Living Like Glass

[Clair Fay]

My name is Clair. Well...not legally, but my name is Clair nonetheless. As strange as it sounds, my mother didn't listen to me while I was in her woumb, when I told her that my name was Clair, spelled exactly so. I told her that I was not to be like any other, and she believed me. I told her I was not to stay a face in the crowd and she knew I was right. I'm not going to be in the background.

For as long as I can remember, I've been missing something, and for as long as I can remember, I knew what part of it was. Family. Sure, I have family now, but a part of me always felt just so...distant from them. I've always related myself to the black sheep and I never knew why. "One can feel alone within a crowd of people." I learned that quote very early on.

I won't be telling you about my journey so far in one giant rush, but, rather, in segments, like a book. Chapters of my life. For those who want to listen, go ahead. Take a look at how it is to live like glass, to dance around demons of your own and others.  

[Clair Fay]

Childhood has much to do with how we are today, so I suppose that's how I should start off.

As a child I did not believe in imaginary friends. I believed there were friends that could not be seen, but not imaginary. Even as a child, without anyone introducing it to me, I knew about the paranormal. Or course, I never accually talked about it to anyone. I knew even then that to talk about such would get me thrown into an asylum.

My childhood was never normal. I've never known a peaceful home, even from the begining. Maybe that's why it's impossibly for me to imagine one now. Among my first memories is watching my biological father beat a puppy...pur puppy. It was our first pet after a canary, which was given away because it continuously attacked me. My parents say that it attacked me because it was jealous that I was getting all of the attention and it wasn't.

I remember that puppy - Cloe - being taken away. At the time I didn't understand, I thought we were treating it fine. I mean, I knew my father was being mean, but I never knew how mean. Me and my younger brother loved her though...God, how we loved her. She was so small, but so afraid. Maybe she was a hint, a clue that she wasn't going to be the only one.

I remember moving a lot. I loved moving, still do. I like change.

However, with moving and change comes detatchment and pain. I didn't feel that, though.

The next memory I want to share is when I was just a child still.

It was late at night. I had just woken up because of the dream I had had. I was running through a forest, my dress whipping at my ankles. I don't know what I was running from, but I was clearly scared. It wasn't like one of those dreams that a child always gets, where it's the boogyman or the closet monster. I was running from something dark and evil, I knew it was something I needed to get away from. It was strange, foreign.

What jolted me out of sleep, however, was the feeling of a hand on my shoulder. It was cold as death, and when I spun around, flinging and flailing my small arms, I saw for a brief instant my window open, cutains billowing in a harsh wind. My giant teddy bear turned to a wolf and was glaring at me. I blinked and it was all normal again. White curtains still, window clearly closed and locked, and the teddy bear just that - a teddy bear.

I stayed up for a bit, then layed back and went to sleep.

I never mentioned it to my family or anyone outside of it until a year ago. It wasn't the only thing I would keep a secret.  

[Clair Fay]

The dead have always likes my voice. Anyone who has listened to me sing would probably not be surprised. Though I have yet to discover what about my voice is so special, I trust some of those who have said it is beautiful. I remember one time when I was a child, I climbed to the top of a play structure for recess and just began to sing. Soon, all sound died away as children either stopped what they were doing or went somewhere else. I wouldn't know, I never looked.

So entraptured by my own voice, I didn't notice the recess bell ring. What snapped me out of my trance was a man's footsteps. As soon as I saw him, I shut my mouth and became quiet. He looked at me and smiled. "Was that you singing?" He asked.

I nodded, not opening my mouth.

"You have a very beautiful voice. Like an angel's."

I climbed down from the structure as fast as I could, jumpng through a few bars, and ran to the room of my classroom - 2, which was also my grade at the time. It turned out that I had been out there for an entire ten or fifteen minutes after the recess bell had rung, telling all of the students that it was time to go back to class.

I never sang in public again.

At least...not the living public.

Now, whenever I ask spirits what they would like me to do, they touch the back of my throat and a tune pops into my head and I'll begin to sing. It's like they all know about me and my voice.

This is the first time I've ever recounted this memory...to anyone.

I'll stop here for now. If you have any questions or comments, go ahead and ask. I'll continue after all of that is done.  

[Clair Fay]

Mmmkay... Either I'm really good at explaining my life or no one gives. So...I suppose I'll continue.

When I was about five, I had a friend who was constantly talking about her imaginary friends. She said she had an imaginary horse, a cat, a little girl, and some hampsters. hen she first started talking about them, I was very skeptical and was constantly throwing questions her way. What did they look like? What did they do together? What did they talk about? What were their names? She could never answer the questions fully, but then again, she was five as well. Besides, I couldn't form the questions as accuately as I can now.

Then she asked me, "Do you want an imaginary friend?"

I looked up from the doll I was playing with, looking at her through my wheat-coloured bangs.

"You can have any kind you want!" She continued. "A cat, a dog, a horse, or even a little girl or boy!" She swept a hand behind her, as if to indicate all of the kinds of imaginary friends I could have, as if showing off all of her's.

I thought for a moment, then looked behind her. I felt like there was a camera flash within my eyes, for only me to see, and then I saw a man standing behind her, arms crossed, looking very serious, maybe even a bit stern. I looked back at her, knowing that she really had no imaginary friends like she was discribing, and decided to play along. "Any kind?"

She nodded, smiling brightly.

"Then I want a cat."

She got up and walked to her bed, as if to recieve something, then put her hands together, as if grabbing a solid object. She tottered back over to me, as if whatever she was carrying was heavy, and set it gentally before me. I looked down, felt the camera flash go off inside my eyes...and saw nothing. Still, I decided to go along with her little game and I looked up and smiled at her. "He's so cute."

My mom knocked on her bedroom door then, saying it was time to go. I, personally, couldn't have been more happier - she was starting to creep me out with all of her imaginary stuff - and I quickly got up and followed my mom out to the car, waving goodbye to the girl and her mom.  

[Clair Fay]

I remember a dream I had when I was about five or six, which is to say, about five and a half or five and three quarters. It's very brief.

I simply ran out of my house, screaming and crying my little head off, my face beat red, and hid behind the family van.

That's it. No explanations as to what I was running from, no epilouge to tell me what happened afterwords.

The next dream I'll share with you I've very hesitant to share, because it tells a lot more about me than I'd like anyone to know. But then again, you'll only see that part of me if you really look.

My family (being my mom, father, and little brother - at the time only two or three, which is to say I was about six when this dream occured) and I were swimming in a pool. At first it was just me and my father swimming in the pool, fully content as we were. I looked down in the pool, trying to spot my small feet, but instead I only saw the intertube around my waist...and sharks. First I saw one, then two, and finally three. All of which were headed for me and my father. Needless to say, I ran out of the pool faster than one could blink an eye. I ran over to the table where all of our stuff was laid, which included four towels, sun screen, and some buckets and shovels, and grabbed one of the towels, cloaking myself in it. Then I turned around. My mom was getting into the pool and my brother was already wading in it, being kept afloat by his own intertube. All the while the sharks were getting closer, and yet no one seemed to care.

"Get out! There are sharks in there! Get out! Mommy, daddy, get out!" I screamed.

My mom was in the pool by this time, and my parent's reaction to my outburst was to simply laugh. "You're so silly, there are no sharks. Now come back in the pool," my mom said, smiling.

"No, no! There are sharks! Look, mommy!" I insisted, but they just continued laughing, my brother slapping the water gaily, giving a delighted squeal at how it gave under his hands.

I dropped the towel and started at a run towards the pool, but the towel slowed me, having caught itself around my ankles. "Mommy, daddy!"

But they just kept laughing and the sharks just kept getting closer. Suddenly, when I was only about a foot away from the pool, a bright white light flashed. Instictively, I raised my arm to shield my eyes. Once the light was gone, I lowered my arm and looked around. No one was there. Everyone was gone. Any and all sounds of civilisation were gone and only nature was left.

Now, I'm not asking any of you to tell me what you think these dreams mean, I have a fair amount of ideas myself. Besides, what woul the meaning of this dream have now, nearly eleven years later?  

[Clair Fay]

Right before third grade, durring the summer, my mom, my brother, my new step-dad, and I all moved to a city name Oxnard. It was just another move to me and my brother and we loved it. We had been to Santa Rosa, Petaluma, Ojai (O-Hi, like Ohio without the "-o") before, and we just enjoyed it. But I missed my father terribly (my parents had divorced a few years back at this point), as, I'm sure, any child naturally would. (The fact that I had no clue exactly what he had done to me at this point was not in play.) And so, after much counseling, I was given a decision and was asked a question: "Who do you want to live with? Your mommy or your daddy?"

And, of course, naturally, I said my daddy, because I already lived with my mommy and I missed my daddy a lot.

I remember leaving in my father's truck (which me and my brother so affectionally called Trucky-Truck, an old white f-150 Toyota) late at night (for me at the time, anyway, which turns out to be about nine PM) in the middle of a storm. Perhaps, looking back, you could say that the storm was a warning, a foreshadowing of events to come.

What happened to me the rest of that summer I cannot recall. I cannot even recall when I got to my father's appartment, though I do remember the sign reading grimly in the dead of night, "The Shadows." Yet another thing I could have taken as a warning, and yet, at such an age, I tossed it away. Over the year I would stay with my father, I would see this sight often - being driven home in the dead of night, tired and wishing i could simply fall asleep, and then seeing the sign illuminated from the truck's headlights. I have no memory of what happened before seeing the sign durring those nights, or such vauge and misty memories that they are uncomprehensible. Sometimes a figure moving towards me, sometimes a glimpse of a road...where I was, however, was always a mystery to me, and most likely will remain as such.

I don't have many memories from within that appartment, either, and what memories I do have are very scattered with little to no trasitional periods. One minute I'll be sitting on the couch or at the computer, the next I'm hiding in the closet, scrunched up in a ball, and trying to hide. As if there's a predator right outside the door. I could discribe this to you, but why would anyone want to listen to how terrified a girl of about eight or nine was, waiting in a closet, sobbing, waiting for someone to rip her out of her hiding place and do god knows what to her for god knows why? No, no one sane would want to listen to that.

I do remember school though, I remember school very well. I was constantly trying to go home when the lunch bell rang, or even before that sometimes. Being in third grade, one doesn't switch between classrooms, but I did. Sometimes, I would go to a special building where a lady would read to us and tell us to draw what we imagined in the book. I don't know why I was there, only about fifteen or so students went, but I was there nonetheless. I knew it wasn't normal, though, because my teacher then - Mr. Shields, I think his name was - would always exclaim in joy whenever I would do anything right. Such as reading, or writing.

Now, in the present, I'm finding more and more reading and writing, and I'm starting to mix up letters and words. Remembering that special class of mine only heightens my suspicion and fear that something may be wrong with me. Please, do not comment on this.  

[Clair Fay]

I remember that, durring the year I spent with my father, he would help me out in the shower and bath a lot. Of course, I never thought this was strange at all...until more recent times, that is, where I found out that a father helping his nine, nearly ten-year-old daughter in the shower/bath was anything but ordinary. He also taught me how to shave. I would shave my legs, up to about mid-thigh or so, being careful not to cut myself anywhere, my under arms, arms, the little bit of hair on top of my hands and feet, and between my legs (later I found that this is what many whores have to do, as well as those involved in sexual activity).  

[Clair Fay]

One day, while walking around the appartment complex around dusk, very close to nightfall, I remember walking out to the parking lot. It was unusually quiet that night, and I knew my father was either sleeping or busy with his work, as he had told me when I left. I decided to stay out for a bit longer. I knew my father wouldn't care, anyway. I looked to my right and saw a man. The next thing I know, I'm in one of the parking spaces. I only see the wall, nothing else.

Next thing I know, I'm walking back to my father's appartment. I've always been able to tell what emotion was passing through my eyes most of the time, and occasionally, I'll be able to tell if my eyes are "hard" or "dead" (one coming before the other in most cases). Having that "skill" of sorts, I was able to tell then that my eyes, for all intentive purposes, were dead.

When I got back to the appartment, I noticed it was about ten, almost eleven, and that my father was already asleep in his room. I walked to my room, closing the door behind myself, then walked over to the bed and flopped down.

Voices almost imediately began drumming themselves through my ears and I knew without opening my eyes that they didn't belong to the living. At about that time, I felt someone in the room and cracked open an eye. A woman was standing by my door, hands clenched, head bowed, and teeth barred. She looked incredibly angry.

"It's okay," I murmured, then closed my eyes and drifted to sleep, feeling her eyes on me.  

[Clair Fay]

Oh yay, so people DO read this. Hee.

Near the end of third grade, my parents decided to pop the question on me. Yup, you guessed it. "Who do you want to live with? Your mommy or your daddy?" I must have thought about this for a few days, but the only day I accually remember thinking about this was on a Friday (and I only remember the day because Fridays in our class was when we got to play games and just be kids in general). While everybody else was playing Pokemon, talking, playing chess/checkers, or playing a game featuring the Oregon trail (which was, believe it or not, rather entertaining), I sat at my desk, my head lying down as if I was trying to fall asleep. Now, if I was a high schooler, this probably would seem normal, but if I was a high schooler, we wouldn't have been playing boring video games or boringly messing around in general. No, we would have gotten to do those fun things called taking notes or classwork. But it probably didn't help that my shoulders shake every time I cry. Which, at the time, I was crying...hard, which only made my shoulders shake all the harder.

I was ashamed of my tears as I always am, and so I hid them by pretending I was sleeping. I also made sure my sobs were muffled, so much so that one could only accually hear my sobs if they were listening for a half choke, half gagging sound.

A boy I knew at the time, Matthew, walked over to me and leaned on my desk. I was fully aware of his presence, but I pretended as if I wasn't. "Hey, what's wrong?" He asked.

I knew I was caught even as I turned my head slightly so that I could see him out of the corner of my eye. "Oh, nothing is wrong," I lied, hoping that the combination of my hair and darkness would hide my obviously red eyes and surely red face. This is how I was, and still am today - I deny any existence of tears on my face until they are clearly seen or until someone states, not asks, that they're there.

Normally, by this time, Matt (I called him Matt, never Matthew) would normally put his arm around me and comfort me, but he knew better than to do that. Normally, by this time, one would have attracted a crowd of people, but no one in the class did that, only a couple others that I concidered my friends - both of which boys (I wasn't very good friends with any girls). Some classmates would throw me a glance, but that was it.

"Come on, you can tell us." One of them said, their hand brushing against one of my own.

I sniffed, and quickly wiped away my tears, then sat up and smiled rather weakly at the three of them. "Don't worry, it's nothing," I insisted.

Matt gave me one of his, yeah-right-and-I'm-George-Washington looks. But eventually, I calmed them down and convinced them of one of two things...

a) Nothing was really wrong and I was just crying because I felt like being depressed on Fun Friday.

Or...

b) I wasn't going to spill, so they should just keep on moving.

If you chose A, then I feel sorry for your friends.

Over the weekend, my mom decided that I was going to come live with her again, leaving me feel both relieved and cheated.  

[Clair Fay]

I remember that one time in Matt and I got into a fight and he stormed off, leaving me with Ryan (Matt's older brother, he was a sixth grader at the time) to sit at a table in an otherwise deserted room. After I had given up on convincing Matt to stay, I walked miserably back over to Ryan and sat down next to him, tears gathered in my eyes. He wrapped an arm around my shoulders and brought me close to him in a sort of half-hug, then said, "See? He doesn't treasure you like I do. He's not good enough." I sort of sensed him smiling and felt him looking down at me. I honestly don't know what happened after that, my memory just goes black.  

[Clair Fay]

Fourth grade came and went. Durring that year I became more reclused, kept to myself a lot more as well as read a lot more. I got compliments on my drawings and people exclaimed in joy when they saw I was reading novels and not simply going though picture books anymore. I remember the weather then because it was always the same in the area my family and I had moved to - cloudy and/or grey.

Durring that year I became quiet, reserved, a loner, a bookworm, and suddenly my studies were very easy to me. Where as in third grade, I was loud, outgoing, always with someone, and hardly even touched books. A complete one-eighty...for the good and the bad.

Recess durring that year was spend doing one of two things: reading or swinging in the abandoned swing set at the far end of the field which seemed to always be wrapped or laced with fog or mist.  

[Clair Fay]

Fifth grade wasn't so different from fourth. However, I remember that I would "come alive" as some put it while working in the school garden. I also had a couple of "friends" though it was more of just saying "hi" in the hallways and pairing up as lab partners whenever a lab accually came up. I also remember going to this one lady. She went over words with me a lot, or we would simply talk about stuff. One time she asked me to draw something for her because she had heard I was a good artist, but I said no. A few days later, while she was working with another student and I was waiting for her to finish, I drew a small picture on her white notepad. It was of a lady bending over a lake, her hands pressed to her face, obscuring any view of it. Her hair was flung to the side - all of it - and she seemed to be wearing nothing, and yet she seemed to be wearing something at the same time. A thin night gown of sorts, whos ends couldn't be seen. Wings stretched from her back, arching towards the sky. It was obvious she was crying, as tears were perpetually almost dripping from her hand, having left a trail, and the pond water was disrupted but only below her face.

When the lady turned around and saw the drawing, she asked who it was and I shruged in response, giving a vague answer of sorts.  

[Clair Fay]

No, actually, thank you Hane. See, I LIKE it when people give me comments. See, it means people are actuallt READINg and I'm not just posting to no one like some freakin' idiot.

Hear that y'all? I LIKE other people posting. So post. *pokes with a stick* Now, to continue...

Sixth grade was spent in the same school as fifth which, for me, was very strange as well as a bit aquard. But if I realised it was such at the time, I highly doubt it. I don't know exactly what happened to make me the way I was that year, but something must have happened. After all, one isn't numb for an entire year for nothing. One doesn't shield theirself off in a bubble for an entire year.

Right?

I remember that bubble I put myself in so vividly, too. I would draw it all the time. The base was black, just a pure, pitch black. Purple and yellow lightning would lace through it at random times, warding everyone off, or so it seemed. It was always egg-shaped, fully engulfing my body.

Durring recess that year, I did one of two things. I would sit at one of the picknic tables there, placed in the middle of two rows of trees, or I would sit at the base of one of the large trees. I alternated in between a large tree near the classrooms and one on the far end of the field.

No one ever came near me. I sat there the whole entire time, curled up into a ball.