Please, bear with me.
The story I am about to tell you is not an easy one. Very little joy and innocence for the taking there, lots of darkness and ignorance. And if you really mean to ask, the worst part is not about the events: it's about the people who are involved. I should know that since this story is the story of my very life.
My name is Melanie White, a name whose irony has taunted me throughout a long but fortunately now ending existence. Little people really know what Melanie means - in the etymological sense, I reckon. Tough luck for me, my parents were part of that ignorant bunch and I ended up with the most antithetic combination of first and last names that ever was. Looking back now, it turns out that there could not have been a more perfect fit to describe the living paradox that I was and still am today. Not for long, thank Evil.
I was about to turn fourteen when my unusual nature started to manifest itself. I was reaching that age where most of my peers were inconvenienced by acne and other minor physical disruptions triggered by a more complex, deeper metamorphosis. For some time, the change in me wasn't as obvious as it was in others. I remember that special guy, Robert Onyk was his name except everybody called him Bob Zits. Poor Bob also had the bad fortune to have terrible breath which made his life even more miserable.
You know how children can be cruel: I'm ashamed to say that I was no exception to that rule. If I had known what was about to happen to me, had I had the slightest hint of the upcoming and overwhelming events I was about to live and barely survive, then never would I have encouraged the jokes and pranks directed at Bob. Because I would have realised that he and I were a lot more alike than I first thought. But silly teenager that I was, indoctrinated in the comforting sulkiness of mockery, I laughed and pointed my finger. And believe me, I paid double price for that later on.
As for Bob, he commited suicide the eve of his fifteenth birthday.
I warned you, this story is no fairytale.
***
Shortly after the passing of Bob Onyk which was due, according to the coroner, to a combination of low self-esteem and excessive sensibility, I began to change. A thing I know for sure is that there was no direct correlation between these two events although they were close enough in time. The main reason for that certainty, as eery and shocking as it may sound, is as deep and dark as the true cause of Bob's death, a collective murder perpetrated by a throng of teenagers hooked up on hormons. Even though we had pushed him over the edge - or into the clearing at the end of the path as you'd prefer to put it - even though I was a passive but sentient accomplice in his tragedy, I felt absolutely no guilt.
No, the trigger to my metamorphosis was encoded in my genes which made every counter effort vain in nature. At first, my parents and I thought that I had come down with a bad case of chickenpox. This preliminary diagnostic turned out to be an utter understatement when my bones started to grow in peculiar directions. To no avail, I was passed under the scrutiny of sophisticated tests and examined by the most eminent specialists. Nobody, no matter how smart or dedicated, seemed to be able to understand, let alone explain, what was cooking under my skin. The pain was excruciating both physically and mentally and after a while, I started to see everyone losing hope for me. In my delirium, I was babbling nonsensical sentences which seemed to come out of my mouth directly from an alien world. But as I learned a few days later, after I met Scipio, this verbal diarrhea had a hidden signification and was only part of the change operating in me, a change that would have killed me if it wasn't for a less than divine intervention.
I would have died that day if Scipio hadn't shown up out of nowhere, that day I was turned into a female demon.
There, I said it. How's that for therapy?
***
So there was I, lying on my hospital bed, eyes fixed on the white ceiling, my body and mind burning from inside, waiting for the time when I would miss the strength to inhale that last but necessary gulp of aseptic air. My parents were discussing in a corner of the room, trying to make up their mind on whether or not they should get a priest for me. They had just decided they would which was certainly not going to help, when Scipio came in, his eyes the same faded shade of grey as his tired raincoat. My father was on the phone talking to the receptionist at the hospital's chapel so it was my mother who dealt with our impromptu guest.
"Can I help you?
- No Madam, but I can. I know exactly what is happening to your daughter for having experienced it myself.
- Are you a doctor?
- No, but as I told you, I am very familiar with this situation.
- I'm sorry Sir, but if you are not medically qualified, I will have to ask you out.
- I understand your reticence, but you must believe me, for the sake of your own child. I've come a long way for her and if you would just let me...
- Now this is enough, someone interrupted. It was my father with that tone of firm resignation I only knew too well. These may be the last moments we will ever spend with our daugther and we won't let them be taken away from us by a perfect stranger, no matter how far he comes from. The priest is on is way up so you must leave now or I will call hospital security.
At the mention of the name of the divine emissary, I saw rage flooding Scipio's face, murder filling his eyes. Although I shouldn't have - it was really too early for me to hold any kind of grudge against a man of the church - I resented his hate almost empathetically. Slowly but firmly, his anger turned into resignation and he talked his last words to my parents:
- I'm afraid you don't understand and I apologize for what I am about to do, but one day you'll realize that I was only acting in good faith."
He raised his hand up to his forehead and opened his mouth wide as if crying in pain. Hit by the inaudible ultrasounds, I saw my parents and the nurse collapse to the ground before Scipion spread his bat-like wings and took me into the night breaking out of the window of the 19th floor.
This was my first encounter with my mentor and my first experience of the underworld.
One of many to come.
***
As we were flying over the lake, hidden in the darkness, I lost consciousness. My worn out body had had its count and for some strange reason, I was feeling safe flying in Scipion's arms. Safer that is. A few hours later, I can't tell exactly how many, an uproaring stench forced me back to reality. I was lying on a moldy couch and the bouquet in question was coming from the little kitchenette where my abductor was as busy as a green fly on a fresh cow pie. His chest was bare, his raincoat lying on the floor, leaving his skinny pale wings exposed. I took a moment to look at him, at the way he was built, and noticed a few details about his extraordinary anatomy that I hadn't had time to fully consider before we escaped into the night. His ashy complexion made him look sick and his grey eyes made him look dead. In some places, the diaphanous skin joining his ridiculously long phalanges had been punctured so he was surrounded by a strange weaving of light.
"What are you? I asked.
- You're awake. Good, this means that you're getting better already.
- No really what are you?
- Do you want the scientific or the religious explanation?
- What about both? I don't think there can be too much information in this situation as I am completely clueless.
- OK, here's the deal. You eat that soup I prepared for you and while you do that, I'll tell you everything.
- You call that stinky mix a soup.
- Magic soup, recommended by the doctor.
- I thought you were no doctor.
- Not in the world of humans but here, I'm as close to a doctor as you will get.
- And in which world exactly are we supposed to be?
- Just eat the soup and I'll explain.
So while I was sipping at the revolting mixture trying not to barf on the already disgusting furniture, Scipio started my initiation.
The story I am about to tell you is not an easy one. Very little joy and innocence for the taking there, lots of darkness and ignorance. And if you really mean to ask, the worst part is not about the events: it's about the people who are involved. I should know that since this story is the story of my very life.
My name is Melanie White, a name whose irony has taunted me throughout a long but fortunately now ending existence. Little people really know what Melanie means - in the etymological sense, I reckon. Tough luck for me, my parents were part of that ignorant bunch and I ended up with the most antithetic combination of first and last names that ever was. Looking back now, it turns out that there could not have been a more perfect fit to describe the living paradox that I was and still am today. Not for long, thank Evil.
I was about to turn fourteen when my unusual nature started to manifest itself. I was reaching that age where most of my peers were inconvenienced by acne and other minor physical disruptions triggered by a more complex, deeper metamorphosis. For some time, the change in me wasn't as obvious as it was in others. I remember that special guy, Robert Onyk was his name except everybody called him Bob Zits. Poor Bob also had the bad fortune to have terrible breath which made his life even more miserable.
You know how children can be cruel: I'm ashamed to say that I was no exception to that rule. If I had known what was about to happen to me, had I had the slightest hint of the upcoming and overwhelming events I was about to live and barely survive, then never would I have encouraged the jokes and pranks directed at Bob. Because I would have realised that he and I were a lot more alike than I first thought. But silly teenager that I was, indoctrinated in the comforting sulkiness of mockery, I laughed and pointed my finger. And believe me, I paid double price for that later on.
As for Bob, he commited suicide the eve of his fifteenth birthday.
I warned you, this story is no fairytale.
Shortly after the passing of Bob Onyk which was due, according to the coroner, to a combination of low self-esteem and excessive sensibility, I began to change. A thing I know for sure is that there was no direct correlation between these two events although they were close enough in time. The main reason for that certainty, as eery and shocking as it may sound, is as deep and dark as the true cause of Bob's death, a collective murder perpetrated by a throng of teenagers hooked up on hormons. Even though we had pushed him over the edge - or into the clearing at the end of the path as you'd prefer to put it - even though I was a passive but sentient accomplice in his tragedy, I felt absolutely no guilt.
No, the trigger to my metamorphosis was encoded in my genes which made every counter effort vain in nature. At first, my parents and I thought that I had come down with a bad case of chickenpox. This preliminary diagnostic turned out to be an utter understatement when my bones started to grow in peculiar directions. To no avail, I was passed under the scrutiny of sophisticated tests and examined by the most eminent specialists. Nobody, no matter how smart or dedicated, seemed to be able to understand, let alone explain, what was cooking under my skin. The pain was excruciating both physically and mentally and after a while, I started to see everyone losing hope for me. In my delirium, I was babbling nonsensical sentences which seemed to come out of my mouth directly from an alien world. But as I learned a few days later, after I met Scipio, this verbal diarrhea had a hidden signification and was only part of the change operating in me, a change that would have killed me if it wasn't for a less than divine intervention.
I would have died that day if Scipio hadn't shown up out of nowhere, that day I was turned into a female demon.
There, I said it. How's that for therapy?
So there was I, lying on my hospital bed, eyes fixed on the white ceiling, my body and mind burning from inside, waiting for the time when I would miss the strength to inhale that last but necessary gulp of aseptic air. My parents were discussing in a corner of the room, trying to make up their mind on whether or not they should get a priest for me. They had just decided they would which was certainly not going to help, when Scipio came in, his eyes the same faded shade of grey as his tired raincoat. My father was on the phone talking to the receptionist at the hospital's chapel so it was my mother who dealt with our impromptu guest.
"Can I help you?
- No Madam, but I can. I know exactly what is happening to your daughter for having experienced it myself.
- Are you a doctor?
- No, but as I told you, I am very familiar with this situation.
- I'm sorry Sir, but if you are not medically qualified, I will have to ask you out.
- I understand your reticence, but you must believe me, for the sake of your own child. I've come a long way for her and if you would just let me...
- Now this is enough, someone interrupted. It was my father with that tone of firm resignation I only knew too well. These may be the last moments we will ever spend with our daugther and we won't let them be taken away from us by a perfect stranger, no matter how far he comes from. The priest is on is way up so you must leave now or I will call hospital security.
At the mention of the name of the divine emissary, I saw rage flooding Scipio's face, murder filling his eyes. Although I shouldn't have - it was really too early for me to hold any kind of grudge against a man of the church - I resented his hate almost empathetically. Slowly but firmly, his anger turned into resignation and he talked his last words to my parents:
- I'm afraid you don't understand and I apologize for what I am about to do, but one day you'll realize that I was only acting in good faith."
He raised his hand up to his forehead and opened his mouth wide as if crying in pain. Hit by the inaudible ultrasounds, I saw my parents and the nurse collapse to the ground before Scipion spread his bat-like wings and took me into the night breaking out of the window of the 19th floor.
This was my first encounter with my mentor and my first experience of the underworld.
One of many to come.
As we were flying over the lake, hidden in the darkness, I lost consciousness. My worn out body had had its count and for some strange reason, I was feeling safe flying in Scipion's arms. Safer that is. A few hours later, I can't tell exactly how many, an uproaring stench forced me back to reality. I was lying on a moldy couch and the bouquet in question was coming from the little kitchenette where my abductor was as busy as a green fly on a fresh cow pie. His chest was bare, his raincoat lying on the floor, leaving his skinny pale wings exposed. I took a moment to look at him, at the way he was built, and noticed a few details about his extraordinary anatomy that I hadn't had time to fully consider before we escaped into the night. His ashy complexion made him look sick and his grey eyes made him look dead. In some places, the diaphanous skin joining his ridiculously long phalanges had been punctured so he was surrounded by a strange weaving of light.
"What are you? I asked.
- You're awake. Good, this means that you're getting better already.
- No really what are you?
- Do you want the scientific or the religious explanation?
- What about both? I don't think there can be too much information in this situation as I am completely clueless.
- OK, here's the deal. You eat that soup I prepared for you and while you do that, I'll tell you everything.
- You call that stinky mix a soup.
- Magic soup, recommended by the doctor.
- I thought you were no doctor.
- Not in the world of humans but here, I'm as close to a doctor as you will get.
- And in which world exactly are we supposed to be?
- Just eat the soup and I'll explain.
So while I was sipping at the revolting mixture trying not to barf on the already disgusting furniture, Scipio started my initiation.
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