A Victim's Archives - A Story of Dysfunctional Love, and Restored Hope
Part One: The Beginning of the End...
Long ago, in a tech school far, far away, in what now seems like another world altogether, two pairs of hazel eyes connected in what seemed an eternal gaze. The bearers of which each had the darkest of brown hair, an exceptionally high I.Q., and better than average good looks to their credit.
She in fact, had been chosen as the current “model” for her peers to sketch. Her hip long, cocoa-bean-brown hair, flowing like silk over the seat of her comfortably tight jeans, her denim shirt unsnapped to a flirtatious level, snugly hugging her extremely thin, though adequately curvy body, her sharp, elegant features softened by large, extravagantly fringed, doe-like eyes. She was stunning.
Though, at the time, she truly had no idea that she was even good looking. She sat, therefore, not calmly, nor confidently, but a bit reluctantly - ill at ease at the stares from around the room as her fellow graphic-arts students sketched her at the command of the instructor. She would have MUCH rather been sketching someone else, but the “real” model had not shown up that day, and she had been conscripted to fill in.
The instructor, whose name one would not believe if it were told to you, was a stout fellow of German-American descent – who was in charge of stuffing four years of Commercial-Graphic instruction into these specially selected students over the next two years (plus a quarter of a semester). He was a no nonsense, work-a-holic type with no family near-by, and no love interest. His only passion seemed to be this experimental program – a dream-course of his own invention – that was to prepare the next generation of Graphic Artists for the real work-a-day world - in the printing and design industry. The girl would have much rather been in a fine arts school, but could not acquire funding for such, and could not imagine how she would have used such an education to make a living – and so here she sat – reluctantly modeling.
The students, not adequately discerning the “model's” discomfort, had decided that she was a snob, but such a beautiful snob that they could forgive her seemingly uppity attitude long enough to thoroughly enjoy the opportunity to sketch her! The girls seemed to be in awe of the way this mysterious waif had captured the gaze of the fellows in the room - the fellows appeared caught in abject wonder at the sheer beauty of that shy – or snobby – specimen of female beauty – especially of trying to capture the sheen of that hair! She was at once demure and sexual. She was magnificent – though – again - at that time she seriously had no clue of just how magnificent she was. Years of shame, abuse and vile insults constantly hurled at her by unheeding family members had robbed her of the ability to discern her own beauty. It wasn't humility at work at all, but an altogether distorted view of herself – a warping of her vision – like an emotional fun-house mirror. Though there was little fun to be had – to be sure!
As she sat there, being sketched, she was instructed to fix her gaze upon nothing in particular, but to keep it steadily off in one direction – so that her expression could be adequately captured – as a manikin doll at the department store. She managed to do as instructed, though she found it difficult to avoid the particular gaze of a certain young man. The one who shared the distinction of having hazel eyes, cocoa-bean-dark-brown hair, and a particularly high I.Q. along with her. He gazed at her with such a particular interest that the tension between them grew.
Until - Finally! The hour was over and she was free to go. Immensely relieved to be off the hot-seat of intense observation, she quickly gathered her books and things to leave. Thankfully, this was the last class of the day. Now she must hurry back to her apartment to get ready for her evening job. She was not one of the spoiled privileged ones, who only worked for “mad-money”. She came from poorer parents and she was of necessity a working girl, her existence depended upon it. She was working to escape a life of poverty vouchsafed to her by her parents. She was working to escape a lot of nameless maleficents which stalked her in nightmares – but she was unaware of these motivations. All she knew was that rent, gas, art supplies, and the occasional meal all required money – for which she must work long, hard, hours to procure after a full day at school!
As she hurried to her car, a vintage 1966 Chevrolet Malibu, she was aware of someone following her. It was the young man. “Excuse me? Would you be free for a movie later this evening?”, he hesitantly, but confidently queried. His classmates had bet him that she'd say no. She longed to say yes, but instead mumbled a regretful “rain-check” - due to the inescapable fact of work. He seemed disappointed, but pleased not to have been rebuffed altogether, and they parted ways, each to their own vintage Chevy – his was a 1968 Camaro sport coupe.
That was the odd beginning of what would be her first serious relationship – the only “engagement” of her young life – a hot, steamy, emotionally and sexually charged, though physically limited – courtship - due to the religious upbringing of them both. It proved to be a short tense courtship that lasted but a mere six months – before her emerging mental and emotional issues drove him away – while driving her even further into a kind of internal solitude. A solitude which was unfortunately accompanied by an external promiscuity which she did not seem able to understand, nor control. The girl was in serious trouble. Their break-up was the beginning of the end of what little composure she had been able to manage. Around her the world began to crumble, the atmosphere began to dissolve and the storms began to increase. The worst was yet to come. For her the clouds were gathering into an inevitable tsunami of mental, emotional, social and spiritual breakdown. . . . . .