No… down there."
    "Oh? Oh, dear, I know it hurts," she told me, understanding what I was telling her. "I have things in my handbag for you. I'll go get a nurse to bring around a bucket of water or something, and I'll help clean you up, okay, darling? Don't you worry a thing, Layla, Mama's here for you, and your father and I love you very much…"
    Mama was here, and she loved me. She was proud of me, and she loved me. She would take care of me, and she loved me. Finally, I was on track with her! We were in tune now. She could really be my mother, and I could really be her daughter. I knew I had caused her so much disappointment, but that wouldn't be so anymore.
    It was only a shame that an incident such as this had to happen in order to bring us together. I still didn't understand what had been so terrible as to bring me to attempt suicide…
    It seemed I was endlessly going to ask myself this over and over. Had I really tried to hurt myself so badly, or had my pain been brought upon by my mother's hand? Why, why was I doubting myself… or why was I doubting my mother? Why did I have to doubt anyone? Why did there have to be reasons for what had happened? Why couldn't I just say that somehow my head had had glass embedded in it, it was spotted with bandages now and I was scarred? I was scarred on my forehead, and with the bandages off soon, people would see the scars, and wonder to themselves, "Whatever happened to that girl? Was she abused, or did she do that herself? It's a real shame, the youth of today…"
    Stop that! I yelled to myself. Stop doing this to yourself. Give yourself a break from all this psychological torment.
    It seemed that someone would always be playing with me, whether it be someone else, or my very own self.
    Would these mind games ever stop?

CHAPTER THREE: MAN OVERBOARD

Life was peaceful after that. To the public eye, we were a perfect family, with two parents dedicated to their daughter and family life, as well as to their careers. And I was a "delight" to all who met me; "winning over" the many people I was introduced to.
    But it was all too superficial.
    I learnt this when I was fourteen. We were hosting a gathering on a "floating restaurant" - a restaurant on a boat that went around on the water, and came back to the starting dock when the evening was through. We were hosting a celebration for an awards nomination my father and his working partner had received. The film was of the "art house" variety, a dark tale set in a Gothic atmosphere with a family being slowly torn apart. I had seen it, and I'd actually liked it.
    My father drove us to Williamstown, where the dock was, in one of Saab's newest models, the metallic silver glittering as we passed by streetlamps. I knew the A-list - the A-list of Australia, and perhaps New Zealand, anyway - would be here, and so would a few select members of the media. I would have to smile all evening, making small talk with people I couldn't care less about. I hated this. I had been to evenings like this before, had even attended awards ceremonies, such as the Australian Film Industry Awards, and the BAFTAs in Britain and the Oscars in America. I rarely ever payed attention to what was happening. I got bored with extravagance, the time wasting and delaying, the speeches that were so horrendously long… it was enough to make any real person want to sleep for an eternity.
    "Layla," my mother called softly from the front passenger seat of the car. She turned her head to the right to look over her shoulder at me, her white satin hair following.
    "Yes?" I replied quietly.
    She smiled gently. "Try to smile tonight, won't you, dear?"
    And so to show her, my smile was minimal, lips closed, with only the very corners raised upwards.
    "You'll have to do a bit more than that, but you're making a good start."
    She was being encouraging. This was the way things had evolved over the past year. She didn't hassle me, but went around her requests with seemingly kind-heartedness. Mama had known me long enough to know that I would never respond to force - if force were required, I would be silent, and I would take the force. Gentle requests, with perhaps a "please" thrown in for good measure, and I would respond, usually positively. It was an unspoken arrangement between us… and it meant that I had some sort of power, a foreign concept in regards to myself.
    Mama turned her head back to face the front, and I saw a cringe come on as she did so. She tried to hide it from me, but I knew it, I could see it glinting at me like a gold dollar coin on the ground. I picked up on it. I knew what her problem was. She didn't like my scars… my obvious, in-your-face scars.
    Dr Rajah hadn't been lying when he'd said there'd be scarring. This was permanent scarring from which I couldn't escape, and my mother certainly could not. My scars were like part of a stamp collection, each with its own separate colour. I had looked at myself in the mirror regularly since that fateful day, and I had seen my scars as the bandages were removed. I had white scars, pink scars and red scars in various positions on my skull, with a good section of them on my forehead, and there were a few tiny white ones of my cheeks where splinters of glass had attacked.
    They were the first things people noticed about me when they saw me. I could see people's eyes instantly flock to the reddish scars on my forehead, feasting on them like the Last Supper. They wouldn't say anything, though. In fact, they steadily avoided talking about me at all. People tended to avoid me at all costs. They knew what I was… or at least they knew what they'd read and been told. My parents had informed people that my scars were the result of an "unfortunate accident," though that "unfortunate accident" was not described at all. But I had heard the whispers, I had read the newspapers, I had seen enough television to know what the public thought - I had attempted suicide. Child abuse never once was mentioned. How could it be mentioned, as I had parents of such angelic virtues?
    I exited the car with them. I had looked at myself for a long time in the full-length mirror - which had replaced the old one - on my mother's bedroom door. I had seen my non-descript features and noticeable scars. My mother had tried to smother them with foundation and concealer, but I wouldn't let her touch my face. I wouldn't let anyone touch my face… not that anyone had really tried, of course.
    Mama had called for her stylist to make a home call, and tend to myself as well as to she. And so Marina Koslevska had gone to work on my hair, saturating it with endless washes of moisturising, fortifying shampoos, conditioners and treatments. We were in my mother's private bathroom, and all the while she sat on the edge of the spa-bath while my hair was washed in the sink.
    "How about some mahogany highlights?" Marina had turned to ask her, holding some wet locks of my hair in her hand.
    Mama tilted her head to one side, a thoughtful expression on her face as she examined me with magnifying eyes. "That would go well with her skin tone…"
    "No," I spoke up. "Just leave me be."
    Although I was still quite passive, I wanted my faults to be on display, to remind me, to remind my mother, of what had happened one year ago. Even if my hair were nothing special, it would remain nothing special.
    Of course, Marina was the one to make the decision, considering she had my hair in her hands, and the showerhead nozzle wasn't far away. She could easily drown me in the sink if she really wanted to… or my mother could…
    I didn't get my way in this matter. And I didn't try too hard, for fear of drowning. Instead, I was a mere passenger as Marina applied the cream that contained the chemicals that would give my hair a "lift," as she called it. "And make sure she uses that treatment on the bench there every day - it'll help stop split ends, and over time it will give her hair a glossy shine," she said to my mother. I might as well have been a robot that they could programme to obey. This was playing pretend for adults.
    I had a feeling my mother would accompany me to every hair washing I had while she was still in our state of Victoria.
    After the cream had spent its time in my hair and was washed out, they decided that my hair would need a cut. At this stage, my mind was turned off, and I let everything happen without a single sound of disagreement.
    "Not a full cut," my mother spoke. "I'm thinking just a trim to get rid of those split ends, and then let the hair grow… midway down her back?"
    "Mm," Marina agreed. "Good for outdoors in a gentle breeze, dancing in the wind… very arty."
    My mother had pre-selected my outfit for the evening. She had been keeping a close tab on my eating and exercise habits, noticed if my clothes hung off me or needed more room. Therefore, when she handed me my garment to wear, it fit perfectly - too perfectly - as did the shoes.
    The dress wasn't too extravagant - and it was very easy to look too extravagant when one was fourteen. The dress was midnight blue satin, and hung straight from my hips to my ankles. It was tight around the front (which was what my mother wanted - though my breasts were small, she wanted them to be somewhat outlined… but the garment was so that it didn't make me look like a teenage whore), and was halter style - there was a bangle around the neck that held the dress on, and the bangle could come unclasped for easy removal. The footwear was like the ruby-red shoes in The Wizard of Oz, though mine matched the colour of my outfit.
    Once blown-dry to Mama's idea of perfection, Marina twisted my hair up in a fashion so elegant that I would not be able to try it myself later - the twist I could figure out, but how to clasp it in place was beyond my knowledge. The two of them debated over makeup, something that I'd always resented. Makeup was for the superficial; those who wanted to appear not as they truly were. I held most of the world's females in disregard, for even a hint of mascara or lip colour was enough to have me disrespectful of them. Maybe I was just difficult to impress. But at least no one could ever accuse me of being cheap, though some may have viewed me as uptight.
    Blue eye shadow to match my clothing would not match my eye colour, but green eye shadow wouldn't match my clothing. They insisted on applying layers of foundation and concealer, but I tried to leave the room, and shrieked hysterically when either of them attempted to touch my face. They knew then that I was serious. I thought that they both believed me to be a madwoman, someone to be wary of. It was a well-known stereotype that people with scars weren't quite on the level. Even if the people were perfectly kind, and the scars had come from some dreadful accident out of their control, there were still people who were nervous around them. And as a Scarred One, I could frighten people with a scowl, or just unsettle them with a blank expression. Even a smile from me would make them wonder what I was hiding, what evilness was I planning. Though I didn't quite know whether this was because of my scars, or just my dourness at times. I could be most lively when I wanted to be, however.
    I followed my parents with my chin held up, with a slight smile upon my face. My satin-covered pocketbook, whose braided long cotton handle I had hooked around my head so that the pocketbook brushed against my right hip, was close against me. I had everything in place, and I smiled more widely when people came by to greet us as we walked towards the docked boat that contained the floating restaurant, and I softly greeted people once spoken to, or when my parents introduced me.
    We were a tight-knit group of three once the boat had set sail, and we were in a large dining area. As I ate risotto, I looked around, while keeping a close ear on conversation, just in case I was mentioned, or if my parents - for some wild reason - wanted to include me. The three of us were on the long table down the centre of the room, the oak table seating at least twenty. Sitting directly opposite us were my father's work partner and his wife and son. Joachim Pettersson was in his late thirties, and he had married young. Both he and his wife Eva were Swedish. Joachim had been a film student in California, and Eva had been an au pair there when they had met. My father had been Joachim's teacher, and they continued on to become work partners. Eva stayed in Stockholm mostly, and their son was born and raised there. Like me, Anders Pettersson lived his life comfortably in his native country.
    I knew Anders particularly well. We had attended many functions that our parents had taken us to, and usually we were the only people there our age. I felt comfortable in his presence, and we always found something to laugh about, whatever the conversation. However, we'd have been in serious trouble with our parents if they were ever to hear what we talked about. We were judgmental of everyone around us, and we commented when we had privacy.
    I hadn't seen Anders in over a year. My parents had kept me out of the public spotlight mostly since "my scarring," as I referred to the event. He was about two years older than myself, and he was growing a lot faster than I was. But I was still fourteen, so my time would be coming soon. He'd always been big on sports, mainly soccer and ice hockey, and it was evident. As the years went on, the competition in sport grew tougher, and he'd clearly added more to his training programme since I'd last seen him. He had the healthy glow of someone who enjoyed the sun, though that golden colour could've been due to good genes. His white-blond hair was cut short, the colour reverent of my mother's, thanks to her Scandinavian background. Anders resembled his father more than his mother, for Eva was actually a Swedish brunette, and not stereotypically white-blond like her husband and son were. Eva was also extremely short, but in a pretty, dainty way that people described as petite, and the men in her life towered over her. Anders was also myopic like his father, and both wore glasses whose frames resembled miniature speedways, with black, thin-rimmed rounded edges. And he still had a ready smile that he shot my way across the table.
    I fleetingly wondered if it was possible that he had not noticed my scars. Surely they were like neon under the gentle amber lighting, glaringly garish and hideous… just the way I liked them. With most people, I noticed as their eyes flicked upwards to my forehead, and then flicked away rapidly. I looked most people in the eye, which was how I could tell. My mother almost always looked people in the eye, so I did, too. Yet, at this dining table, I never noticed Anders' eyes flick to view the "modern art" upon my forehead. However, I was paying attention to my meal, while keeping my ears in action.
    After dinner, dessert and the numerous speeches, my family and I split. Anders and I sat outside on a small bench, watching the water of the Port Phillip Bay, and catching up on what we'd been up to in the past year. He never once asked me about my scars, and I never mentioned them. Instead, I told about moving from a public school to a private school. I mentioned participating in a small, local drama production of Les Miserables, something that my parents had been rather proud of. He told me that he was thinking of joining a cross-country skiing group soon, and could drop ice hockey instead.
    I enjoyed listening to him speak. I had a particular interest in foreign accents for they hinted escape, escape from where I felt trapped. They held promises of other places out in the world, where freedom could be found alongside kindness and goodwill. They held undertones of serenity and peace. At least, that was the impression I got from the Swedish accent that all three of the Petterssons had. The Australian accent that I and my fellow country folk had symbolised fun and friendship and general liveliness, but not something to be taken seriously. Perhaps the world's people viewed us as one big joke, something to criticise behind turned backs. If you wanted a good time, you could always have us, but what else were we good for?
    Our discussion was answered by a heavy splashing sound, coming from the other side of the boat. Anders and I both instinctively stood, and we soon heard the clacking of heels along the decking. We followed the direction of the sounds, and soon heard a scream. We arrived at the scene to see other people crowding my mother, who must've been the one to let out the sound of fear. She burst into hysterical tears, and murmured words that had me quivering in my shoes.
    "Grant… I thought I saw him out here, and… then he…" She almost choked on her tears, or were they her words? "He jumped!"
    I was emotionless. This was my way of coping with the bad things in life. Don't let anyone know you're suffering… Mama's advice from a supposedly forgotten time came back to flood my ears in waves. I let myself be swept away by those waves, let them carry me to where I was no longer a bystander, but drifting to nowhere in particular.
    "Launch the anchor!"
    "Call the water police!"
    "Get her a blanket!"
    I could hear the voices, yet I didn't move to make a sound. How could I? There wasn't anything I could do, really. Other people could take care of the requests random voices had called out. I could slip away into the night's darkness, and there'd be none the wiser. I didn't really have a reason for being here this evening, other than appearing dutiful to my parents.
    I felt the boat stop suddenly, and I gripped onto the boat's guardrail. The anchor must've been thrown. I saw men wearing bright yellow lifejackets over their eveningwear climb over the guardrail and launch themselves into the unclear water below. A woman with a torch shone the light onto the water, following along the guardrail onboard, trying to spot a body. The men in the bay swam in the direction we'd come from. In the distance, I could see a speedboat coming nearby, and as it came past, I saw that it was a police boat, with people shining torchlight over the water, a lifesaver ring and rope in hand. One of them, lifejacket securely on, fell deliberately backwards into the water to go on a search. They were all a bit of a distance away now, but I could see splashing going on. Soon, almost incredibly, I saw three life-jacketed figures lift a thoroughly saturated tuxedo-wearing form onto the police boat. From there, the boat sped back in the direction of the dock.
    "Layla!" I heard my mother tearfully cry.
    I immediately went to her open arms, and we held each other as she muffled sobs in my shoulder. She trembled all the while, and soon I felt a blanket being wrapped around us. A long time later, she parted the hug, and she led the way inside again. I silently thanked people for having the tact not to bother us. The boat had been moving again for a while now, and I knew we were going straight to the dock. This evening was certainly over.
    As we sat in our quiet corner, her tears having lessened now, Mama cleaned her face with tissues and murmured to me, "Why aren't you crying?"
    I didn't know what to say. "What… what d… what do you mean?" I asked fearfully, hesitating. I knew that I had done something wrong in her eyes.
    "This is your father, Layla… why aren't you crying for him?"
    "He's not dead," I said softly.
    She glared at me, straight in the eyes. "What makes you think that? He jumped overboard, Layla. No one pushed him." She sighed huffily. "If he's not dead, he at least tried to kill himself. Doesn't that bother you at all, or are you the same emotionless bitch you've always been?"
    My first move was to look around frantically, to see if there was even the possibility of anyone hearing that sentence. There was a dull murmur all around the room, glamorously dressed people in clusters, clearly discussing what had happened to my father.
    "You probably drove him to this, you know?" she added. "You know you're to blame for your own scars, but you don't hide them. You want to rub them in my face, want to bring this family down. We're well-respected people, Layla, but you keep trying to destroy us. I thought we'd made progress over the last year, but you were clearly setting things up for a big finale. Well, is this it? Is this what you wanted, driving Grant Westfeld, famed film producer, to his fate? You like having people kill themselves, Layla? You like seeing horror and destruction and death all around you? Is this what you wanted?" she repeated, her words grating me into slivers.
    "We're docked!" I heard a voice call from outside. Movement followed, everyone making their way to the nearest exit to leave this prison. I stood up to follow them, and I felt Mama's hand grab a handful of my dress.
    "Watch your back, Layla," I hear her say in a low, husky voice, with a vicious undertone screaming decibels into my ears.

Incomplete

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