The many faces of Ren-Rosa

I was not always the protagonist of a disturbing anecdote. I was once just a girl — a girl who, from an outward glance, seemed like any other abused child. But as my favourite author, Edgar Allan Poe, once said: “Believe nothing you hear, and only one half that you see.”

They say that sins and trauma can fracture the soul. I think the common denominator here is the maddening illusion of the mind’s futile attempts at self-preservation in a coercive world that persuades people to do things they do not wish to do.

Who decides what is a sin? Who decides what is traumatic? Is it reality or perception? Is reality not subjective to perception — or does reality exist whether we choose to see it or not?

Did I have a psychological condition, or was I simply an ordinary person in an extraordinary situation?

The only way people like us survive is to dream of something better. Right..?

Of course you do not understand. Let me take you to the beginning — or at least, my perception of the beginning.

I had not yet opened my eyes, but I was most certainly awake — overly aware of my senses, piecing together a mental picture of my surroundings before I even had the chance to open my eyes.

I could smell the dusty, damp musk that was ever-present in the air, born from my parents’ refusal to use the central heating and their general lack of cleanliness or care.

I could hear the raindrops tapping at my window, sliding down the glass — slow at first, then faster as they merged and fell into the small pool gathering at the bottom of the pane.

Outside, the wind howled as if confused about which direction it wanted to blow. It was one of those winter mornings where daylight never truly arrives — where morning sinks further into darkness as day turns into another night.

I lived every second of my life feeling as though I had just missed the last step in the dark. It has been this way for as long as I can remember.

Even as a child, I knew I was not loved or wanted. At best, I was an inconvenience.

It was a Wednesday morning, and like every other Wednesday, I had to get ready for school. At the time, I was thirteen — already proficient in the art of taking care of myself, as I had been doing for many years.

There were no parents to wake me with a kiss on the forehead, or even a yell of exasperation to spur me up for the umpteenth time. As always, my parents were unconscious — strung out on their drug of choice, the one thing they valued above all else: heroin.

It was a wonder I was alive at all. Often, I wished I had not made it through infancy.

I dressed and washed myself as best I could. With no electricity to clean my clothes or heating to dry them, I always smelled unclean. I would wash in the sink with cold water, hoping to improve my odour, but there was no soap, and the towels smelled worse than the carpets.

Every morning, as I walked down the stairs, I prayed there might be a morsel of food in the house. There hardly ever was. All there was to ingest was the sight of my parents’ pale, corpse-like bodies sprawled across the floor.

My mother, Martha, still had the belt strap tight around her arm and the needle hanging out of her skin. I stood beside her, peering closer to soak in her morbid appearance. Her skin was translucent and pasty with a yellowish tinge. Dark, drooping circles framed her hollow eyes.

I tried to hate her. I wanted to hate her. But I couldn’t. I wanted her to love me so desperately — but just as I could not hate her, she could not love me.

My father spoke even less. Unlike my mother, who screamed incessantly when she was rattling for her next fix, he barely acknowledged me, conscious or not.

They were skeletal — beyond the help of a thirteen-year-old girl.

I would love to say my mother bore traces of a once-beautiful woman worn down by hardship, but that would be a lie. There was no trace of beauty left, and I had never known her to be anything else.

All I knew of my father was that he robbed people, and my mother sold herself to fund their habits. My role was to pretend I did not exist — especially when they ran out of money, for that was when they turned to other substances that made them vicious and cruel.

Despite my parents, I was intelligent — a straight-A student, a miracle considering the lack of encouragement or stimulation in my early years.

I found solace in escapism: books, ideas, daydreams. It was hard to focus when the hunger gnawed at me, but I learned to distract my mind.

I would knock on neighbours’ doors, offering to clean gardens or wash cars. Eventually, they trusted me enough to walk their dogs or fetch groceries. These small jobs gave me food — and brief reprieves from home.

School was no sanctuary either. My appearance and poor hygiene made me an easy target. At break and lunchtimes, I hid in the toilets — though even there I was not always safe.

Returning home each day was like stepping into a tomb. My mother was either between punters or frantically preparing her fix, my father helping her, both trembling with need.

Heroin consumed them. The more they took, the less human they became — primal, shameless, and hollow. They cared for nothing: not themselves, not each other, certainly not me.

I had no one. But I had my mind — beautifully creative and cruelly self-aware.

Sometimes I drifted in and out of consciousness, as though my body existed separately from me. The world felt unreal, detached. When pain became too much, I would float above it, watching myself from a distance.

Sleep brought no dreams — only vast, black voids.

When awareness finally returned, I realised I had been standing beside my mother for half an hour, staring without knowing it. A strange calm washed over me. I swallowed the saliva pooled under my tongue and forced myself to move.

I reached for the brass handle of the door, compelled by duty more than will, and stepped into the cold morning. My legs carried me towards school without my mind’s permission.

As I walked, I kicked the head off a dandelion and watched its seeds scatter in the wind. My thoughts drifted. Don’t dandelions seed in June? It was the end of autumn.

My life defied poetic beauty, yet I longed for it. I imagined I wasn’t me at all — that I was another girl: small, delicate, and perfumed with rosewater. My hair would be long and pale, cascading in loose curls. I would be the size of a sugar grain, light enough to ride a dandelion seed into another world.

But the fantasy dissolved as the school gates came into view.

I hated my height — it made me too visible, too easy to mock. Eyes followed me even when my gaze was fixed on the ground. I only wanted someone, anyone, to like me. To tell me I belonged.

I did not feel I had permission to exist.

By the time I reached the lockers, hunger had clawed its way back. I looked for unattended bags, hoping to find a snack or spare change. I didn’t like to steal, but hunger overpowered morality.

I found half a packet of custard creams, snatched them, and hid in my usual refuge — the old lavatory in the science block. It was avoided by everyone: students, teachers, even cleaners. Perfect.

I ate quickly but carefully, savouring the brief comfort the biscuits offered until the bell rang.

English Literature was next — my favourite subject. I loved its balance of structure and freedom. Language could take you anywhere your mind dared to go.

Our teacher, a small auburn-haired woman with a stern kindness, had a way of connecting literature to life. She may not have known it, but she was the only real person in my life who inspired me.

That day, we studied Moby Dick. I inhaled the scent of the old book — the sweet, vanillin aroma of lignin breaking down over time. It reminded me that even decay could smell beautiful.

The task was simple: interpret the author’s message. To me, it was obvious — Moby Dick was about the monster one cannot escape, the haunting pursuit that defines a life.

I wrote feverishly.

When the class ended, I stayed behind, as I always did. Leaving last meant fewer attacks in the corridors. Once the noise died down, I made my way to the library for tea and toast time — a small program for children like me.

Even there, I was an outcast among outcasts. Yet I was grateful for the food and the quiet.

I spent my time reading biology, physics, and sociology. Humans fascinated me — not emotionally, but analytically. They moved through life like ants, unaware of their patterns.

Though I possessed strong cognitive empathy, emotional empathy eluded me. I could read people easily, but never feel what they felt.

That afternoon, as I lost myself in Planck’s quantum theory, I was startled by a tap on the window.

It was Branoc — my crow.

I had raised him since he was a fledgling, abandoned like me. From the start, I saw myself in him — intelligent, solitary, and misunderstood.

I studied birds obsessively, and I learned what to feed him: insects, snails, worms. I even stole a petri dish from the science lab to use as a water bowl.

Two years had passed since I found him, and he still came to visit. Scientists say crows have the intelligence of a seven-year-old child. I believed it. Branoc could solve problems, recognize faces, even plan ahead.

He was my only friend.

That morning, he hadn’t come to greet me. I blamed the wind. He often slept in my room, but now that he was grown, I expected him to leave soon — perhaps to breed or migrate. The thought made my chest ache.

When he finally appeared at the window, I offered him a piece of toast. He squawked, tilted his head, and studied me with those sharp, black eyes — the same way I studied the world.

Then he flew away.

I hoped to see him again that night. As I watched him disappear into the grey sky, I remembered teaching him to fly.

That was the only time I had ever felt truly happy.