I woke up in my own bedroom, shivering beneath my duvet feeling like an ice-cream wrapped in its wrapper and left in a box of dry ice over night. Brrr... I had had a rough night, waking up every few hours after a combination of nightmares and inexplicably strange dreams. The sun was dancing on the wooden floor boards, streaming in through the space where my mother had pulled back the bedraggled curtain. A thousand odd thoughts bounded through my heavy head and I rolled around like a rolling pin trying to get rid of them. Soon enough my rolling around led to trouble as I fell out of bed and banged my knee against the wall, wincing and knocking my lamp off the bedside cabinet. The light bulb shattered on the floor, causing my mother to scream at me from the passage. Fragments of glass lay all around me, reflecting the sun’s rays and the image of my grim face. I tried to clear them away, but cut my fingers on a sharp piece of bulb and cried out, watching as my tomato-red blood dripped onto the floor. I grabbed a box of tissues from the bedside cabinet to wipe away the blood and then pulled myself up over the bed to avoid cutting my feet. Talking to myself as though I were schizophrenic, I marched into the bathroom and ran cold water over my bloodied hands, watching the blood run down the plughole like a swirl of the finest red paint being washed off my paintbrush. I pretended for a moment that that was all it was – paint. I was not hurt, I was not bleeding, and I had not knocked anything over. I had become rather good at denying things now. Imagining that problems did not exist seemed almost to get rid of them, at least until they represented themselves in the most awful ways...
Breakfast cheered me up considerably. Kiara joined us for breakfast that morning, as she had arrived early to pick me up for school. I ate a full bowl of Cheerios and milk and even managed to down some of my mother’s disgusting home-made tea. We picked up Laura on the way to school and she beamed brightly, as though everything was perfect.
“Hey, Daph. Second week back for you and first for me. Long time no see,” she said, embracing me tightly before loading her things into the boot of Kiara’s buggy. Laura had missed the first week of second term because of school choir tour. She was an excellent singer in the choir and often sang solos and now she and about forty other girls had just returned from a singing tour of Canada.
“Yes. Too long,” I answered gently, admiring her newly cropped hair. I could not believe Laura had chopped off her gorgeous, golden curls but the short, spiky look made her look like a mischievous pixie. I figured that that was quite a fitting look for Laura. She often reminded me of a little pixie, but maybe that was just because I had grown so much taller than her.
School was rather enjoyable, even if we ended the day with a double EMS. How anyone could manage to do seventy minutes of accounting at the end of a long Monday was beyond me. At any rate, the school day was much more fun now that Laura was there telling me all about her trip to Canada. After school, Laura and I went our separate ways. Laura was on her way to netball team try-outs and I was off to the Dance Auditorium at Oakmead Road. Usually that was a place I avoided, especially after the frightful incident that had occurred there not much more than a year before, but now was different. I was not going to the club; I was auditioning for their dance group. There was a new dance instructor in town, some famous Italian woman with big, red lips and a tongue-twister for a name. I loved dancing, although it had been nearly two years since I had had any formal training, and I was really excited about the prospect of joining a youth dance group and performing for crowds of artsy people every week. I had seen an advert for it in the local gazette and knew instantly that that was the way I wanted to spend my free time that term. Super-fit Laura, on the other hand, was trying out for the school netball team and hoping to get into the A-team like she had the previous year. I would never do something like that. Any sport involving the throwing and catching of a ball frightened me. I know that that may sound ridiculous but I had terrible hand-eye coordination and was a truly useless athlete. I would sooner face Ambrose, an angry man who had been cursed with longevity and the appearance of a young adolescent over five hundred years ago, than play netball. As I approached the Dance Auditorium, I pictured myself dancing in front of an enthusiastic audience, jumping to the music. Music elevated my mood greatly. I could not get enough of it. I walked around the house with my ears plugged into a small contraption of delight, listening to the sounds of song. Now, I could hear the steady beat of a drum and the light tapping of a piano, and I felt my tummy writhe with nerves. Entering the change-room behind the auditorium, I felt alive – pumped up with electricity like a hot, live wire. I remembered in technology earlier we had been discussing electrical circuits. I had forgotten to close my on-off switch, so the LED did not light up. When Laura leaned over to show me my mistake, I felt really stupid. I pretended to be an electrical circuit, for some nonsensical reason. As I undressed and pulled on tights and a leotard, I imagined that my on-off switch had been closed and electricity was flowing through my wires – which I figured would have to be my veins. My eyes sparkled in the mirror, vibrant with excitement – my body’s very own LEDs.
The audition line was much longer than I had expected and several people were busy stretching and practicing while waiting in the queue. We had barely moved an inch forward in fifteen minutes! I watched people stretching for a while but this made me even more nervous, especially when I saw that many of them were much more flexible than I was. So, instead of looking at them some more, I settled down on the floor (as many others had done) and pulled out my book. I was reading The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time, a really original and well-written book about a boy who has Asperger’s Syndrome and sets out to solve the mystery of the death of his neighbour’s dog. I was really into the book, my eyes glued to the pages as I progressed in the story. It was only after about five chapters or so had passed that I realised someone was watching me. I looked at the spying person cautiously and realised it was the girl sitting in line behind me. She was about my age I guessed, with her full luscious lips coated in a rich, red lipstick. She was very skinny, but had very strong calf muscles and I thought I could almost make out a six-pack stomach beneath the tight fabric of her red sweatshirt. She caught my eye and smiled amiably, with two green eyes illuminating her face. I could not help but smile in return.
“Heya, nerdy,” she said sweetly. Normally that sort have talk would have angered me, but I knew that the girl meant no offense.
“Whatcha reading?” she asked, before I’d had a chance to say anything. I told her the book’s name and she laughed and said, “What a mouth-full to remember!” I laughed too.
“Pretty long line, isn’t it?” she said looking ‘round at all the other people waiting to audition. I nodded.
“You a ballerina or contemporary girl?” she asked, eyeballing my black leotard.
“Well, I used to do both once upon a time... Haven’t gone to any classes in nearly two years though.”
“Aah. Nice to give it a go again though. I’ve been dancing since I can remember... Ballet is my genre, though I’ve tried and enjoyed many others.”
“Oh, she’s enjoyed them, alright,” the girl sitting behind her said.
Startled to have yet another stranger joining the conversation, I peered over at her.
“Too right, Precious,” the green-eyed girl said, turning towards her. She then turned back to me and said, “This here is Precious – one helluva ballroom dancer – and I’m Tiva.”
“I’m Daphne,” I replied, timidly shaking Precious’ outstretched hand. Precious was tiny and even skinnier than her flamboyant, ballerina friend. She had chocolate-brown skin and legs as thin as sticks, with such a frail looking arm that I was afraid I might break it when I shook her childish hand. Tiva moved onto a new topic then, telling me all about the school that she and Precious attended. They went to a co-ed school not far from where I lived, where they were allowed to express themselves in any which way - translated into teenage understanding: they could wear civvies and make-up, dye their hair any colour under the sun, and spray paint their lockers with luminous paint, or anything really. There school was called Pocahontas Bridge, though Precious assured me that the name had nothing to do with the classic Disney animation movie. The name Pocahontas showed that it was an institute in which kids were free to be playful and adventurous and, well, kids! Tiva told me that her great-grandmother’s step brother had started the school and that she had been named a Native American name in honour of him, as he had been obsessed with them – note the use of Pocahontas. Tiva means dancer, as it turned out. I talked to the two Pocahontas Bridge girls for nearly forty minutes, and then I was at the front of the line.
“Good luck,” Precious said.
“Thank you.”
“Break a leg, Daphne. We’ll see ya outside,” Tiva said.
I grinned nervously, nodded and walked into the Dance Auditorium. I stepped onto the small, wooden platform that served as a stage and braced myself.
“Good evening,” a lanky, wrinkle-faced woman said in what was definitely neither a South African nor an Italian accent.
“Good evening,” I replied uncertainly. The woman drained about a quarter of the contents of the Vodka bottle she held in her bony left hand. She sat down on a rickety bar stool and licked her thin, salmon-coloured lips thoughtfully while her beady eyes scanned my body.
“Turn,” she said firmly in that same foreign accent. Fretfully, I obliged, doing a full revolution of my spot on the stage while her small, beady eyes bore into me. When, I was facing her once again, she pressed the play button on an old CD player and said, “Mesmerise me, sweetheart,” before taking another great swig of Vodka. I gulped and stood listening to the music for a few seconds, before pulling myself together and beginning to dance. The music was unfamiliar; some old song that sounded like it had been recorded in the ‘50s. I tried a couple of ballet steps and some jumps I recalled learning in modern classes when I was thirteen, but when I looked down at the woman’s expressionless face and the bottle of Vodka moving up to her mouth every so often, I lost my nerve. I began to make up some strange hopping and sliding steps and even attempted some queer type of dance that I’d seen on TV. I smiled, trying to wow her, but felt awful. Nothing impressed her, even when I ended the song poised in an arabesque, with my leg held at a perfect 90 degree angle.
“Well, thank you for your time,” she said, stopping the music and laying aside her empty Vodka bottle, peering at me out of the corner of her eye.
“What is your name?” she asked, with her face as expressionless as a sheet of printing paper.
“Daphne Fauls,” I answered breathily.
“Thank you,” she said, scribbling that down on a piece of paper. Then seeing that I was still standing there, looking expectantly at her she said, “That will be all, Miss Fauls.”
“Oh, thank you,” I mumbled.
I walked out with a lump in my throat. I wanted to cry.
“Daphne, how’d it go?” Tiva asked, rushing towards the door.
“I totally stuffed it up,” I answered, trying to sound like I didn’t care a hoot.
“Oh, no. I’m sure you didn’t! Don’t worry! Say, maybe we can meet up this weekend? They’re announcing the call-backs then.”
“Sure,” I said.
“Awesome stuff. Ask Precious for my cell number, won’t you?”
“Will do. Break a leg, Tiva,” I said.
“Thanks a stack!” she grinned and hugged me, before pulling open the door and stepping boldly inside. I walked up to Precious.
“Don’t worry. We all have those days. Auditions can be very scary,” she said sympathetically. I smiled, even though I felt as though I’d just ruined the chance to be a part of the youth dance group, even though I felt as though I’d ripped my fantasy to shreds. Precious gave me her phone number as well as Tiva’s to add to my contact list and I gave her mine. Then, I wished her good luck and made my way back down the road to school. Kiara had parked her buggy just outside and was waiting for me with a Styrofoam cup of coffee in her hand and an open magazine leaning against her steering wheel. I climbed in and did not even bother to keep how I was feeling to myself. I burst into tears as soon as the ignition started and sobbed as I told my au pair about my intimidating audition all the way home. When I got home, I ran straight into my bedroom, intending to find a way to forget the course of the afternoon. It was already dark, but neither of my parents had returned from work yet. Kiara had left a whole pile of her magazines at the foot of my bed, so I grabbed one of them and got into bed to read it. I ended up reading the two latest issues of Heat, the most recent publication of You and three different issues of Psychologies. Kiara walked in with a bowl of stir-fry for me at seven thirty, only to find me asleep with a half read copy of People snuggled up on top of my face. She waited until I awoke before giving me the reheated meal (this happened to be at eight o’clock). I ate slowly, wondering why my parents hadn’t come to check on me. Kiara left, along with all her magazines, at half past eight and told me to get a good night’s rest. I spent ages playing with my food and dissecting it before actually swallowing, and thus had only finished eating at nine. I went to the kitchen to make some coffee and found my parents at the kitchen table discussing the “monstrosity that is adolescence” over a cup of tea. Fuming, I left for my bedroom without any coffee and slammed the door behind me. I spent over two hours doing my homework and then ran myself a hot bath and lay in it for an age, reading my book and letting my mind drift from the stress of the day.
At twelve, I lay in bed with my nose still stuck behind the covers of a book. I had finished The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time and was now nearly thirty pages into Cirque du Freak. It was then that a chill came over the room. A bitingly cold draft filtered into the dimness surrounding me and I looked up to see that my window was open. It had not been open when I got into bed. I thought I must have imagined it, so I went back to my book, but then there was a loud thump as something tumbled into my room. I looked up again; my tummy twisted into several painful knots, and I slammed my book shut. There was a parcel lying on the floor, wrapped up in a few layers of old newspaper. I peered up at the window, wondering what else might come soaring towards me. Then the window closed, as though of its own accord, and left me to tend to the package. Curiously, I bent over the article and tried to figure out what it might be. After several guesses I gave into my inquisitiveness and bent down to unwrap it. Beneath all the newspaper, I found a beautiful grey-blue dress, made of fabric that felt softer than silk, and wrapped inside its skirts was a queer-looking knife which was cased in a splendidly carved, wooden sheath. Along with these fine gifts, there was a letter which had been typed onto a piece of orange card. It read:
“For your courage and your strength
Your beauty and your truth
May you look as valiant as you are
And be as strong in action
As in will and word”
I gawped at the gifts and the wonderful poem and wondered who would have given them to me. Could it have been Vusi – Ambrose? Does he care about anything other than finding and destroying Jacqueline to get vendetta? Does he care about me? Does he think that the knife could protect me from Jacqui? Even if that’s the case... Why send the magnificent dress? Maybe it was Jacqueline... As some kind of thanks? Why now? Why now, when I’ve been avoiding Vusi altogether, been giving him one-word answers to questions and haven’t braved up lying to him and saying that Jacqui’s lying in her grave? Why now, when I haven’t even spoken to Roberto for ages because I’ve been trying to pretend that none of this ever happened and I know that when I see him he’ll want to talk about it? Why when everything has been so normal?
I sighed, wishing that my life really had gone back to the way it used to be, pretending that it had. I knew deep down that despite my pretence and my attempts to block out everything to do with Jacqueline and Vusi – Ambrose – it was all very real and I was still very much a part of those inter-galactic happenings.
The next day I was too tired to go to school. No one objected when I declared that I wished to stay at home. My parents thought it was a natural adolescent thing and that it should not be argued with. I thought they were scared of me because I had not spoken to them at all the previous night and had stormed out of the kitchen and slammed my bedroom door without any explanation. They would not have understood even if I told them why I had behaved in that manner. I spent the morning in bed, reading and listening to music and then having a good snooze. At lunchtime, Laura called me to ask how I was feeling. I told her about the audition and about the package that came through my window. She said she was sure everything would turn out alright with the former, and sounded quite spooked by the latter. Kiara brought me a pie from Pick ‘n Pay and a whole pile of magazines that I had not yet read and sat with me while I ate, cheering me up and telling me about the lectures she had attended that day. After lunch, we watched a couple of soaps on TV and then Kiara left for yoga. She said I could come with but I opted out, just in case anyone from school saw me and found out I was not really sick. Instead, I read five different issues of Seventeen and paged through a pile of Women and Home and Fairlady magazines. After that, I walked around the garden taking snapshots of random flowers and dying trees, and then uploaded the pictures onto my computer and started editing them until I’d created a magical looking jungle of my own and printed it to stick in my drawing book.
Sunset finally came. I was in the bath, finishing Cirque du Freak and half-listening to Kiara singing along to Britney Spears in the TV room. After finishing my book, I dried off and moved back into my room. I looked across the room and my eyes caught on the bundle of ripped newspaper and soft grey-blue material lying on the floor. I edged towards it like a burglar edging towards a house in the night. For some reason, I was shaking and breathing very short, raspy breaths. I felt the light fabric touch my cold hands and watched as it got up off the floor, clutched by my nervous fingers. The dress unravelled before my eyes; mystical and floaty as though it was the attire of a fairy or a mermaid from a distant land. It seemed to pull itself onto my body of its own accord and I found myself in front of the bathroom mirror without any memory of ever leaving my bedroom. The mysterious dress fitted perfectly and felt amazingly warm and smooth, like an extra layer of skin that I’d never realised I needed but now knew I couldn’t do without. I looked in the mirror, spinning around and smiling at my reflection. Then I realised that the fabric of my dress was the exact colour of my eyes. It made me look like one of those cartoon characters who have eyes drawn to match their outfits – those witch and super-hero characters with the colours that define their personas. The article of clothing I wore looked as though it had been tailored specially for me. It rippled gently over my body, flaunting my long torso and small waist, with gathering at the chest and fabric smoothing out gracefully from my waist down. The skirt loosened at my hips so that it flew out around me when I turned around, with gracefully jagged edges swirling about my calves. I admired the tight but comfortable sleeves which trailed down to the exact right position (on my wrists) and then I caught a glimpse of the back. I rushed into the TV room and made Kiara take a photo of the back of my dress. She commented on my magnificent attire saying that I had never looked more beautiful and asking where I had gotten the breathtaking gown. I had never really considered myself beautiful, but with the dress on I could see the splendour that I always thought I lacked. I looked at the photo of my back and beamed. It was so picturesque and flawless – a low V-shape with thin, spaghetti straps crisscrossing over each other like some fancy leotards I’d seen at the shops. I bounced out of the room without answering a single one of Kiara’s questions and returned to my room to take off my exquisite, new dress and secret it away at the back of my wardrobe.
The rest of the school week went by quickly, with my actually at school. Not much happened. Laura made the A-team for netball, I got in trouble for sending her a note during history, Kiara packed me leftover stir-fry for lunch on Friday and Don called me after school to ask if I wanted to watch his soccer match the following day. I said no, though I told him teasingly that I was sure Laura would love to come. Don started shouting at me then and we had a really pointless argument which ended with him swearing at me and hanging up the phone, only to call back five minutes later and say that he was sorry and hadn’t meant a word of it. I could just have ditto-dotted that if it had been written down, but of course I had to use up my energy to repeat every word of his apology from my perspective.
On Saturday morning I woke up to find an SMS had come through on my cell phone in the middle of the night. Tiva had invited me to join her and Patience at one of their friend’s birthday parties. Apparently friends of friends were welcome and they thought I’d really enjoy it. I really wanted to go but was pretty sure that my parents would say no. Therefore, I was shocked when they said yes and lingered behind the door to eavesdrop on their conversation.
“Oh, she’s growing up, Bill,” my mother said.
“Time to let her spread her wings and maybe she’ll meet some new people.”
“That’s what you said when she went to high school,” my father said slowly.
“Yes, well, a party is different from school. There’s no work or stress involved. Maybe she’ll make some really good friends who can relate to her...”
I thought about their conversation as I went to call Tiva and tell her the good news. She sounded ecstatic and told me to wear “something real hot” and that she and her dad would swing by to pick me up at six-thirty that evening. I laughed and told her I would try and find something suitable to wear. In the back of my mind I could picture the mystical dress waiting for me at the back of the cupboard.
That night, after a steaming hot shower and a bowl of reheated stir-fry, I slipped into my bedroom and reached for the handle of my closet, pulling the door open and diving into it. I reached the back of the wardrobe, behind all the moth-eaten, old coats that my mother liked to store in there, and produced my marvellous gown. It lay in my hands, delicate and softer than the finest silk, and then before I knew it I was wearing it once more. I felt complete in my extra layer of eye-coloured skin, which was warm enough to act as my insulator. It was a polystyrene cup and I was the hot coffee being held together within it, kept warm and comfortable. I pulled on a pair of white tights and silver pumps and ran a brush through my long tangle of hair. Kiara came in then, equipped with an item I’d never seen her use before.
“What’s that for?” I asked.
“Your hair. I thought it would be the cherry on top of this lovely look,” the university student replied sweetly. The object was a straightening iron, something that had the power to convert my great bush of mud-coloured frizz into a long, straight, sleek length of silken brown. I watched her work her magic in the mirror, saw my reflection changing before my very eyes. By the time Kiara had finished, I was filled with excitement for the night. My hair looked much longer once straightened and it was shiny too. I thanked Kiara and then the doorbell rang. Hurriedly I pushed a few items into a small shoulder bag, including my knife with its beautifully carved sheath, though I was not quite sure why at the time. It just felt right, somehow. The trip to Tiva’s friend’s house was fun. Tiva’s dad barely said a word to me but Tiva’s talkativeness certainly made up for that. Music was playing really loudly through the car radio and Tiva had a lot to say about her friend and all the people coming to the party. I talked a lot too and we both laughed like hyenas. Tiva’s dirty blonde hair was done up in an immaculate French plait and her green eyes were lined with black eyeliner, with blue eye-shadow peeking out just above and tons of mascara applied to her lengthy lashes. She was wearing the same red lipstick that she’d worn on Monday and it matched her funky bulk of flamboyant necklaces and the deep red miniskirt she had wore. Normally I couldn’t stand make-up, especially not such strong colours, but it suited Tiva’s boisterous, frisky personality. She was very vivacious had a colourful character, full of life and oomph.
We arrived at the party at quarter to seven and were dropped off outside by Tiva’s dad. As we walked up to the large house where the party was being held, I took in the full sight of Tiva standing upright and I guess she did the same to me. The skinny ballerina wore high heels which created the illusion that she was the same height as me. She wore very modern-looking clothes and smelt of some kind of fruity perfume.
“Wow, Daphne. You look amazing!” she said.
“Thank you. So do you.”
“Thanks but not like you. You look an out-of-this-world amazing,” she said smilingly. I did not know what to say so instead I led the way to the front door and knocked on it three times. The door swung open to reveal a well-lit house that was literally vibrating with a cacophony of different noises. After that, everything got terribly confusing and out of hand. The party was lots of fun to start off with. I met lots of new people and ate lots of sweets and chocolates, and danced with Tiva and Precious and their many friends. I listened and laughed to jokes and stories and even braved up telling a few of my own. Then I went to the bathroom, the one room that was vaguely quiet. Whilst washing my hands, I closed my eyes for a second of peace. Upon opening them I realised that that was the only second of peace I would have that night, for beside my reflection in the mirror was the reflection of another. His dark eyes glowed dangerously and I screamed in shock, but before much of my scream had come out, he had his hand plastered to my mouth and had pushed me up against the tiled wall.
“You’ve been trying to forget me, Miss Fauls,” Vusi said menacingly. I could barely breathe, so I bit down on the palm of his hand. Vusi let a yelp escape his lips as he pulled his hand away.
“I know who you are – who you really are. I have news for you,” I said quickly.
“Oh, really? This had better be good!” he snapped, clutching his bitten hand to his chest with the other hand.
“It is. I saw Jacqueline and she told me that you are Ambrose and that you are searching for her out of want of vengeance. I understood why and I wished to free your soul from its imprisonment here, so I...” I took a deep breath and tried to look very emotional about the next part of my tale.
“I killed her,” I lied emotionally.
“That is not possible. How am I to believe you?” Vusi said, drawing towards me threateningly.
“She was the most beautiful woman on our planet – and only became that way so as to gain your brother’s affection. Surely you must know that even the most magnificent woman is mortal?” I said silkily.
“Surely she is, but she is – oh, forgive me – you are not dead yet,” Vusi said, pouncing on me with the force of a tiger and pinning my back up against the wall once again.
“What are you talking about?” the words sputtered out of my mouth unevenly, as the boy-sized man’s hands pressed firmly against my shoulders.
“Oh, don’t think you can fool me, Jacqui! You are the cause of your own misery, you know. You told me yourself that you changed your appearance to appeal to my brother, so whose to say you wouldn’t change it again – disguise yourself to trick me?! Well, I guess you thought you were too clever to be outwitted by the likes of me... A poor ignorant human would never be able to find out, you thought. You led me to believe that some could still see us; that this girl could see us, this Daphne. Very brainy plan there, I commend you on that, Jacqui. The most beautiful girl was a bit of a giveaway though. Why do you always have to appear beautiful? Wait, don’t answer that. First, to get closer to Akia and now to get closer to me, and to think I actually liked this Daphne character! Ingenious until this point, Jacqueline. You always thought that you were playing the game one step ahead so that you could win it, but I guess my staying behind waiting for you to make a mistake worked out, did it not?” Vusi said madly, his hand clamped over my mouth once again.
He thinks I’m Jacqueline. He thinks I’m merely her in disguise! He thinks I’m the most beautiful girl in the world... He thinks I’m Jacqueline!!! He is going to kill me!!!! I thought frantically. I bit down on Vusi/Ambrose’s hand once again and, in the second of freedom that it granted me, kicked him in the shins. I ran for the door and pulled it open, then quickly stopped to say to the doubled-over man, “I am not Jacqueline. Jacqueline’s dead.”
I raced down the passageway and into the thicket of the party, enveloped in the warmth of wall heaters and dancing bodies with the sounds of jumpy music and laughter all around me. I thought I was safe, but then I felt someone grab my arm and twist it sharply. I yelped but no one heard over the loud music and I was pulled out of the crowd without anyone even noticing. Vusi dragged me into an empty room. I could barely see him in the dimness of the moonlight that came in through the window. Not a single electric light was switched on.
“It’s the end of the line for you, Jacqueline. Why won’t you just admit it? Don’t you want to die? You’ve been alive so long anyway.”
I was crying and lashing out, trying to get him away from me and telling him repeatedly that I was not Jacqueline. This only intensified Ambrose’s anger and he started swearing at me and calling me things that I’d never heard of, lashing out at me as well. I thanked my lucky stars that it was dark, or else he might have actually killed me then. Because of the darkness, he couldn’t make out my figure very clearly and his fists could not keep up with my speedy dodges.
“This is no time for games!!!” he yelled, grapping a fistful of my hair and wrenching it up at an agonising angle. I was held against the wall, screaming and crying in pain and fear.
“I’m not playing a game!!! I’m Daphne, not Jacqueline!!! LET ME GO!!!” I screeched. I could not understand how someone so much shorter than me could be so strong, but then I remembered that he was a lot older than me and that he’d probably been training for hundreds of years to get strong enough to destroy Jacqueline when he finally found her. He’d been preparing for this moment for centuries, and he was so sure that I was Jacqueline. There was no way that I could persuade him to believe me. My hand trailed down my side towards my bag as I remembered I had my phone there. There was a very slim chance that I’d get anything through the person on the other end of the line, but I figured that I should at least try.
“Not so fast there!” Ambrose said coldly, slapping my hand away from my bag and opening it, sifting through its contents blindly. It was nearly impossible to make out what the objects were in the darkness of the inside of my shoulder bag. Then, I saw him raise something in his hand.
“Well, this looks interesting... Some heavy tube of lipstick?” Ambrose asked, laughing icily. I snatched the item from him, and he growled like a beast and threw me to the ground with force far greater than I’d expected him to have. I cried out as my back hit the ground.
“Oh, stop whining, you monster!” he shouted, planting a powerful punch on my head. I screamed and tried to get back up, but he pushed me down and began to wrestle with me. I tried to fight him off, but he was too strong. My hand still clutched the object he had thought was a tube of lipstick though I had completely forgotten about it. I kicked him hard in the stomach and he pushed me forward, knocking my head against the wall. Blood was already oozing out from the earlier punch and my head throbbed with pain. I tried to parry his blows with my hands, and Ambrose knocked part of the article in my hand to the floor. I heard it clatter but was still unsure as to what it was. It definitely wasn’t my cell phone and even if it had been, how could part of it come off just by his hand knocking it? I tried to get to my feet, but was pushed down once again. Ambrose’s hands reached for my neck this time, determined to throttle the life out of me. I squirmed in his grasp, beginning to suffocate and trying to put up as much of a fight as I could manage. I waved my arms around manically, and then felt something connect with his stomach. My neck was release and I breathed in and out and in and out desperately, feeling sick. I wondered what had stopped Ambrose and looked at him. He seemed to be struggling for breath and then stopped breathing altogether and flopped over on top of me. I pushed his body off me with difficulty and gasping from the strain, tried to figure out what had happened. The moon shone close to the window then, illuminating the scene before me. I stared incredulously at Ambrose’s lifeless form and the fine knife sticking out of his stomach. It was the knife that had been in my hand and the sheath that had fallen off. I had unwittingly ended Vusi’s life. I pulled out the knife and stared at the tomato-red blood that covered it. In a state of disbelief and terror, still feeling breathless and sick from the fight, I dived through the window. Glass shattered all around me, and I winced as I landed heavily on the earth outside. Then I was running. I ran so fast that I did not even register where my feet where taking me, tears running down my face and blood dripping from the knife in my hand and the wound on my head. I caught sight of myself in a puddle outside the house I finally halted at. The left-hand side of my head contained hair that was growing redder by the second as though a great rose was blooming and its petals were filtering in between the strands of dark hair.
I looked up to see where I was. I stood outside Roberto’s house. I had no idea how I knew it was his or how I had found my way there. I just knew this instinctively. Pacing up and down in front of the house, I thought of my predicament. I had been avoiding Roberto for weeks and it had hurt but I had been trying to forget him, so that I could forget Ambrose and Jacqueline. I had wanted so badly to lead a normal life. Now, I had unintentionally taken the life of a man who had been an inch aware from taking my own. The guilty weapon was still in my trembling hand and I had lost a lot of blood from head injuries. I was in pain but more than that, I felt confused, bewildered and terrible. I was a murderer.
A light switched on and the door opened to reveal Roberto. He’d grown a lot since I’d seem him last, now about ten centimetres taller than me. His dark eyes took me in with a look of absolute shock.
“Daphne, what happened?” he gasped. I burst into tears again and ran towards him, not sure what I was going to say. Now that I was up close, Roberto could see the blood in my hair, the big wound on my head. I tried to explain but could not find the words.
“It’s alright. It’s alright. You’re safe now,” he whispered embracing me and stroking my silken hair tentatively. I cried but held him close, scared of what would happen when he found out the truth. Over the past weeks I had become so good at deceiving people, particularly myself. I had learned to make pretence because I thought that it would make my problems disappear but it never really did. I could pretend all I liked but it wouldn’t change a thing.
“Roberto,” I whispered finally. It was time to stop pretending and to face the truth. Imagining my problems away did not really take them away.
“He’s dead. Ambrose is dead.” The pretending was at an end. I told Roberto everything and then sank to the ground and buried my head in my knees, sobbing. It was then that I knew I could pretend no more...
(7032 Words)
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