Title: Preservation
Author: Kourion
Authors notes: please be advised that the style of writing used in this chapter is deliberately…child-like in tone, as to convey the thoughts/ feelings/ confusion of a child undergoing sexual abuse. Additionally, abused children often regress during periods of abuse, and so Cassie's language and references were kept deliberately immature. At the same time, even in canon, Cassie speaks and acts bizarrely – although this take on her past is just one take which I feel could help explain her issues with self-harm, disordered eating and flirtations with suicide.
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Second Chapter
i am seven.
When I was a very tiny girl, I was terrified of the dark.
I found it to be suffocating… like a quilt with no end, compressing my spirit and ironing out my lungs like a steamroller, until no air remained.
I'd wake up and gasp – mouth opening and closing like a beached water creature struggling to breathe. Gasp, gasp, gasp.
The dark would scare me, I think, because I wouldn't be able to get away. Sometimes I would see things move – like birds that turned to bats and would sit on my desk. And the bats would stare at me with their beady eyes and I'd scream.
Shapes, too, would be altered in the charcoal blackness, and I'd cower under my blankets, tapping my tiny cold feet against the white iron bed frame until welts would raise up on my ankles.
Mummy would come as soon as I'd scream, because she was the only one who could get rid of shadows, and if she didn't, the McGregor's next door would complain about "that poor, disturbed child," and daddy would hiss at her… hiss, hiss, hiss – like a snake, and the Grown-up hugs would stop.
So mummy would always come, and she would be red faced and sticky smelling from the hugging, until I'd point at some item that had moved. A chair, maybe, or my jumper. And mummy would get angry. Not in a SURFACE angry way, because she was mummy, and she only got angry in a quiet way.
Although you could sense that she was angry, because the waterfall of anger would be shusssssshing out her words and I just. Always. Knew.
"Cassie, darling. You're seven years old now. That's not a baby now…is it poppet?"
I'd shake my head – no – no, I'm not a baby.
But my face would show my fear, and she couldn't ignore my pleas. Not when I was seven.
Flick, flick, flick, flick – sizzle, pop. On would turn the lights, the bulbs, the lamps in the room, and the hallway lights too - making everything even more unreal than the darkness had been with its soft moonlight and starlight beams.
"See poppet? Nothing bad in the room, lovey. Nothing at all. Can we go back to sleep now?"
And I'd grin a gap-toothed grin. Embarrassed, I'd reach for my blanket, and unravel the blue silk thread until mummy would remove it from my hands, kiss my eyes, my eyelashes, and the tip of my nose.
"One kiss for Cassie's nose. One for each eye, and a smoochy one for her cheeks."
I'd laugh – the fear temporarily gone, and mummy would flounce out of the room. If it wasn't too late, daddy and mummy would begin their hugging again, and I'd listen to them hug really fast like adults do…and the bed would hit the wall, and mummy's oooooh marcus, ooooooh yes!'es would start, and I would count the taps, and fall asleep to the taps, and the counting would keep me from getting scared.
i am eight.
Sometimes I would get SO scared that I wouldn't be able to breathe at all, and then the room would grow swirly and strange, and I'd see little lights ping, ping, pinging in my skull. The little lights would hit my brain and bounce around like baby electric ping-pong balls and drive the bats away, and the lights would even scare off the trees that moved closer to my window, with their branches coming out to choke me. Even when the trees started to look like men with wicked, hollow eyes – even then the lights would cause me to go away, and then I'd wake up and not be afraid anymore.
And so I hated the lights and loved the lights all at once. Because the trees and the bats and the shadow monsters couldn't come when the came into my head and made everything else fuzzy. But when it was dark, and the lights didn't come - the trees would turn to men, and the men would turn to shadow monsters, and the shadow monsters would come to eat parts of me. Not all of me, but little tastes… enough to hurt my skin and make me want to cry.
When I told mummy about the lights that would go off in my brain now, when I tried not TO think of the shadow monster – she got REALLY upset. And daddy even got MAD when I told her that the lights were not nearly as scary as the bats or the trees that could move little bits between when you closed your eyes and when you'd open them again.
I remember that mummy started begging me to stop telling fibs – over and over, "stop LYING to me, Cassandra!" – even though I kept telling her I was not telling any fibs, and then I got angry so fast that I screamed and chucked my Bunnikins plate with the Bunnikins spoon against the wall, and the milk and porridge went splat against the wall, and then mummy started crying so much that daddy took her out of the room.
After that, daddy and mummy took me to the Children's Hospital in Cardiff, and I saw gazillion regular doctors in total, and at least three special fancy brain doctors called neurologists.
I later went to other clinics, too – all the way in London.
I had fun going to London.
Daddy bought me malted chips, and was just Daddy. I would suck all the salt off the chips, and then dip them in more malt and salt and do it again. And I got to ride on a Double Decker bus and choose our seats and daddy was so kind and smiled at me all morning, and bought me a special cardigan to wear. It was a special armored cardigan that daddy said was made of special fibers, and if I wore it when I was feeling scared, nothing could go wrong, and he PROMISED. And daddy hardly ever promised, and he had never broken a promise, so I knew it was a very special cardigan.
I think daddy was right, too – because I was wearing my burgundy cardigan when we finally got to the special Children's clinic in London. That was where I first met Dr. Owens who I loved, loved, loved because he was so sweet like sugar.
The London hospital was a very special hospital for kids who saw things that they shouldn't see – like shadow monsters and trees that moved and birds that turned into bats. I remember mummy was crying then, too, just like before when I screamed that I was NOT LYING and broke my plate and brought my bunnikins knife down into my hand until red pearls of pretty blood came up in the center because I was so mad that she WOULDN'T LISTEN.
Today, though, I wasn't angry – today I was a little scared, and when I told her that I wanted to leave because I wasn't sick and I was afraid, she stopped crying, and took me into her lap, even though I was almost done GRADE TWO, and stroked my head like our pet cat, Galen, and said, "Oh my poppet, oh my sweetheart." But she stopped crying then, and just fiddled with my braids and the shiny purple ribbons that I had knotted three times by three times, because three is a special number, and I did NOT want to lose my purple ribbons. If I lost them, something bad would happen. I just knew it.
i am nine
Dr. Owens was my favorite adult ever, and made me feel like everything would be okay. He was kind, with gentle eyes and a soft, wrinkled face… like one of those funny little wrinkled dogs that has too much skin.
(Daniel Brundy in my new school says they are called SHAR-pay dogs, which I don't think is right, because SHAR-pay sounds like towel material for soaking up water, and not like an animal title at all. But Daniel Brundy might be right, because he's super smart and lovely and I don't think he would lie to me, even though it's easy to lie to me because I am stupid and NOT NORMAL.)
Anyway, even though I was too old to believe in Santa Claus, I would sometimes think to myself…that Dr. Owens looked a lot like Santa Claus without the beard - and in funny Kelly green pants, and a starchy white doctors coat.
"The good news is that I'm starting to reconsider Cassandra's TLE diagnosis. I believe she may be having panic attacks. It's vital that she feels safe," Dr. Owens would say.
Then he would smile at me, to let me know he could SEE me, and I wasn't totally invisible, like I would be if it were any other adult.
And I would give Dr. Owens a big hug before we would leave for Bristol, even though I don't normally like to give hugs to big people, and he would give me candy. I would collect the red lollies he'd hand out, and keep them in a red lidded Tupperware container that I decorated with shiny metallic hearts and neon yellow smiley face stickers; the rosy coloured lollipops became my favorite things in the whole world – even more than my burgundy cardigan, maybe - because Dr. Owens was so lovely.
I'd keep them in bundles, and count them when I was sad. I must have seen Dr. Owens 14 times in total, because I was at 14 suckers before our teatime when mummy told me,
"Cassie, mugwup – oh poppet…"
Dr. Owens died.
I don't know why.
He was a doctor – a neurologist – a fancy brain doctor who couldn't keep the oxygen going to his brain. So when he left me, I think I became even more afraid of the dark, because the dark would squish out my lungs for sure this time - and then I'd die too. I knew it.
When mummy told me why I couldn't see Dr. Owens anymore – that I'd have to see a lady doctor who was…a "psychiatrist, Cassie – but she's very nice, too" – I got very mad and ran out of the living room while we were all having tea and watching Eastenders. I ran so fast and got so dizzy, that I saw the little electric ping pong lights again, but I stayed AWAKE this time, and ran into the bathroom before daddy could catch me.
I don't remember why I did what I did, then – only that I remember being so upset I thought my heart would burst, and so I jumped into the shower and turned it scalding hot. I needed it to be scalding hot, because I was so terribly sad that Dr. Owens had died, and nothing would ever be OK again, and I needed something super, super hot to hit all my skin so I could forget what had happened. I had to forget that Dr. Owens was in the ground and would never again smile at me, or give me little red suckers.
That night, I cried into my pillow, and carefully moved all 14 little red suckers to my jewelry box, and kissed each one, and thought of Dr. Owens, and how I never got to tell him about the shadow monster, and how maybe he could have helped me if I had, because he was super smart and liked me, and had called me his "wee pixie-child."
i am tenWhen I turned ten, mummy said she had had ENOUGH.
"Enough, Cassandra! You're a big, big girl now. I can't be coming in every night to assure you that there is nothing bad in your room!"
Mum was sharper than daddy, but even daddy nodded and said, "Mummy's right, Cassie. You're not little anymore," and then dad would eat his toast and bacon strips, and I'd watch as the oils from the meat sopped onto his napkin, and bleed through the paper. And I'd hate them both, because I still FELT little, and it wasn't fair that I didn't feel normal, and it also wasn't fair that I was so scared all the time. I tried to tell them this, but it came out wrong, and then I just got frustrated and told them that things moved when I slept and colours changed and went out of everything and that SCARED me. And that the dark would take EVERYTHING and crinkle it up…and I would float away and time would STOP.
Mummy tssked and told me to eat my porridge and stop making up stories, and also to not make little houses out of my food. But I would, still – because she couldn't MAKE me eat her stupid porridge that she couldn't even cook without lumps. So I would smile in my heart, but not on my face, and I'd also not eat the porridge, and I would let the cream became rivulets or moats around the bridge, and my spoon would be the drawbridge and it was very pretty…
"Eat your porridge, Cassandra!"
I'd sniff, and take a bit, and spit the porridge into my napkin, because the porridge wasn't right to eat.
The porridge had lumps.
And I couldn't eat lumps, because the lumps would sit in my stomach and clog me all up and then all the food would back up and I would die because none of the food would get by. I knew it was true, because I had seen a little blonde girl on the telly the week before who had to have an operation, and the doctors said she had a very bad stomach, and then she died because her stomach was so swollen and scarred. And she looked just like me. She really was very CLOSE to me, and I got around to thinking that maybe if my mum and dad had had Sex differently one night when daddy's parts met mum's and made me…well, then…maybe I'd have BEEN that girl, and I'd be dead now.
I told mummy that, and she slapped me.
"You have no right talking about our grown up hugging like that, Cassandra. That's very rude."
Mummy started called it grown up hugging when I was five, and I walked in on daddy on top of mummy with no clothes. I started crying because mummy looked like she was in pain and her mouth was open, so I ran in and started hitting daddy, until he came out of her and covered his thing, and yelled at me to leave the room.
And later mum told me that daddy wasn't hurting her – he was "loving her"; they were just having a "grown up hug." When you got big, they said, that's how I'd hug too – because that's how you loved someone if they were a boy, and you were a girl. It didn't matter, they said, if I understood now, so long as I just trusted that they knew right and didn't argue anymore, and be "good."
But I wasn't five anymore. I was ten, and I KNEW it was called sex.
And anyway, the girl on the telly was 10 too, and also had blonde hair and brown eyes. Her hair might have been darker than mine, maybe, but not by much.
I had bad tummy aches all the time too.
i am eleven
So I wouldn't eat the porridge, because the porridge had lumps. And I wouldn't eat the cornflakes, because the cornflakes had rough edges that would cut my stomach to ribbons. Instead, I would sit with ½ tablespoon of peanut butter and lick at it, and then squish 1/3 of a banana with the back of the tablespoon until hit the banana until it was all mushed up like baby food. Then I'd chew, chew, chew and then all the food would be soft and I would be okay.
Mummy didn't think I'd be okay if I keep eating like this, because I wasn't "looking right" anymore. Mum thought I looked like a "stick," and wouldn't "have" anymore of my "eating issues."
"Enough Cassandra! I'm sick of this! This has got to stop!"
I knew it would be okay though, because if I looked like a stick, then shadow monsters couldn't come – because I wouldn't be able to give them anything to eat. I'd be too thin to even CAST a shadow – just like magic - and that was my happy thought. It was the only thought that kept me from crying at night: that I could get so thin that I could walk in the shade and even the shadow monster couldn't see me coming. Or if he did, he wouldn't know it was me – Cassandra Jane Ainsworth – because he wouldn't be able to recognize Cassandra Jane Ainsworth anymore, and that would be almost as good.
I would think then that all I had to do was just get things right, and pay attention to all my rules, and eat in my safe numbers – and if I did ALL of that, then I would GET THERE.
I didn't know where 'THERE' was, really. But I knew it wasn't in this house, in Bristol. I knew it wasn't in my bedroom, or the bathroom, or anywhere I could think of, except maybe the park. Because the park was always filled with happy, warm people, and every time I had ever been there – it had always been light and sunny and safe. So the park seemed like the best place to be.
All the same, I couldn't LIVE in the park, and I wouldn't be safe anywhere else, because you never KNEW when your parents would leave and the shadow monster would come back. Besides, I had finally gotten too big to wear the cardigan that daddy had gotten for me when I was eight, on account of my growth spurt. Daddy called this time "puberty," which I thought of as a really funny word – because it reminded me of the boys' name, Hubert. Which, if you think about it, is a hilarious name.
But the week after daddy said that, I didn't think it was a very funny word at ALL, because it was mentioned in health class on a day when all the boys had to leave to go play rugby, and all the girls had to stay to discuss "becoming women." I learned that puberty was bad, bad, bad. I learned that puberty would probably make the shadow monster want to eat me even more, and that I would get eaten very, very quickly unless I could stop everything RIGHT NOW.
I didn't know how I was to manage it, but I knew what I'd have to do. I had to stop puberty, and I had to get smaller again, just enough to fit my burgundy cardigan, just in case. Because daddy had PROMISED that I would always be safe if I wore it.
I am twelve.
I am fatter this week than last week, and that's SUPER bad, because now I have boobies just like my new friend Michelle. Which may be "great" in her opinion – but I think that's only because Michelle has a crush and thinks that'll get the boy she likes to like her back.
But it's BAD for me, because Michelle also just got her first period, which probably means I'm next. And even if she doesn't know it yet – that's really awful…because that's when boys start wanting to do things –and that's also when shadow monsters come out more and more. (I don't tell Michelle this because I know she wouldn't understand. She would just think I stole one of Ainsley's joints again, or maybe drank the rest of my mum's cooking sherry or my dad's beer, or whatever – because I do that sometimes, and it helps. It really does. It makes everything fade away and feel lovely and numb and just wonderful).
Now that I'm in junior high I have to be careful, careful though – because I don't want all the new kids to think I'm so strange like they did when I was littler, when we lived in our yellow house by the botanical gardens. When we lived on Clement St., all the kids HATED me. So now that we live in a new place, I have to keep everything PERFECT. I have to do everything right.
And that means NOT talking about shadow monsters or holding my breath until I go dizzy and pass out, or sitting in hot water until mum unlocks the door and takes me to the clinic. Most definitely, that means NOT having to go back to the lady shrink mum used to make me see: Dr. Cassidy thought I was all sorts of cuckoo.
And this is what I'm thinking about when I start eating my lunch at the kitchen counter. Chew 28 times, swallow 14 sips of water, chew 28 times…
I need to get it right, because if I don't, something bad will happen.
It's then that I hear the door unlock, and the creeeeaking sound, and daddy call out, "Kiddums?"
I put down my banana and wipe at my mouth very carefully, and hide the peel before he can see. I sip at my water and wave as he enters the kitchen and give him a tiny smile, fiddle with the purple rims of my new glasses.
"Hey Cassie… don't you look gorrrgeous!"
Daddy's trying to be kind, because I just got new glasses. The doctor said my vision was all sorts of crappy, and mum thinks it's on account of staying up too late and reading in the dark.
"You look cute, kiddums. Really cute! Glasses are your thing."
I grin, awkwardly, and fiddle with the purple rims. I don't think glasses are my thing. I think glasses make me look ugly and goggle-eyed and stranger than I already look, but I don't mention this to daddy. He's trying to give me a compliment.
I smile again, at my glass of water, nervous. And take a sip.
"So…" Daddy rubs his hands together. "What are you doing tonight, young lady?"
He's studying me - taking in my outfit - when I hear the door open again, and mum shuffles in with four bags of groceries.
"Eggplant, carrots, LOW fat dill dressing, a 5 lb bag of blueberries, and skim milk; I got everything you asked for…. so I want you to EAT this food, Cass. I can't take anymore of these games."
I nod, mumble an agreement, and cover my mouth with my hands to conceal my braces.
Ugly, stupid loser. Fatfatfatfatfat
"….and did you finish your…?…Cassie…pay attention!"
Hmmm?
"Your dad's picking you up tonight. 3:30, front entrance. And I don't CARE if you have plans with Michelle. You live here, not there… I don't want you imposing yourself on her family…"
Mum readjusts her blouse, and I squirm in my cardigan.
"For god's sake, Cassandra! That better NOT be what I think it is…. Maurice….just….," and mum stalks out of the room, arms held up in desperation.
I finally can fit my cardigan again. I've been wearing it every day for a week.
But this is the first time they've noticed.
I can hear pots and pats clink around downstairs. Mummy's making dinner – cooking me a "special birthday dinner."
My birthday was two weeks ago, but I was deathly sick that night and brought up all the cake and ice cream I shoved down into my pink little tummy. I really shouldn't have started in on cake and ice cream. It's wretched-awful-unhealthy, and I just couldn't keep it down.
So, up it came.
Almost on it's own…
And then I felt better. Uncomplicated, hollowed out.
Pure.
"Kiddums? Feeling better, mugwump?"
Daddy knocks once, and I startle. He opens the door and stands in the light of the hallway, going black as he does so. All I can see is his outline, and faint tendrils of heat – steam – rising up off a Buddha bowl.
"Dinner, kiddums. We've got to get more food into you, Cass."
I cross my hands over my chest, and stare down.
"I'm not h-hungry, daddy."
He comes in a bit more.
"Daddy…I'm…please…d-daddy…. I…I'm getting a bath…"
I splash the water a bit, and make the bubbles froth up. It helps to cover me in a slight sheet of foam.
"Daddy…where's mum? I…d-don't think…."
I don't know why he's here.
How can he be here?
He laughs at my confusion, brings the bowl up under my mouth, inches away.
"Couple bites, and I'll leave."
"Daddeeee – please."
He raises a cooked carrot to my mouth.
"Couple bites…"
I take the carrot. My stomach does not want this, my heart does not want this.
Eatitjust eat it…. EAT! He'll leave.
I take the food from his fingers, and swallow the offering nearly whole. A couple more pieces, then:
"Dad, where's mum?"
He looks amused.
"At the gallery. Mr. Keagen called her in. Just you and me, kiddums. We can watch The Last Unicorn – mummy rented it for you."
"Oh?"
My voice cracks, and Dad laughs.
"Don't sound so excited, sweetheart."
Wherearemy glasses?
"I…I will be down soon, yeah?"
I have to get something out of my stomach first.
He nods, grins, all teeth.
"I'll turn on the heating blanket for you, poppet."
He puts the Buddha bowl on the floor.
You have to go. I need to throw up.
He leaves.
I open my mouth and drink some water from the spout, then grab my bathrobe and drain the tub.
Then it's door closed, toilet seat up, a punch to the stomach, two fingers to the throat.
And the fucking carrots swim at the bottom of the porcelain bowl – looking as fresh and whole as the day they were picked.
Where are my glasses?!
Daddy knows I can't see without my glasses.
I am still damp from the bath, and my skin prickles in the chill of the night. I'm wearing my school skirt and gray tights, Mary Jane shoes, my undershirt, and the cardigan.
But it's early November. And I'm freezing. My hair is still wet, and I can't see, and my body won't stop trembling. And my stomach won't stop hurting. It hurt, hurt, hurts… And the heat of the bath was helping, but now I'm standing by the duck pond, and it's late and I feel so god-awful and ugly and sick, and mummy's not home, and I don't know how to get to Michelle's.
Don't cry. Don't cry, you baby. You fat, fat, loser, fat, baby!
A noise – a snap of twigs, and I turn quickly. I can't see well without my glasses.
Another snap, a plish-plosh sound of something plunking into water, and then I hear quaking, and turn towards the pond.
By the dim, flickering light of the lantern I can barely see some fuzzy creature skirt by over the reeds. Green head and black body, and it waddles near me and quacks once more.
"Hello, ducky," I whisper to animal. It stills, and although I cannot see him, or her, very clearly – I imagine it is staring at me with a look of wonderment.
"You're lovely, ducky."
And she starts to swim away, and I feel something tug and pull apart in my heart.
No, don't leave me, little duck…
I'm lonely.
"Don't go…" I breathe – my breath white in the chilled autumn air.
"I need a friend, ducky…."
I'm afraid.
But he's gone.
I need help.
I am. I'm afraid, in this park, at night. It's so silent, it unnerves me. And the moon is out, but it's casting shadows, and I can't see well, and none of the trees have leaves left. There are no more green arms. They only have stick arms. Like skeletons. And the clouds aren't lazily moving across the sky. They are frozen. They are frozen still…
And none of them seem friendly…
I back up against an evergreen, and sit under her arms, on her pile of evergreen pine needles. They cut up into my bottom, through my tights, and I resist the urge to scratch. I resist the urge to move, but I have to…
I can't stay here any longer….
You have to, you fucking baby.
It's too cold. I can't feel my fingers.
Then go to sleep.
Something bad will happen.
Then go to sleep now. Before he comes. Before it can happen again.
The shadow monster will get me.
Go to sleep.
He'll eat me.
Sleep…you know you want to sleep…
I'm so cold.
Sleep now, and nothing bad can happen….
I scream. Once. It's a terribly loud sound.
But it's only in my head.
'I think…'
'You were begging for it to stop.'
'What?'
'Do you remember the blood?'
'No! That never happened. I'm okay.'
'I'm warm.'
'I'm warm.'
I'm in a warm bed.
I'm wearing pajamas.
My pajamas are wet.
Why are my pajamas wet?
You know what he did.
It was a nightmare! Only a nightmare.
You know it wasn't only a nightmare.
Itwasn'treal.
Yes, it was…
You know it was…
You know it's why…
You are like this…
Iknow.
I know.
Oh god.
"Wake up, Cassie!"
Sid.
Sid.
My Sid.
"Sid?"
I feel as if I've swallowed broken glass.
I want to cry.
I never want to stop crying.
I don't want to cry.
I never want to start crying.
"Yeah, Cass. It's just me. You were having a nightmare again, baby."
My throat hurts.
I want to scream.
I want to cut open my fucking wrists.
You are such a screwed up, ugly bitch.
Why are the sheets wet?
"You were having a really bad nightmare, Cass. Do you want to talk about it?"
no, no, no, I can't.
you want to tell him
I don't want him to know.
"You're having so many of them Cassie. All the time. It…worries me. I think maybe it would help – to talk? Maybe to talk about them, maybe just to talk about what happens in them? Sometimes that helps – to keep them from coming back…"
He wants you to tell him. To trust him.
No, he thinks he has to say that.
He feels guilty for fucking you up….
worse than you already are…
He's trying to make up for Michelle…
"I don't want to talk about them, Sid. They're not nice images. I want to think about lovely things, and everything in them is horrible."
That almost sounded sincere….
Get out of my head!
I don't want to remember!
-He's stroking my hand
back and forth
back and forth-
He's trying to comfort you.
He'll hate me.
He's already heard you scream.
He already knows what happened.
And he's still
Here…with me.
"You're getting too thin again, love. The…hair is back. On your arms."
He thinks I'm ugly.
No, he doesn't.
He thinks you're sick.
And you are.
But I can't go back…and if I tell…
He'll get you help.
I'm afraid…to get help.
To change.
Yes.
And to tell him…everything.
Yes.
"I don't want to talk about that either, Sid. I just…don't. You won't understand, and I can't make you understand."
"Understand what? You remember what that doctor said…about the signs? You can't relapse, Cass. Not like before…"
don't lie to him.
I won't.
You want to get sick again.
I don't know.
Maybe?
Maybe.
Tell him.
Tell him before this kills you.
Or before he leaves.
Okay…
Okay…
Just…don't leave me.
I won't.
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