The Beatific and the Flawless Chapter 3

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CHAPTER 3 – REMINISCE PART 2


I am 11 years old, sitting in the shade underneath a large building with Saffron, Phoenix and Violet. We are talking and laughing when a girl comes over to us. She is tall, taller than Phoenix, and she has long black hair, pale skin, dark grey eyes and cuts all up and down her wrists, criss-crossed. She is wearing a black and purple striped long-sleeved t-shirt with the sleeves pushed up, a black Slipknot band t-shirt at least two sizes too big, faded grey jeans and ripped up black fake Chuck Taylor high-tops from the Op Shop two blocks from the school. She smiles a bit and says in a thick Brazilian accent, “Hi, I’m Ella. Ella de la Noche. I’m new here...?”The last bit comes out as a question, rather than a declarative statement. I figure she’s an uptalker. I turn to Phoenix and ask her, “She’s Emo. What should I say to her, do you think?” in French, so Ella wouldn’t understand us.
Phoenix grins and says, “Dites-elle d'aller et dire quelqu'un qui se soucie. Dites-lui que nous n'avons pas besoin plus d'Emotionals ici, qu'elle devrait juste aller et se couper ou quels que soit il est qu'elle fait et va se tuent, parce que personne ne l'aime.”
I say, “No, Phoenix, that’s horrible. That’s a terrible thing to say, and I won’t say it.”
Saffron grins evilly (although the effect is ruined somewhat by her sloppily applied lipstick) and says, “I can make you, Mosca.” (Note: Saffron has the power of mind control, but not telepathy. Violet is Telepathic but cannot control minds and Phoenix is Telekinetic but cannot read or control minds.)
She takes over me, and I hear myself say, “Go and tell someone who cares. We don’t need any more Emos around here, you should just go and cut yourself or whatever it is that you do and go kill yourself, because no-one likes you.”
Ella bites her lip and runs away.
Later, we see her being picked on again, this time by a girl with long strawberry-blonde hair, light blue eyes and pale skin dressed in all white, yelling Racist things at her in Spanish like, “You stupid girl, you can’t even speak English properly! It’s Salvation, not Sal-bake-eon! You people disgust me! You are so low; you think you’re so great because your people claimed California first! Guess what? You’re nothing! Do you honestly think that your little friend Zorro would have been a ‘hero’ if it weren’t for us folk trying to take back what’s rightfully ours? Why don’t you just crawl on back to your own country? Oh, wait, that’s right, you can’t! You’re a refugee! Everyone else may feel sorry for you, but I don’t! That n***** Mosca was right; we don’t need any more Emos around here! It’s no wonder you cut yourself, you’re so pathetic that that’s the only way you can deal with it. You’re so primitive! And who calls herself ‘She of the Night, anyway’? Don’t try to tell me it’s your real name. Even if it is, that would mean your mother is even more pathetic than you! It kills me to speak in this vulgar language, but I wanted to make sure you understood me.”

She then turns to me, looks me up and down and says, “My name is Fiona-Caitlyn White. I’m a Supreme Nazi, and proud of it! WHITE PRIDE!”  she then pulls up her sleeve and shows me the tattoo on her forearm, the words White Pride written in black ink, and then grabs her bag, pulling out two felt-tip markers, one black and one red. She says something under her breath, and I feel light-headed. I pass out, hitting my head on the concrete below me. I can feel someone drawing a circle on my arm, and I can hear Ella crying, and I sense she is trying to feel to see if I have a pulse, but Fiona-Caitlyn’s voice sounds, I hear Ella screaming, and a thump as she lands on the ground. Saffron yells, and I hear her footsteps receding as she goes to help Ella. Someone is still drawing on my arm, moving on from the circle to draw several straight lines, in a weird, cross-like symbol when I hear footsteps coming towards me. Thinking it might be one of Fiona-Caitlyn’s friends, come to torture me and my friends more, I lie still, and the footsteps quicken. There is a flash of light that I can see even with my eyes shut, and Fiona-Caitlyn’s voice as she produces obscene shouts of protest. Then a voice, “Fiona! What the hell are you doing?” she pushes my hair away from my ear and breathes in my ear, “I’m Nalini. Your friend Saffron told me what happened; my friends are coming over now.” Sure enough, there are loud footsteps and voices approaching. One of them yelled at Fiona-Caitlyn, and pushed her so that she landed on top of me, which is when I passed out completely.

I wake up, but don’t open my eyes yet. I listen carefully, and hear Nalini’s voice. She is singing to me quietly. She is singing Imaginary by Evanescence. I open my eyes as she softly sings, ‘Swallowed up in the sound of my screaming, cannot cease for the fear of silent nights. Oh, how I long for a deep sleep dreaming. The Goddess of Imaginary Light.’ I lie there silently, listening to her sing, and look at her. She has her eyes shut, and she looks at peace with the world. I use this opportunity to really look at her. She is beautiful, but strange-looking. She has long red hair, slightly darker than my own, that fell in harsh waves, tied in a high ponytail, but spread out. Her fringe is black, and straight across. She is wearing a light blue corset top, a grey-blue miniskirt, made of four layers of ruffled material, almost like ruffled curtains, that has a layer of black gauze sticking out beneath the hem, red fishnet tights and grey boots with red laces that go to her calves. Her eyes are framed by long black lashes, with violet eyeshadow on the top lids, and her lips are coated (not smeared like Saffron’s) with dark pink lipstick, and she has black metal cuffs, a bit like bangles, all up each arm, from her wrists to above her elbows. She is strange-looking, as I say, but beautiful nonetheless. She finishes singing, and opens her eyes slowly. I sit up, and she quickly finishes opening her eyes, which are a vague purple-grey color. She smiles, showing off her braces with small black plastic beads that look remarkably like tiny pieces of carbon, and says, “Hey, Mosca. You’re awake. You’ve been out for awhile. How’s your head?”
I try to speak, but my voice comes out as a croak. I clear my throat and try again. “It-it’s fine, thanks. Are you Nalini? Are you the girl that helped me?”
She nods and I smile. Two girls come in before I can thank her, and she rises to greet them. She is tall, I realize, and most probably older than me, possibly an older student from another school. The other girls are roughly the same height as her, and both are just as strange-looking. One of them has pale skin, paler than Nalini’s which is now flushed slightly, green eyes outlined in black eyeliner and framed by strange lashes, alternating black and blonde, with white tips. Her lips are covered in black lipstick, and other than the eyeliner and lipstick, she has on no other makeup. Her hair is pale blonde, falls in natural, soft waves down to her hips, and is not tied back or restrained in any way. She is wearing a black halter top, with 3 decorative straps done up with silver buckles across her bust and ribs, of which the ties cross over at the front and go over her shoulders, behind her hair, black pants that I can’t quite recognize the material of, something like a cross between leather and denim, that cling to her thighs but begin to flare just below the  knees with more decorative buckles, two on each thigh, and one on each calf, and a strange decorative chain that loops around the front, in front of her knees which make me wonder how she can walk with tripping herself up, with black high-skinny-heeled flip-flops, that appear (I can’t be sure, her pants hide most of the shoes) to have straps going up each leg like Roman Sandals rather than just ending at the back of each shoe. She is wearing no jewellery, and no accessories. Nalini introduces her as Sarina. “Sabrina?” I say, puzzled. Sarina laughs and says, “No, but close. Sarina. No B.” I nod and smile, and Nalini moves onto the other girl, who is the strangest-looking of them all. Her hair is the same color as Nalini’s, but without the black fringe. It is tied back in a braided bun, that is somehow wider and plumper than normal bun should be, which makes me think she used a lot of hairspray, hairpins and time to do her hair. She is wearing a black semi-spandex turtleneck top, that doesn’t quite go to her chin, instead going halfway up her long neck, with a massive silvery-white cross on the front, a long, long black wrap skirt that is done up at the side with two immense circular buckle-things, and flares out below the buckle-things, which are attached at her knees, revealing her legs, which are encased in black transparent opaque tights, and black high-heeled shoes that look like kitten heels, but with slender straps going up over her ankles, and crossing over each other at the back, just above her ankles, and fastening at the back with small silver buckles. She has gloves on, and these are even stranger than Nalini’s bangles. They are dark gray, thick, and have huge holes in them, five of them on each glove. The gloves are fingerless, starting at the knuckle of each finger, and go up and up and up, past her elbow to her forearm, almost at her armpit. Her eyes are a similar colour to Nalini’s, but not quite so grey. They are outlined with black eyeliner along the bottom lids, and powdered with smoky gray eyeshadow rising upwards, going just past her brow line and almost onto her temple. She has earrings in, long dangly black ones, with small black crosses at the end of each one. She hasn’t spoken yet, but she already gives off a really formal air. Nalini introduces her as Tansy and Tansy says nothing. I greet her, and tell her my name, and her face slowly changes from a blank, neutral expression, to that of confusion. Nalini smacks her forehead hard, making a slapping sound, and says, “Oops, sorry. I forgot to tell you, Mosca, Tansy doesn’t speak English. She’s Russian. She just transferred here last week, and because Sarina and I both speak fluent Russian, we were told to look after her. We brought her here so she’d know her way around town.” She then said something very quickly in Russian, and Tansy’s face changes again, from a look of confusion to a look of understanding. She looks shocked at one point, and her eyes swivel to me. She asks something in a high, slow, posh-sounding voice, and Nalini replies. Tansy is almost crying now, and she looks behind her, where Fiona-Caitlyn is lying, apparently unconscious, with two people by her bedside, a man and a woman. She frowns, and says something to me softly in Russian. I look at Nalini who says, “She says not to worry; your parents will probably come soon.” Just then a woman walks in. She has long brown hair tied in a braided ponytail, tan skin and brown eyes. She looks at me and says in a strong Jamaican accent, “Mosca Dashwood?” I nod, and she smiles, and says, “Do you want to see if your parents can come and get you? I thought I should wait until you woke up. I would have waited to ask Fiona-Caitlyn, but she clearly isn’t going to wake up for awhile.” I nod and look at Nalini, Tansy and Sarina; they all look at me, Sarina murmuring a translation to Tansy, and Tansy nodding in understanding. She catches my eye and says something, smiling a little. I look at the woman. “Yes, please.” She nods and I give her my mother’s cell phone number. She tries to ring, but gets no answer. She frowns and rings my dad. He answers, and she says to him, “Mr. Dashwood? Hi, it’s Juanita, from Highland Drive Middle School. I have Mosca here, she’s in the infirmary, and she wants to see you. ” there is a pause as she listens and then she says, “Very well, Mr. Dashwood. I will try to ring your wife again, but she’s not answering her phone. I left a message, is she at work? ...Okay…I’m sorry to disturb you, Mr. Dashwood. Just in case I can’t get ahold of Mrs. Dashwood, can I get your permission to send Mosca home? Yes, I’m aware that she’s old enough to stay at home by herself, I just need your permission, it’s a safety thing. Okay, thank you. I’m going to send her home with her friends, some older girls from the High School. Their names?” she looks at Sarina who tells Juanita their names and Juanita says, “Tansy Parkinson, Sarina Modern and Nalini Upton. Okay, I apologize for disturbing you, Mr. Dashwood, have a nice day.” She hangs up and says, “He’s at the baseball, Mosca. And your mother is at work. They’re both too busy to come collect you, so it okay with you if you go home for the rest of the day with Tansy, Sarina and Nalini?” I nod, wanting to cry, and she rings my mom to tell her the arrangement.

I go home with Sarina, Nalini and Tansy, and when we arrive, we see nothing out of the ordinary. We walk inside, and there is Rain’s childminder, Jackie, standing at the top of the stairs, looking flustered. I look around. “Where’s Rain?” I ask.
Jackie shakes her head, and says, “I can’t find her, Mosca. I told her we were going to play hide and seek, and she ran off. I don’t know where she is, but she’s wrecked havoc. Her room is a mess, as is yours…”
“WHAT!” I yell, and run up to my room. Sure enough, there is my room, looking like Hurricane Rain had struck it. My makeup is all over the floor; my mirror is covered in Lavender oil and hair gel, my floor has bits of cracked mirror from my compact, squished in lipstick, plasticine, smashed eyeshadow palettes, mascara tubes and lip-gloss tubes, plus my eyeliner pencils are snapped in half. I hear a rustle, then a grunt, and I turn around, and see Tansy holding Rain in an arm lock. I look at Rain, and she’s wearing blue eyeshadow all around her eyes, red lipstick around her mouth, making her look like a clown, eyeliner all over her face and so much blusher on her cheeks that she looks like someone’s gotten pink paint and painted giant circles on her cheeks. She has plasticine under her nails, nail polish all over her hands, and bits of colored paper stuck to her hands. I look closely at her hands and find that they are covered in bits of my Green Day poster. I yell for Jackie and she comes up, along with Sarina and Nalini. Nalini says, “Oh dear.” And Tansy yells as Rain kicks her in the stomach, making her let go.

I yell at Rain, and tell my parents when they get home, but of course they just say, “Mosca, maybe you shouldn’t have left your door open. And please don’t yell at your sister, you know she’s delicate. She needs to be treated with care and respect. She was just excited to see you.”
“And what’s this about you being in the infirmary? Who were those girls who came home with you?”
“Why wasn’t Jackie taking better care of Rain? Don’t look at us like that, Mosca, we need answers.”
“Don’t roll your eyes, young lady. Mosca Indiana Dashwood! Get back here this instant! Are you crying? Whatever for? Sometimes, Mosca, we think you’re too spoiled for your own good!”
I run up to my ruined room, crying. I lie on my bed and sob. Then I get out my Metallica CD and start screaming the lyrics to The Unforgiven while I tidy my room. I think about what I said to Ella. I think about what Fiona-Caitlyn said to me. I think about the looks that Fiona-Caitlyn’s parents gave me. I think about how nice Nalini, Tansy and Sarina were to me. I think about Violet, Saffron and Phoenix.

I call Violet, who calls Saffron, who calls Phoenix and we have four-way calling. It’s working up a colossal phone bill and there is someone on the other line trying to get through, but I don’t care. We talk and talk, and eventually Phoenix and Saffron hang up, so it’s just me and Violet. She says to me, “Mosca, why didn’t you come to us afterwards? Why did you go home and let those weird Goths look after you? I don’t want you to see them any more, they’re older than us, and probably ringing their friends now and saying, ‘Huh, check this out! I was at the Middle school and there was a fight, so me and the others went over to check it out, and there was that Nazi chick, Fiona, and a black girl, with one girl on the ground, and three others. One of them came over and was all, Oh my God, oh my God, you have to help!  My friend’s been knocked out by Fiona-Caitlyn White!! Fiona’s gone absolutely crazy, she’s really hurt this other girl, Ella de la Noche as well. Oh my God please help. So we said we’d help and went over and stopped the fight. We took the girl, Mosca (did you know that means a fly in Spanish? Imagine! Being named A fly, Land of the Indians Quick-Tree-By-Product! I’d die, wouldn’t you?) anyway, we took Mosca home and her sister’s babysitter was there and she couldn’t find the sister until they went up to Mosca’s room and Oh my God it was a mess! There was makeup and shards of glass all over the floor! Then Tansy caught the little kid, who seriously looked so weird, and went so psycho while Mosca yelled at her, and then she kicked Tansy in the stomach! That’s just disrespectful!’ They didn’t really want to help you, Mosca. They were just trying to prove to the headmaster that they’re good little girls who wouldn’t dream of doing anyone harm unless absolutely necessary. ”
I shook my head and yelled, “No, Violet! You’re wrong! Nalini and Sarina and Tansy were really nice. Tansy didn’t speak English so the others had to translate, but they were so nice! Unlike you, who didn’t even do anything! DON’T even start to say, neither did Ella, because Ella tried to see if I was alive, because in her country they fight to the death! It’s Fiona-Caitlyn’s fault that Ella couldn’t help me! Stuff you, you’re not my friend. A real friend would have tried to help me, even if it meant getting knocked out by some crazy Nazi and getting hurt! Saffron and Phoenix didn’t do anything either! Saffron was just scared because she thought Fiona-Caitlyn was going to kill me, and she didn’t WANT to witness a murder, and she didn’t WANT to have to testify to the police, and she didn’t WANT  to go into the Witness Protection Program! It’s all about what you guys want, you don’t give a stuff about me! Violet, I hope you’re writing this down, because I don’t think I can say this all to Saffron and Phoenix. Goodbye, Violet. Good riddance to bad rubbish!” I then hang up and jump onto my bed, sobbing, great, shuddering sobs. The kind that just keep coming, and make your throat hurt and your jaw ache, and then when you’re done you have such a sore head.


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(Authors note: My upgraded membership expired recently, so after Chapter 5 or 6, I'll have to put these chapters on another account. I will update everyone at a later date as to what the username is. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy Mosca's terrible life, because she sure isn't!)