Muddy Yellow Fog
CHAPTER THREE from CAUGHT UP Truth and Metaphor | An Imaginary Tale
Muddy Yellow Fog
3
Early childhood trauma, its resultant thought processes and the emotions it generates create a chaotic mind, much like a fragmented computer. It is an unsoundness that drives human beings toward death and destruction or, in its redeemed state, navigates them toward a spiritual awakening.
Petra had always been aware of a presence greater than herself. As a child, she would climb up the majestic oak tree in her front yard. There, high above the pain and confusion of daily life, her bottom scrunched between two midsize branches jutting out in the shape of a V, she found solace. Legs dangling over the limbs, her back supported by the massive bough beneath, she gazed as clouds passed through lush green branches. She fixated on tiny green inchworms and followed the flight path of butterflies. She lost herself in the repetitive pattern of woodpeckers digging in the bark and marveled at the diverse life living in her tree, her sanctuary, where she rested, cradled in the arms of the Mother she longed for. Moments and sometimes hours of profound peace. An escape, free from thought, swaddled in nature’s beauty, breath and life.
On the weekends, when the drinking started early with Bloody Marys at breakfast, she could escape to her favorite and forbidden natural wonderland. Upon threat of serious injury, she snuck across a busy highway and down into the lush valley below. It did not matter that disobedience, of any kind, brought some sort of physical repercussion. Lou, her mother, had discovered early on that isolation was a gift rather than a punishment. No “time outs” for Petra. Oh, well, so be it.
In the valley, she wandered across open fields, blowing dandelions and making wishes. She loved the taste of raw, pearl-sized, wild onions, irresistibly sweet and always a dead giveaway. She could sit for hours, whistling through various blades of wild grass, searching for subtle tonal variations. The pursuit filled her with joy. On rare occasions, when everything was just right, she munched on blackberries growing along the path to her favorite hideout, a narrow, but swift-moving stream embanked by slabs of natural shale. Here, she would rest her face against the warm rock, releasing thought and all sense of time, as she watched the sun dance off the water’s rippling current.
A devout atheist, Petra’s father, Raymond, restricted any exposure to religion except for one bizarre event, an Irish Catholic wake held at their house when she was eight. She had no recollection concerning the dead man in the coffin. As far as she knew, her father’s only living relative was Uncle Cornelius, his older brother, and that was it. On this occasion, paternal relatives flew in from all over the country. An all-star line-up of great aunts, heavy bosoms straining against their ornate 1960s silk wiggle dresses, sat in high-back chairs lining the walls, plates on their laps and cocktails in hand. Gossip, giggling, cutting jabs of all kinds, the open coffin ignored and overlooked by alcoholic merriment.
Her mother, Lou, set up two bars to service the guests. Within her Irish Catholic heritage, alcohol was king.
Glancing down her nose at Petra’s empty penny loafers, Great Aunt Delia reached into her coin purse and placed two shiny dimes in her outstretched hand. She took those dimes, inserted them into her shoes, thanked her aunt, and imagined herself at the candy counter.
The store was midway between her house and school. She had developed a love for sugar and planned to buy twenty pieces of penny candy on her way to Hayes Elementary, the very next day. The following morning, in the schoolyard, eyeing her as she took an inventory of her stash, the other kids swarmed her, begging for a piece of candy.
In an off-the-cuff, intuitive, entrepreneurial response, she said, “Two cents a piece, please.”
Her first business was born. A roaring success until her sugar habit grew exponentially. She gobbled up her supply and did what all addicts do. She stole a dollar from her mother’s purse and started over.
Petra’s third-grade teacher, disgusted by her constant munching in class and her blatant disregard for the “No Gum Chewing” policy, taught the disobedient child a lesson. Mrs. Davis, who had pitch-black hair teased up into a towering bouffant and matching ebony cat glasses that magnified her punishing eyes, marched down to the last row. She yanked Petra up by the elbow and dragged her to the front of the class.
The teacher spun her around to face her classmates and demanded, “Put that nasty wad of gum on your nose!”
Now, this was no ordinary piece of gum. This was Bazooka Bubble Gum, and Petra had three pieces in her mouth. She took the gum out of her mouth, tears of humiliation welling up. It was a monstrous pink neon blob. Mrs. Davis guided her hand to her nose as her classmates whistled and pointed. The room, the swell of laughter, the spectacle itself, faded, becoming more and more distant. The air thickened into a muddy yellow fog while incessant humming and thumping filled her brain. There was a vague sensation of being pulled across the room and a partial perception that she was facing a corner of the classroom.
She ran her finger down the cool plaster seam where the two walls met. A futile attempt to reconnect with reality. Tightening every muscle against the crazy firings of her jagged nerves, she wept an avalanche of grief and wanted to die. When the bell rang, she remained frozen and rigid. Mrs. Davis called for the nurse.
For the life of her, Petra could not remember what happened after someone removed her from the classroom. The only reason she kept any memory of the incident was because it had been her first public PTSD episode. There must have been several more scattered throughout her elementary school years.
At the final assembly, a graduation ceremony of sorts for fifth graders, the principal took her aside.
He sat her down and, to avoid another scene, said, “I know you won the Safety Guard Crosser of the Year Award. I wanted to let you know, ahead of time, that the plaque has not arrived. I know how emotional you are and I don’t want your feelings hurt.”
The school ignored her condition, attributing it to oversensitivity. No doubt her parents had seen to that. Case closed. No need to look any further.
If you would like to support my work, I invite you to make a donation. “Buy Me a Coffee” is a friendly metaphor, not real coffee. Each “coffee” is $5 and you can buy as many as you like. It is a one time much appreciated gift. Thank you for caring!
A harrowing tale, shot through with unlikely humor and fantastical creatures.
This autofiction (autobiography and fiction) novel revolves around a lifetime spent underwater struggling to find the surface. The narrative follows the journey of an unlikely heroine from the bondage of childhood trauma to self-awareness and freedom.
It is a roller coaster ride from the depths of hell to triumphant success that finishes with a big Hollywood ending.