Entry 26 (1972)

Sasifraz had convinced me that I had to cut my arm every two weeks.  He had certain standards and nothing could substitute for his blood toll.  After surreptitiously cutting myself a week before, I knew time was running out.

Ultimately my distraction with Sasifraz and pre-occupation with arm cutting and suicide mobilized Kantor.  Suddenly, Kantor wanted me to see her every day at sixth period for a few minutes.  I was both flattered and relieved.  Although, I wasn’t entirely sure what brought about the change in Kantor.

* * * * * * *

(1987)

(NO WAY AM I GETTING INTO THIS.  Why not?  Are you afraid?  YES.  YES.  I ADMIT IT.  YOU BETCHA, BIG GUY.  I AM AFRAID.  Come on, I thought you were bold and brazen.  A little rough spot and you bail out.  OKAY, MAYBE JUST A LITTLE MORE.  Come on.  You can do better than that.)

* * * * * * *

(1972)

Kantor wanted me to see my psychologist, Dr. Williams, who I’d seen the summer before.  My father, however, was totally opposed—expressing the belief I had no problems.

On Wednesday of the last week I spent with him, for some reason, he changed his mind.  Still espousing the belief that it was unnecessary, he drove me to Dr. Williams’s office.  I didn’t care what he said as long as he took me.

Williams could see the change in me over the last six months.  I talked about Sasifraz and what he’d been saying about arm cutting.  While I was talking to Williams, I noticed in the corner of the room a large knife.  Sasifraz told me it was a seven inch blade for me to use when I needed it.  He had stuck it there for me, and I longed to grab it.  It epitomized my taking control in my life.

Williams didn’t know what I was looking at, but she suggested I go to a general hospital for three or four days.  I wanted to talk to Kantor about it. Williams got Kantor on the phone.  Kantor reassured me that it was a good idea and that she’d visit me.  I said okay, but my Dad said no.  The matter was dropped for the night.  I went home with my Dad.

* * * * * * *

The next day at school, Kantor asked me if I still wanted to go to the hospital.  I said yes, but I wasn’t sure why.  I was so filled with pain, Sasifraz, and arm cutting that I couldn’t imagine anything that would make it worse.  (What’s worse anyway?  It was all relative.)  Kantor said she’d see what she could do.  (I’ll just bet she did.)

Entry 25 (1972)

My father bent the waves for the month I lived with him.  Radiant energy left me and bounced off him with a flat tone.  It was as if nothing had ever happened between us before, and now he acknowledged almost no present relationship.

The pressure of this non-existent relationship sent me scampering back for the company of Sasifraz.  Sasifraz’s response was simple, “Oh come now, dear, you knew you were alone.”  The act of being alone even when another person is in the same room—eating dinner with him, driving with him, shopping with him—left me with nothing other than my own painful thoughts.

Kantor appeared to be no help at all.  I could talk to her, but I always had to return home alone to play my guitar and day dream of a better life.  In school, I was still doing splendidly until one day in science class.  I had an egotistical teacher who was into totalitarianism reminiscent of my father by the name of Perferment.

In class one afternoon, being in a particularly foul mood, he offered to kick out anyone who was interested.  Sitting atop his stool he declared, “I just want you to know that I’ve kicked out somebody from every class today.”  Waving his pink permit slips in the air he asked, “Which one of you would like to be kicked out?  It would save me trouble to find out who it’s gonna be now.”

In that moment, I had enough of Perferment’s bullshit and raised my hand, “Me!  I’ll go.”

The shocked room froze.  Perferment whipped out a permit slip so fast it made my head spin.  Having never been kicked out before, off I went down the hall to see Kantor.  At least, that part was familiar.

* * * * * * *

Kantor was not amused.  She asked me what had happened.  I told her.  Kantor asked why I did it.  I said it was spontaneous and likened it to arm cutting.  Kantor’s response was that she thought it was even more destructive.

(I was always confused by that response.  Perhaps, I heard her wrong.  If anything, I thought it was an improvement.)

Nevertheless, Kantor had an inside track on the Perferment situation and told me to just go to the library for a couple of days.  It turned out Perferment was fired that week. (For other rumored behavior.) On the day Kantor insisted I go back to class, it was announced over the loud speaker that I was chosen April Girl of the Month.

It was a proud moment for me.  I had never been particularly socially successful in school. It gave me a little boost for the next couple days.  Boosts were something I could always use.

* * * * * * *

I composed my first song on the guitar after being chosen April Girl of the Month.  It expressed my pain and hope.  I kept myself company at home by singing in a large hallway mirror.  Kantor was all I felt I had then, and the song was directed at her.

“April showers bring May flowers.  April showers bring May flowers.  And, I am the April girl that you see crying, ‘cause April showers bring May flowers.

“I wonder if my tears will bring the flowers.  I wonder if the flowers will ever come at all.  ‘Cause I am the April girl that you see crying, and April showers bring May flowers.

“I wait for the flowers in all their beauty.  Waiting for them all to spring up around me.  ‘Cause I am the April girl that you see crying, and April showers bring May flowers.

“I’ve fallen in love as I wait for the flowers.  I only hope my love will stay when the flowers come.  ‘Cause I am the April girl that you see crying, and April showers bring May flowers.”

(A bit redundant, I admit, but it was my first song.)

* * * * * * *

Arm cutting had been on the forefront of my mind for awhile, but I was terrified of letting my father find out.  Helpfully, the Mother-Daughter Tea was a distraction.  I was specially invited as a Girl of the Month.  I took my father’s girl friend, Fern, as a surrogate mom for which my mother found it difficult to forgive.  (Never mind the fact that we weren’t speaking at the time.)

After that event, there was nothing to tie me to the present.  I found myself more and more drawn into Sasifraz’s banter until a final culmination of events changed my life forever

Entry 24 (1972)

“Welcome to the Killer Elite, Mr. Centurie.”

“Why?  Why are you bothering me?”

“Because, I’m having problems with one of your past incarnations, and I’m here to take it out on you.”

* * * * * * *

(1987)

In the week following my session with BJ, I gathered information in my mind about the pictures.  I felt pain in my chest just before I started shaking. I thought about where that came from.  When I thought about the chest pain, I felt the surges of stomach muscle spasms when I shook.  It made me think of the surf pounding.

When I got to BJ’s office the next week, I was ready to add more pieces to the picture puzzle.  I told BJ that the pounding was how I envisioned intercourse.  I wasn’t sure where that thought came from, but I knew it was connected to the pictures.

Talking to BJ, I began to feel the chest pain, then the stomach spasms, and then the pictures started to take on a life of their own.  My face reflected the change, and BJ asked me what was going on.

“I just got the order of the pictures….I’ll tell you what it is.”  A new surge of pain washed over me.

“Joceile, what happened?” BJ asked.

“More pain,” I gasped between spasms.

“You were going to tell me the order of the pictures.”

“Right….I’ll start.”  Another stomach spasm hit me.  “Number one…was the chest pain from his pushing me down.”  I didn’t want to mention who “he” was.  BJ knew and waited while I had another spasm before I could go on.

“Number two…,” my stomach tightened into a fist.  “Was the knife he held at my throat…although why he needed it is beyond me…to add terror, I guess.”

“Number three…”  I started shaking harder and couldn’t speak.

Eventually, BJ said, “you were going to tell me what the third one was.”

While I was shaking, I ranged around in my mind for some way to say it without saying it.  It took me several tries, “and then he did the pounding,” after which several more waves of pain washed over me.

I heaved a big sigh between gasps.  “Number four…was our hips…side by side.”

“Number five…was him yanking me up by my arm….Can I have a hug now?”

I moved closer to BJ to be held.  I shook and tears rolled down my cheeks soundlessly.  I could feel BJ’s arms tight around me.  BJ spoke quietly, “Joceile, you just told me your father raped you….You told me the pounding was intercourse, but that’s not intercourse.  That was rape.”

“Yeah, I guess I did,”  I thought and kept shaking.

Entry 23 (1972)

Impact.  Lucifer spun and twirled into and out of Sasifraz’s sphere of influence.  Marty had briefed him well, but the blast of reality was more than Lucifer was prepared for.

Shock waves hit Lucifer physically and emotionally.  A darkness descended so he could not see.  He struggled to hear and a voice came.  Chanting at first, repeating over and over, “You are nothing.  You are nothing.  You are nothing.”

Lucifer grappled for something solid to root himself.  He tried, “I am good.”

“You are part of me.  There is no good,” Sasifraz spat back.

Lucifer remembered to think of J, the object of his search.  “You cannot see her,” Sasifraz told him.

“You cannot stop me,” Lucifer said and believed in his own power.  Then, the rolling blackness stopped.

In his mind’s eye, he saw J and reached out to touch her.  She was younger than he expected.  She flinched at his approach.  Seeking to reassure her, he told her his name.  “I am Lucifer Christopherson, sent to you by …”  At the utterance of his first name, she grimaced and shut the door between them that was wide open only a moment before.

Feeling a failure, he managed to bypass Sasifraz and headed for Martineau’s reassuring presence.  Marty was patient and confident.  He reminded Lucifer this was only a first step and others would follow.  “Success is measured in inches not feet.”

* * * * * * *

(1987)

The adult me couldn’t remember why living with my father was so difficult.  When I tried to focus on that month with him, I got tripped up in pictures.

They were black and white oblong pictures drawn like a cartoon.  One was a hand holding a knife poised in midair.  One was of two hips next to each other—a smaller one and a larger one.  One was of a big chest and arm yanking on a smaller one.

I was both terrorized and fascinated by them.  I felt they held the key to that month with my father.  I wanted to know what they meant and I didn’t want to.  Telling Barbara about them sent me into fits of stomach muscle spasms.  Never mind the fact that I knew more pictures existed than I could even imagine looking at.

All of a sudden, the twenty-nine year old me got hung up in my fourteen year old’s past. Sasifraz resumed the place where he’d left off years before. The adult me fought him with all the new weaponry that I’d acquired over the years.  But after several weeks, I gave in.

* * * * * * *

Not proudly, the adult me drove to a place at night which would be secluded and somewhat lit.  Uncertain whether I could still do it, I drew the razor blade out of the envelope.  Hand poised above my arm, I didn’t know if I could make a respectable cut.  Balancing between what I wanted and what Sasifraz wanted, suddenly I jerked the blade.

The skin split and separated.  For a moment the cut was white, then blood rushed to fill the void.  I felt relieved. “Thank God, I can still do it,” as if some safety valve was still in place.

Waiting for my arm to stop bleeding, I wondered how long this part of the process would take.  How long before I could look at all the pictures, put them in order, and restart the frozen action in them to see what had really happened?  I sighed and started the car to go home and face the consequences of arm cutting in my present life.

Entry 22 (1972)

The problem comes when a child doesn’t know how to say no to a parent.  Until then, a lifetime of training had shown me how to always say yes to my father.  I learned at a young age that my father was not interested in the truth.  He was only interested in what he wanted to hear.

“How’s my girl?”

“Fine.”

“Then, let’s see a smile.”

Smiling on command always galled me.  Adults frequently seemed to press that point.  When I gave in, they never seemed to notice my frozen look.  Slightly upturned lips was what they wanted.  My father was no exception. He was satisfied with the mere appearance of happiness.

* * * * * * *

(1987)

(I, THE AUTHOR, WOULD JUST LIKE TO TELL YOU, THE READER…Yes?… THAT I ABSOLUTELY HATE GOING INTO THIS.  Sometimes, I wonder if you have any guts at all.  I JUST WANTED TO LET YOU KNOW THAT OF ALL THE PARTS THAT HAVE BOTHERED ME WITH THIS STORY, WE ARE GETTING TO THE WORST.  Why don’t you just quit then?  I WOULD EXCEPT FOR ONE THING. Yes?  IT IS THE ONLY WAY TO DO JUSTICE TO MY ANGER.  Would you like to say that just a little louder?  IT IS THE ONLY WAY TO DO JUSTICE TO MY ANGER!  Carry on then.  I don’t know why you doddle so.)

* * * * * * *

(1972)

Sasifraz exacts a mighty toll for suppressed anger.  He can press on Alfer Centurie.  He can press on Lucifer.  He can press on me.  But when anyone, anyone at all, feels the press of Sasifraz, they must act in one form or another.

To live with my father, day after day, night after night, and not tell him of my anger and pretend that the sun shown in just the same way as it always had was my final undoing. Straight A’s not withstanding, at the very least, I had a burning desire to tell him what was going on with me—not the good stuff, not the fun stuff, but the stuff that makes someone cut their arm on a regular basis.  But he was not the one to tell.  Between us, there were no words.  There was no expression.  He wanted me to just be okay. I tried valiantly to make it so.

I was voted April girl of the month.  Boy, was he proud.  I got good grades.  I played the guitar and wrote songs.  I did everything I was supposed to do.  It made everyone around me feel good, but Sasifraz still haunted me by pushing and pressing, demanding attention that I knew only one way to address.

Entry 21 (1987)

The adult me shook.  It was not the traditional shaking.  My stomach convulsed and spasmed.  I was drawn up into a tight ball.  Each breath came as a gasp before the next contraction of muscle tightening.  Barbara cradled me.

“Joceile, what are you feeling?  What’s happening?”

I could only reply in short bursts.  “I can’t…stop my stomach…from shaking.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

“Nothing I know of….It would be nice…if you could just stay with me.”

“I’ll stay with you as long as I can.”

Barbara stayed and asked me questions helping me stay focused on the here and now and what was going on in the present instead of being swallowed up by the past.

* * * * * * *

(1972)

“Fro, I have something to tell you.”

“What?”

“Sit down.”

“Okay.”

“I’m pregnant.”

“YOU’RE WHAT?!”

“You heard me.  I’m pregnant.”

Frobisher’s head spun crazily.  “Sally, you can’t be.”

“I am.  What do you think?”

His mind raced.  “I’m in shock.”

“Get used to it, Fro.  You’e a Dad.”

* * * * * * *

There is no smidgen of hope that can erase the past. Only denial can do that.  The younger me resolved to put my best foot forward with my father.  It wasn’t long before I stubbed my toe.

Entry 20 (1987)

The adult me walked to the big building on the hill vacated and ravaged by time and vandals.  Even though I had never been in that particular building, I felt for those who had.  People who had known pain and anguish only to be housed away in a stone prison.

I walked around the building peering in here and there trying to gauge what it was like during its use.  I could hypothesize and theorize but I knew I could never have any real image without being there myself.

I turned to look at the brick buildings across the road and down the hill.  Now those buildings with their locks and bars still in place, I had been in.  Still, I knew I had only experienced a part of its offerings and was glad I had stopped at the first passing.

* * * * * * *

(1972)

Frobisher went to work every day, day in and day out, just like he was supposed to because that was what he was supposed to do.  Most of the time, he didn’t question it.  When he did, he merely acknowledged that he was doing what he was told he should do.

Some days, he felt his life slipping away.  He got up, ate breakfast with Sally and the kids.  He went to work to do what he was told.  He came home, ate dinner, watched TV, and went to bed to get up and start the whole thing over again.  He saw no beginning and felt no end.

He began to feel a little uncomfortable with the idea of just waking up one day and dying with nothing else more important accomplished.  Maybe that was Frobisher’s lot in life, he wasn’t sure, but it ate at him.

* * * * * * *

(1987)

One glowing ball of light said to the other, “So, what was it like living with your father.”

The other replied, “For me, then, it was like shutting down…all systems…and becoming an automaton…”

* * * * * * *

(1972)

After the night I ran away, everyone was surprised when I wanted to go to school the next morning.  But I was hell bent on seeing Kantor.

I told Kantor all about what had happened after I called her.  Kantor listened patiently.  (Perhaps, Kantor apologized for the mishap, I don’t recall.)  Kantor recognized that it was probably best that I was staying with my grandparents.

I said I was tired. Kantor suggested I spend the day in the clinic on a cot and try to get some rest.  That left me alone staring at the ceiling all day waiting for the times when Kantor would come in and check on me.

I couldn’t sleep and spent most of the day dreaming about The Mark and talking to Sasifraz about the pros and cons of my decision.  Sometimes, I felt myself fade in and out as my vision got thick and the room disappeared.  I thought I might like to talk to Kantor about that but she never came in when it happened.  I didn’t quite know how to bring it up.

Eventually the school day ended. My Granny picked me up.  I went home and ate well.  That night I didn’t sleep any better struggling with where I was going from here.

* * * * * * *

(So, what happened?)  Later in the week, my father called.  He wanted me to come live with him.  In the first place, my father had never called me before.  In the second place, I did not know how to say “No” to him even if I knew for sure what I wanted.

I only knew how to give my father exactly what he wanted without question.  It was what my father had taught me from the beginning.  Every story I could remember about him had to do with that theme.  He was the commander in all situations and to question was to incur instant wrath.  Mutineers would be hung.  At least, that was his implication.

The other side of the coin was that I longed to be close to my father.  I didn't know how to go about it.  When he wanted me to come live with him, I also harbored the hope that we could finally get to know each other.  At that point, I was not long on logic.  I was only living on hope.

* * * * * * *
(1987)

(I DON’T WANT TALK ABOUT THIS ANYMORE.  Why not?  I HATE IT.  I HATE REMEMBERING IT.  Fine, if you don’t want to write the story, just say so.  IT’S NOT THAT!  I WANT TO WRITE THE STORY.  I JUST DON’T WANT TO HAVE TO REMEMBER TO DO IT.  Well, that’s gonna be a little difficult.  OH, REALLY? I WOULDN’T HAVE GUESSED.)

* * * * * * *

(1972)

My father came and got me that first weekend.  For me, it was like holding my breath until I was sure everything would be okay.  My dad lived in a two bedroom apartment.  He had the bare minimum of furniture.  Everything was white and sterile.  He had two chairs with no legs that sat on the floor facing the television set with two beds.

My mother had packed up some of my things, placing them carefully in my room to give a sense of homeyness.

I saw my mother for the first time that weekend.  My mom was on her best behavior.  She gave me her approval for living with my dad and told me that she thought my grandparents were relieved.  (That did a lot to reassure me I had options.)  It made me think my grandparents didn’t really want me.  (Which was probably the intention.)

By Sunday night, I was settled in watching television with my dad.  (My dad spent all of his spare time watching television.)  I had worked out how to ride the public bus back to my old school.  It was April and not a good time to change schools.

Sitting there in a chair-on-the-floor, watching football, and eating a TV dinner, I let out my held breath.  “God,” I thought, “maybe I’ll make it.”  But, I was wrong.