She Taught Me: What Will She Teach You?

By MS. L. Bond

She Taught Me is gut wrenching, powerfully raw, and brilliantly infused with rich insights for every woman whose identity, passion, and spirit have been compromised. Lylas journey will facilitate your own transformational process of embracing pain to discover the true essence of your freedom.

Teri Sica, LICSW

Psychotherapist, WATD-FM Radio Show Host

Based on true events, Lylas saga is provocative and revealing, captivating and demanding of empathy. A woman so twisted beyond her authentic self from violation and clandestine sex, she doesnt notice her soul slip away.

Self reproach leads her choices into a life trajectory of circumstances plagued by undeserving crisis, as witnessed in her daughters tragic disabling injury.

When her soul screams to return, only by embracing fortitude can she validate her pain and grasp the freedom that lay beyond. But the alchemy required to disrobe the cloak of shame shes enmeshed herself with thwarts her healing with its toxic visceral side effects.

So many mirrors reflect the self loathing and secrets still hidden in the shadows and her strangled silence longs to be given a voice.

Lyla seeks traditional and alternative methods to reinvent herself, eventually proving the indomitable courage of our spirit illuminates the path towards healing where one can create a future where potential becomes promise.

Lylas poignant journey resolves giving you inspiration as she shows us how trauma can be turned into treasure.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: May 18, 2017
• ISBN: 9781480842762

MS. L. Bond

Lyla Bond is dedicated to advocacy for the profoundly mentally delayed and epileptic. She is grateful to live in New England where her spirit is grounded by the mountains and enthralled by the ocean. A mother and dedicated friend, she expresses her passion through writing and fashion photography.

Book preview

Prologue

It’s a simple enough question, but one that I suspect can only be answered by a woman entrenched in crisis or imprisoned by a sordid past. A woman you may know whose psyche has been side swiped by a forced analysis of the unsatisfied longing that plagues her. A woman who now fervently goes looking for what she feels but cannot name or see. She’s desperate for the intangible that evades the grasp of her consciousness, like smoke and mirrors, like trying to catch the wind.

A woman who has undoubtedly been reeling backwards burdened with inquiry, even remorse, of opportunities ignored and decisions that turned devious.

What if it wasn’t merely a mid life meandering reminiscence coaxed by Chardonnay and tipsy girlfriends? What if you were suddenly, violently, hurled back in time to a period your subconscious had deliberately forced you to forget….as a matter of emotional survival? An ‘episode’ of your life that two decades later still possesses the power to overtake you with an absurd eating disorder…..hurl you back to the fragility of a misguided young adult, merely from it’s memory. What if that unsuspecting woman is you?

The question posed seems harmless enough…as it first permeates intelligent consideration. The question simply is… "Could your persona and your spirit….all that makes you… you, be destroyed from one traumatic experience forever? Does your soul retreat into hidden recesses within to lay dormant, or is it fractured irreparably, or does it simply…. fly away?"

The answer to this question will determine the kind of woman you become. So ponder carefully….are you prepared to face what you find? What price will you pay to rescue your soul from insignificance?

Will there be some event that announces itself as a catalyst to initiate the time to go searching, to dig up details that your subconscious buried? If so the need to heal a damaged soul is immediate. The repercussions of ignoring it’s cries for healing will keep you trapped in the unpredictable misery of nightmares and uninspired, lifeless living, void of both purpose and passion, and pleasure.

Choosing courage over fear will mean dwelling in the dark abyss of your aching disappointments. It will mean facing that which was too overwhelming to bear. But here is the pearl…If you are prepared to conduct an intensive search to reclaim your spirit, your soul..If you are prepared to tend to the wounds you chose to ignore…If you quiet the conscious mind’s need to control, as it insists you Hold on… If instead you embrace the pain and allow it to envelope you, you will find that with acceptance comes true dissipation.

But best of all, your trauma has turned to treasure. As you dig deeper beyond each layer of pain, everything you have reluctantly foregone, brush away the cold black dust that covers the caverns of your heart you ignored for so long. Afford each layer the compassion and love you would a suffering child. Forgive each and every condensed layer for its existence. Forgive it its menace, forgive that you tried to forget instead of face, forgive it all. Forgive it amongst as many wrenching torrents of tears that it takes.

This pilgrimage will reward you richly. The years and darkness have been preparing you. Where once the trauma reduced your essence to carbon, the compression of decades has now created a diamond. When finally you can bring it to the surface and allow the light to dance amongst it’s perfect edges, you will have what every woman seeks in her lifetime. You will be illuminated with joie de vivre, ignited with passion as zeal courses your veins replacing sorrow. You will epitomize the joyous liberation of authenticity. You will exude the essence of your true spirit…your soul. You will want to share yourself with others, unafraid to expose your sincere self and you my friend, you will be magnanimous for your hearts unbridled desires…you will be formidable, magnanimous, unforgettable.

So are you willing to go back in pain in order to go forward in freedom? Begin now….

Part One

The Death of Lyla’s Spirit & The Birth of ‘Genevieve’s’.

1.

‘Pantomime.’

READY????NOW! They strode out in front of a thin crowd on his cue. A crowd mostly of wanna be models…all young girls with a few of their mothers. Sparsely scattered amongst those eager faces were the target audience. Potential customers of the overpriced, poorly constructed fashion, designed in Australia but assembled in Indonesia for less than 5% of the swing tag. This was the ‘open to the public’ show, or ‘poor mans designer’ they called it.

The models strutted and slinked as best they could, treating the event with aplomb and cool distance helped them pretend this was a glamorous occasion. They could only look upon these ‘opportunity’ shows to practice their ‘sway’. It was all about the ‘sway’. With hip bones pushed forward, shoulder blades protruding back past their evident spines so the clothing ‘hung’ and ‘swayed’ just the right way. Literally, they were human coat hangers. Long lean thighs slid out front to the music and toes turned out like perfect ballerinas, they would pause at the end of the runway sink their hips to one side, glide effortlessly into a pivot and then return.

It was smooth, and sultry…… and arrogant. In reality their feet burned and stomachs rumbled, but the steady infectious beat of Michael Jackson’s ‘Thriller’ kept them motivated with the ego stroking high that is known as….the catwalk.

A purple polyester curtain draped with big gapes around an unsteady and scuffed white catwalk. It must have been the epitome of elegance…back in the 60’s. The lighting was harsh, fluorescent, and stole any ambience that attempted to adorn them as they paraded around for all of three minutes before redressing. All despised doing these midday shows. Everything about them was cheap. The department store never provided decent changing areas and the models who lived on air as it was, had to supply all their own make up, stockings, drinks and even shoes to compliment the fashion!

Worst of all though, the store held a monopoly and took their time paying the agency. It would be at least six weeks before Lyla would see her paltry cut of the day’s work that began at eight in the morning and would keep her in 3 inch heels until midnight. She did’t even have cab fare home and the thought of public transport that late, especially to the ‘arty’ bayside neighborhood where she lived, was most definitely unappealing. She figured she would bum a lift from one of the other girls. Unless she went to the ‘after party’.

Lyla had rent saved but that was it. She walked everywhere usually, to save money and add to the intense caloric burning that she had to maintain. Vivienne and Lyla lived on ‘miracle soup’. A thin, watery vegetable broth. They allowed themselves lemonade popsicles only at ‘that time of the month’. Neither girls were natural born ‘skinnies’ so existed on a deprivation diet and rigorous exercise regime to maintain a waist less than 25 inches. They knew it wasn’t healthy, but figured vitamins were adequate substitutes and relied on youth to disguise any signs of malnutrition.

Some glamorous life! Still the music and the momentum, added to the inherent vibe of accomplishment they collectively shared as a team who had been hand picked for this ‘Spring Carnival Racing Extravaganza’. Vivienne and Lyla managed a smile at each other as they headed down the runway together. Lyla couldn’t help feeling that her self confidence had been raised significantly by working alongside Viv.

Vivienne was the epitome of a ‘model’. She embodied an alluring innocence and unassuming beauty. Taller than the others by at least three inches. She wore her thick blonde hair like a fur stole framing her narrow shoulders and falling luxuriously to the small of her back. Vivienne was the real deal. She had the power to elicit a desire in men to revere and protect her, and they treated her with kid gloves. Never short of beaus, her latest…‘Andrew’ was taking her away for the long weekend after the show. Some women had that innate quality, to render a man besotted by her. Vivienne had it, Lyla did not.

Lyla was barely model material. Just scraping by in height and a dress size bigger than most. She was honest enough with herself to consider she was an impostor, an intruder in a world that nature by birth had dictated would always be beyond her reach. She knew with a biting reality, that the opportunities weren’t there. An alluring walk and a pretty face would only take her so far and for so long.

Catwalk felt liberating and enlivening though. Despite her shorter 5ft 8 frame, she was smooth, stealth like, and sensual. Poised and provocative without debasing herself or the clothes. It was likely however, she was there by default, but preferred to think having a more professional attitude than most of the other girls had helped open the spot for her.

More probable though; someone they initially wanted hadn’t been available, leaving them short a girl. Constantly she tormented myself with this self-depreciating back talk and always the same doubting prophetic anxiety that this would be her last show.

When the young women stopped at five for a dinner break, no one ate. Instead they held their breaths as a greatly anticipated transformation began. Makeup was redone by the cosmeticians to paint a dramatic overtone of high fashion, and hair was coiffed and sprayed into impossible frozen styles. The unexceptional crowd was politely yet earnestly ushered out, the catwalk cleaned and redressed with decadent floral displays along it’s edges.

The evening parade was heralded in with the dimming of lights, the appearance of properly suited waiters balancing silver trays and the arrival of a barrage of press. The energy building was undeniably a mix of excitement, nerves and ego saturated vanity. This was without exception an empowering experience for a young woman on the precipice of her sexual maturity. They all felt it, something untouchable yet potent in its power to influence, like a distant lightning storm that electrified them with invisible energy. They all felt…transformed….somehow better versions of themselves. It was surely magic.

Sadly, naiveté prevented them from appreciating the nuance of this as an opportunity to grow naturally into womanhood. The opportunity to ‘feel’ ones way through a treacherous forest of skewed self-image and emerge awakened, empowered, and confident into a clear embodiment of truly beautiful young women.

Instead, they embraced the superficiality of gloss and glamour presented by elaborate, expensive evening gowns. There was much speculation and gossip about the VIP guest list and giggling in hushed tones like easily impressionable school girls. It was only their youth to blame for tainting the scene as tawdry instead of elegant.

Candelabra and sparkling champagne glasses lit up the previously common place venue. Gradually the murmurs beyond the dressing rooms rose to audible collective conversations and polite laughter as guests mingled and clinked glasses in salutation.

When the seductive notes of ‘Enigma’ reverberated through the din, the models lined up ready to impress the latest collection upon a captive, audience. So wrapped up in shimmering fabric and their own self importance to notice a majority of ‘blokes’ were mildly inebriated from the free sponsored alcohol.

None the less, carrying herself with elegance and deportment and just a touch of feigned indifference, Lyla slinked down the catwalk. The sensual caress of fine thick silk sliding through her lithe thighs, elongated them with its flawless flowing opulence.

The seductive music, the atmosphere, the attention, the bouquet of mingled patrons’ perfumes swirled about, drowning her in an intoxicating cocktail. She was the one seduced though. Lured deeper and deeper into the fantasy she was paid to sell.

She felt incredibly beautiful, mesmerized as if by some seemingly innocuous spell and dwelled stupefied entirely under the influence of the luxurious superficiality. They were, all of them, ingenues swimming in the undercurrent of enchantment and the fantastical that they elicited. Foolishly, ignorantly, each assumed they possessed exclusive personal power over it’s erotic effects.

As Lyla swayed into a turn at the end of the runway, the dark gothic beat echoing through her frame, she felt like a vision of an exotic temptress. Overwhelmed with previously foreign self assurance that seemed to reach up from her soul to become the essence of who she really was. She was intoxicated by the lie, enamored by the fantasy. Sublimely sinking into a persona of herself that she had always coveted in others, feeling it had constantly evaded her.….until now. For the first time ever, Lyla felt the awakening of her sensuality. It had nothing to do with sex, as she’d misunderstood, but had everything to do with self acceptance. For once she began to feel less of an impostor in her own skin, and gave herself permission to enjoy the powerful essence of being an attractive young woman without doubting it belonged to her.

Then, suddenly, most unnervingly, her eyes met his, and the spell….broke. In an instant she recoiled, pulled back the charismatic vibe she was emitting. She recognized him from a party the week before. He was a friend, or maybe a business acquaintance of Andrew’s, and he was staring at her. Which was of course the point. But everyone else was enchanted by Vivienne. Or so it appeared to Lyla. He didn’t seem to be enamored by Viv in the slightest.. He seemed fixated on her!

It would have been flattering had she found him attractive. But he was very short, stocky with a big wide chest and eyes that were so light a shade of grey as to appear transparent. Everything else about him was entirely nondescript. Except his aggressive intensity. There was something very, very unnerving about him. A feeling she had wanted to think of him as some kind of street dog… unkept beneath an ill fitted suit and lacking in any social graces, and certainly not to be trusted. The kind of ‘animal’ that would turn on you unprovoked.

Then there was his voice. It was his voice she remembered before his name. His voice that she remembered distinctly because it sounded like gravel and irritated her as much. They had spoken only briefly, but Lyla recalled his insistent badgering to go out with him which she had curtly, repeatedly rebuked. Damn Vivienne for telling him about this show. She was such a showoff! He must know someone important or he wouldn’t have made it onto the ‘A list’. For a brief moment Lyla wondered if he was someone she should know.

From that point for Lyla the aura of surreality and magic dissipated quickly like thinning fog, with each meander down the catwalk. Ever conscious of his unwanted gaze. His eyes chilled her skin, as if hungrily regarding his feast. Suddenly she felt nauseas, and was desperate not to feel alluring anymore. She doused her sensual vibration and immediately the charade became starkly apparent. It was all pretend.

Shallow, lacking in substance and unprincipled. She felt strangely vulnerable back in the land of reality where nothing had changed but her perception. Such was the effect of this man’s attention and the realization that beauty brings a false power. A power that cannot protect. Not really.

With Lyla’s shift in perception she saw with honesty how she and the other models were all feeding off delusion and were being be sent out to regurgitate it. Sent out to sell an expensive and potentially destructive fantasy. Disappointment seeped through her. It was as if she’d been awakened to the tackiness of it all. Lyla admitted the unspoken to herself. This wasn’t her world. She didn’t belong. It wasn’t just about feelingly inadequate physically. It was the insecurity of it all that surfaced once the lights were raised and the applause had stopped. The insecurity. The all pervading insecurity hidden by illusion.

Backstage, Vivienne was blush with euphoria… "What an amazing show!" she gushed. The two friends had changed into their street clothes, faces still overly made up, hair still sprayed into statuesque submission.

Hmm? Yeah. Lyla replied. Did you see….

Viv broke her off mid sentence; "Hey I noticed Davos was here, must have come with Andrew….he couldn’t take his eyes off you Lyla…did you noti…." She was, talking excitedly, breathlessly, utterly high from her intoxicated perceived success of the parade.

Ah! Davos! That was his name. Lyla cut her friend short; "Yes, I did thank you very much!!! He’s revolting!"

Don’t be like that! she teased.. Andrew’s doing business with him, big client apparently.

"So you date him! Seriously Viv who the hell cares…he’s gross! He absolutely gives me the creeps…..Hey I don’t suppose you and Andrew can take me home before you head away for the weekend?"

Sure!…I’ll go and find him.

Meet you outside then?

K! agreed Viv as she sauntered off jubilantly, parting the dispersing crowd, heads turning as if she was Princess Diana, as they always did.

Lyla’s energy low, a heaviness heaped on her from that disgusting man’s attention, and the feeling of a sad revelation she couldn’t quite name, she waited for her ride home, waited for Vivienne to return, but Vivienne never did.

2.

‘Vile Initiation’.

When Lyla had strolled along the outdoor mall that morning, the delicious new and fragile warmth of Spring had sunken into her skin. She had tingled from it’s caress and the thrill of anticipation towards working the Spring show. But the Australian nights could dip into winter temperatures just as you’d begun to relish in the kiss of a stronger sun during the day. So now, in the midnight air after the fashion show she was shivering in her thin blouse and cotton skirt, her skin prickled with cold beneath a clear black sky.

Vivienne was no where to be found. The guests and staff exiting the store slowed to a scant trickle. The other stores in the outdoor mall were sparsely lit and shuttered for the night. Barely a soul around. Lyla didn’t see anyone familiar. She sighed and turned to make her way to the tram stop when, with the silence and deftness of a prowler, ‘Davos’ stood in her face. Literally in her way, and he was……grinning.

Hey Lyla! he smiled. His pudgy oversized hands crudely trying to rest on a waist that didn’t exist. She didn’t smile back. Instead she stepped sideways to avoid him. He blocked her.

I’m trying to get the tram She gestured towards the stop.

You don’t need the tram…. he declared.

Actually….. I do. Vivienne was supposed to take me home but she….

I told Andy I’d take you… so they could get going.

Lyla stared at him incredulously. So.. they’ve gone?

He didn’t reply, just took her arm and began to lead her towards the road.

NO!.. She said sternly, trying to yank her arm free, trying to stop walking, but he had gripped her elbow like a vice, rendering her submissive.

I’d rather take the tram…wind down a bit on the way home…. She appealed, breathless with anxiety, determined that she seriously did not like this man.

You don’t want to wind down.. the party’s getting started. He retorted, still ‘escorting’ her towards his car at the curb. His shiny red Mercedes with a neglected rip in the soft top was parked at the end of the mall. Illegally parked. Where the hell was a cop when she needed one!

NO..! she yelled, hoping someone would hear and intervene. I’m exhausted, and I just want to go home…I..

Davos cut her off… Aw don’t be a bore!

Then suddenly in what seemed only seconds they had reached the car and one of those same ugly hands was opening a door for her, the other firmly on her back as he was ‘guiding’, shoving her in.

Ok. I’ll take you home. he said and smiled again. It appeared a futile attempt at being genuine. She wanted to believe him. That inner barometer that was screaming silently ‘WARNING WARNING WARNING’ was all Lyla could hear and feel! She tried to dismiss it…Davos wasn’t technically a stranger, he wasn’t a total stranger, but more importantly, Andrew really knew Davos. Reason allowed Lyla to glean a sense of security from that relationship. She allowed herself to believe him. And besides, she was already in the damn car……just..like…that!

So she believed him. She shouldn’t have believed him. The reality was, Lyla didn’t have time to think. It all happened so fast and in that split second where escape might have been possible, judgement escaped her….. she wanted to believe him….and then it was too late.

Where are we going? she asked annoyed, noting he’d done a U turn away from the direction of home.

You know I live with Viv on the…..

He was ignoring her. They were literally speeding in entirely the opposite direction, towards the Western edge of the city and the great bridge. The bridge that lead across the bay to the wrong side of the tracks. Where there was no public transport and row upon row of hideous small, single-fronted brick houses all joined together with concrete yards, and sad looking neglected geraniums. The neighborhoods there, everyone knew, were home to the new immigrants who rarely spoke English.

Lyla had never intentionally been on that side of town, only passed through once. That part of town was completely foreign. She had absolutely no idea where she was. Not a single landmark to guide her home or even to safety. Little by little as if inching her way across a crocodile infested river, the disturbing sense of danger she was feeling grew. Her intellect took over and she sought a way to change the status quo.

Maybe we should go for a drink somewhere.. she suggested, reasoning in silent earnest he would take her somewhere public.

That’s just what I was thinking! he replied and slid his hand between her thighs. I know the perfect place.

Her skin immediately crawled with repulsion at his uninhibited, unwanted degrading touch. Instinctively she knew she had to get away from this vile man. Just as she imagined a cafe scenario that would provide some protection from him in the company of strangers, a place she could ask for help to get home safely…even call police if things got out of hand, Davos surprised her.

Speeding past a strip of restaurants, neon still emblazoned indicating they were open, he turned down one sleepy dark street after another. Each one getting Lyla further and further lost in both direction and hope. Suddenly he swung the car into the driveway of, sure enough, an ugly single-fronted brick terrace.

Her primal instincts jolted violently into a ‘fight or flight’ response. She was in trouble. Just how much she didn’t know. Lyla was in way over her head. She had no clue how to get out of what was now a perilous situation. She had to stay calm, stall for time to think of a solution. Act like she wasn’t terrified.

Um…Where are we?…I thought we were going for a drink?… she tried to enquire casually, feigning confidence, hiding her rising fear. Could she possibly smart talk her way out of this?

Oh.. this is my brothers house….he’s taken his family to Torquay for the long weekend….. we can have a drink here, be alone… really get to know each other.

The only thought that was circling her mind was, Shit, shit, shit…what the Hell am I going to do? her mind racing as fast as her heart. Quickly, nervously, she blurted out… Davos, there’s something you should know….I have ‘the clap’.

He stopped and stared at her for a brief moment. Then he tipped his head back and…. laughed, a raucous deep throated vibration that sent shivers right through her.

I don’t believe you! he chuckled.

Her panic rose a hundred percent, her face grew hot, her ears burned and her palms became instantly sweaty. She made no attempt to get out of the car. There was no where to run, where he couldn’t overcome her.

The mere notion of this revolting man’s intentions sickened her. She tried again…. Look Davos, you’re obviously a decent guy… she lied. I’m just not attracted to you..

He could sense her fear, she sensed he reveled in it and her obvious repulsion of him. As soon as those words left her mouth Lyla new it was a mistake.

In an instant his demeanor changed, his arms were around her shoulders pulling her from the car. God he was strong! There was no chance to scream! His hands were over her mouth as he easily dragged her light body to the door and in an instant she was thrown to the floor inside the dismal dark house. The house that housed her cage.

Davos fervently turned and locked the door. He stood there facing her, his fat chest heaving, grotesque veins bulging from his temples. His neck she noticed for the first time was as wide and thick as a bulls which made her worry that it wasn’t fat beneath his shirt, but the bulk and strength of muscle. He was standing between her and escape.

Fear shot through her like an exploding bullet. He attempted to compose himself exhaling loudly. Were those beads of sweat forming on his forehead? He wiped his upper lip on the back of his hand as he began…Don’t you think it’s best to get sex out of the way at the beginning of a relationship? Takes all the pressure off getting to know each other doesn’t it? It was rhetorical of course.

Lyla rose from her splayed landing on the carpet to all fours, paralyzed with panic coursing though her, her legs felt as if anchored with anvils. She needed a minute to regain her strength. Her breath stuck in her chest. Her throat restricted and she could hear every beat of her heart pounding inside her head. Throbbing in repulsion of the circumstances. All she could focus on was how earnestly he’d locked the door. He’d locked the door….. locked the door. The key he’d quickly shoved in his pants pocket.

She was trapped. She had been right on the catwalk, to feel as if she was….his……prey. Suddenly, out of nowhere, there were voices, men’s voices, more than a few, and when Lyla turned in their direction she became aware……..that she and Davos weren’t alone….. and…. it hit her with the same frightening intensity of an unexpected car wreck, she was about to loose her virginity… in the most reprehensibly vile experience of her young life.

Davos grinned at her terrified expression. Cold evil gleaming in his ghostly pale eyes was not imagined as he spat his words with a sickening grin… Welcome to the party…..you ugly Bitch!

3.

‘A Wound that Twisted the Psyche and Banished the Spirit.’

Vivienne had her back turned towards Lyla as she dried the dishes. "So…Missy Lyla…what did YOU get up to this weekend?" she asked.

How could Lyla tell her? She couldn’t, just couldn’t say those heinous humiliating words. She felt numb, void of all feeling and emotion except a heavy grief that permeated every cell within her.

She had been to the clinic first thing yesterday morning for ‘RU-486’. Just incase. The attentive female physician had all the best intentions. Immediately registering what had happened the minute Lyla asked for that pill. Even before she undressed. Lyla didn’t have to say a word. She appeared before the doctor like a stray abused dog. Completely broken, eyes downcast with unseen wounds that the doctor knew she couldn’t heal.

The more she badgered Lyla to ‘talk about it’, to allow her to contact authorities, and counseling resources the more Lyla steadfastly refused. The brutality of the emotional carnage had destroyed her entirely…she needed to forget. She didn’t think she could keep living if she couldn’t forget. If only the horrendous pain she felt everywhere, from her shoulders and jaw to ‘down there’ where it burned excruciatingly to pee, would go as numb as her spirit had.

When the doctor, young and beautiful and perfect in her perfect life and prefect career and perfect everything, attempted to appeal to Lyla’s conscience with, a pithy; You don’t want this to happen to other girls do you? Lyla hated her.

She already felt like scum. Could barely stand up, It hurt like hell to walk…to breathe, to think, the last thing she needed was to carry guilt. Bitch! Lyla heard the voice in her head that started as a thought directed towards the Doctor but instantaneously echoed his voice.

Lyla left the clinic an hour later with stitches she was told would dissolve, a single colored government pamphlet on the rape hotline and the so called virtues of reporting the crime…and… that single pill, the pill that would ensure she could never ever be reminded of her unspeakable nightmare again. By the time she reached the tram stop the Doctor’s pleas of Tell me what happened…. and the repeated shaking of her head followed by… "What is this mark from?.. and This? Does This hurt?" had become an annoying recording forming channels deep within her psyche of ‘what had happened.’

Lyla jumped on the first bus that stopped in front of the clinic, not caring where it was going or that she didn’t have fare. It would only have been moments more and she would have been cornered by an employee and held until the police could get there..they were probably on their way. That would have been the ultimate death sentence.. to have to tell.

Viv, she paused. I was with Davos, replying hesitantly. …….and his ‘friends’. Vivienne turned to look at her, a mischievous grin spreading across her beautiful naive perfect face.

No wonder you’re so quiet… spill it…. Lyla was suddenly overcome with an irrational envy that sickened her. Why couldn’t she have been her? This would never happen to her, to someone so beautiful. Men respected Viv… because she was beautiful! She despised herself from that moment forward with such vehement disgust she wanted to throw up, to rip her skin off. To pull her insides out, but it already felt like they had been.

Lyla wanted to be any one else but herself. OH MY GOD! Vivienne squealed excitedly. You didn’t? You DID!!! OH LYLA! CONGRATULATIONS! She was jumping…Happy for her wretched friend she thought.

Yes. Lyla confirmed. But she couldn’t even meet Viv’s eyes. She looked away, embarrassed, swimming in shame. The burning shame that rose with bile up from her empty stomach, through her chest into her throat.

It wasn’t ...like that ...it wasn’t just Davos. she recounted with sadness permeating the atmosphere surrounding them. As hard as she tried, she couldn’t hide the moistness welling in her eyes, and felt the rounding of her shoulders as she caved inward. Vivienne stopped her childish bouncing, her stillness indicating a gradual foreboding awareness of how Lyla ‘really’ had lost her virginity.

"Oh my God……Lyla! What happened? She was quiet, serious, genuinely concerned, reflecting compassion and hurt for Lyla. Lyla exaggeratedly filled her chest with air in attempt to hold in the self pity, to push down the overwhelming gut wrenching urge to sob. All she could whisper as she began to tremble uncontrollably was; Three days Vivienne…."

Vivienne’s gaze reflected the horror she now guessed. "He locked the door Vivienne.. he ...locked… the door?" she repeated in a tentative whisper. Afraid for her friend to believe the unbelievable.

As she reached out to embrace the ramifications of what her friend revealed sank in, the dinner plate she was drying slipped from her delicate fingers and Lyla, watched, as if in slow motion, it smash onto the slate floor. A hundred sharp shards of porcelain scattered across the room. At that very moment Lyla made the most fatal connection of her emotional life. She identified herself with that plate. She began as whole but was now irreparably shattered. How could she ever be a complete woman any more than the plate could be complete again.

It wasn’t just her virginity that had been wretched from her but also her dignity. Her core had been maliciously ripped from her and amidst the torture, her soul had taken leave…She was….destroyed.

Lyla’s soul had suffered a painful living death. She was walking around empty. Davos and his ‘comrades’, fellow Yugoslav soldiers, had proudly unleashed their sadistic domination. Lyla was devastated before she had a chance to become a woman, before she could accept all that is grounding within a woman’s sexuality… a safe connection to her sensual embodiment.

Her life would now take a detour to a place she had never known existed. A place that had never entered her girlhood dreams. A place very, very far from anywhere she had ever imagined.

But first, she had to forget. If she didn’t forget she would be so consumed by her victimization as to render her completely unable to function, paralyzed. It was crucial that she ‘let it go,’ act ‘as if’ the nightmare hadn’t been real, and the physical pain that served as a reminder was imagined. She had to regain the sense of control over life, over her expression that had proven so tragically irrelevant.

If only she’d been realistic…not tried to be a model, Davos had been right, she truly really was… an ugly bitch…. with no business being on a catwalk…who the Hell did she think she was anyway…just a stupid pathetic ugly bitch. If she’d hadn’t tried to fool herself she wouldn’t have been up there on the runway that night…or in the mall awaiting the last tram alone…and she wouldn’t have been taken… taken to the edge of sanity through pain so intense it fractured her in every way.

Such were the distorted thoughts swirling about her mind as she berated herself over and over again. "If only, if only, if only… she’d seen herself in reality…ugly and unworthy… just an ugly bitch…." It wouldn’t take long….for her to believe the toxic indoctrination that Davos and his ‘friends’ had imbedded in her mind, attached to self esteem. The only way to shut out their hate was to hate herself… her way… then at least she could feel some irrational sense of control.

So she shut out their hate by slipping into a cloak of self contempt and then disappeared beneath it. She didn’t want to feel anymore. Lyla refused to discuss any of it. So nothing else was said. The weekend would never be mentioned again.

Vivienne suggested they ‘get out’, stroll the promenade market under the palm trees. As they stepped into the bright sunshine, Lyla immediately looked away as Vivienne turned and…….. locked the door. An involuntary lump rose in her chest and she pushed it back down with vigor unseen amidst the stain of terror still raw.

The two young women walked towards the ocean, arms around each others waists and Lyla promised herself that was the end of it, she would never think nor speak of her torture again. It never happened..Period! And so she didn’t….speak of it..ever again…which was really the first epic mistake of her young adult life. Her life not yet really begun and now severed from the kind of innocence that lends one to believe that the world is for their taking. It was the kind of mistake that set the first domino wavering……teetering just as her psyche was… on the brink of causing irrevocable disaster.

This mistake followed her now in her shadow. If she’d dared look at it she may have seen it… something odd, the faint outline of wings. Big heavy wings like the angel of death, wings that represented her soul had flown to safety somewhere far away..and left her literally a former shadow of herself, expressionless and dark. Wings that would forever remain broken.

4.

‘Leaving Constant Reminders.’

The more Vivienne’s life presented opportunity for personal growth and exciting experiences, the more Lyla’s life retreated. Where Vivienne’s filled with promise, Lyla’s filled with melancholy. She carried her hidden wounds into an abysmal reality, void of dreams and plagued by nightmares of being smothered alive in quicksand. Sinking, sinking, helplessly sinking. She watched her life enshroud her from an emotionally disabled view point as her ambitions to attend university, faded and an uncrossable chasm developed between her and hope.

Her participation in life became anesthetized as she wandered aimlessly around a foreign, arid landscape of unintentional self imposed exile and misappropriated hatred towards herself. She was scared…… emotionally, physically, and sexually, paralyzed by fear and self contempt.

With such a violently abnormal initiation into womanhood, her life force and femininity was severed from her soul. The savage intrusion into her sexual development tore the bud from it’s stem before it could blossom. Her sexuality stagnated along with the rest of her life as she willingly repressed who she had been, a beautiful, uninhibited, vibrant, university student and occasional actress. Now she spent most of her emotional energy attempting to hide from who she felt she now was….damaged….worthless….ugly…..and permanently stained.

Lyla’s numbness became an infliction, like a disease that spread from her mind throughout her body and reflected back to her in the mirror of her daily existence. She existed in body barely enough to function, surviving on a single bowl of brown rice each night. Appetite, for anything escaped her and there became days when she couldn’t bring herself to go to work. Her soul she knew had taken leave along with her spirit and she wanted for nothing, felt nothing, wanted to make something of herself but truthfully didn’t feel worthy.

She spent more time in solitude than she should have. Hours staring vacantly out to the sparkling horizon where the sea meets sky. Lyla sat frequently on the beach in front of the duplex she shared with Vivienne. As the waves spilled forth with energy from the ocean, she recalled how once she would have considered the water to be caressing the sands, the foamy white tops breaking in a serenade against the current. Now she ached with a notion that each wave dislodged and dragged the sand deep down to the darkness of the ocean floor…..never to surface to the sun’s light and warmth again.

It had been months since Lyla had quit the agency scene never to model again. She had taken a position as a teacher at the Finishing/Modeling school. Now she spent her days teaching young women how to be graceful, how to move seductively even though she felt her own sensuality was dead. They all remarked how incredibly she walked the catwalk, with the stealth and poise of a jaguar. They didn’t know how she yearned for the safety of the past before she had taken her first stride. Most days she felt like a wild mustang that had been corralled…then broken, her spirit taken flight in fear, never to return.

She tried so hard to enjoy the eclectic lifestyle of her alternate artisan suburb by the bay. To pretend she wasn’t as insignificant and unfeeling as she was. Vivienne’s enquiry was insistent, constant. Lyla knew she had changed. She tried hard to ignore what she instinctively knew was depression gripping her. Vivienne sensed a disturbing, almost eerie aura surrounding Lyla now. They both did their best to ignore it, taking long walks along the esplanade, weaving amongst the fire breathing side show acts and tourists.

Sometimes they’d linger outside the beach amusement park with its enormous iconic gaping smile for an entrance. The famous old wooden roller coaster’s clack, clack, clacking, followed by enthusiastic screams could be heard a block away. The local celebrity fortune teller was always eager to parlay her undisputed wisdom for ‘meager’ compensation.On evenings when the ‘beautiful people’ were sure to have moved on to somewhere ‘else’, Lyla and Viv would patron the upscale ‘Cipriani’s’ at the end of the pier and sip Chardonnay as the sun sank as leisurely as the condensation on the wine glass slid down to their manicured fingers.

There had been significant gentrification of St.Kilda in recent years. The local council had renovated the dilapidated foreshore bath houses and forced the overt ‘red light‘ district into discretion. Brothels were now less ‘obvious‘ dispersed amongst rows of Victorian terrace houses. Here they benefited from generous foliage of hundred year old elms obscuring the top floor windows keeping the secrets played out in the shadows safe.

Amongst an increasingly vibrant cafe society, there was also an old ‘art house’ movie theatre that still offered a piano accompanied intermission and where patrons were expected to ‘dress’ for the occasion of attending the cinema. It was this gracious example of a glamorous bygone era that was hosting an ‘all night women’s movie’ festival.

Viv thought what a great opportunity to bring some spark of amusement or fun back into the energy of her dear friend. Lyla it seemed was slowly disintegrating before her very eyes, slipping further and further away as if drifting with the tides.

Look at this Lyla! we totally should go!!!!

The dress code that evening was ‘Siren Sleepwear’ to which Lyla and Vivienne fronted up naively with pillows in tow and were perplexed as to why they initially were ‘discouraged’ from purchasing tickets. They assumed it was because they were arriving half way through the first movie…starring Joan Crawford.

As Lyla started along the staircase behind Vivienne she became aware that they were, quite possibly the only ‘real women’ present. ‘Siren Sleepwear’ as it turns out was a very loose translation for an assortment of feather bowers, sheer baby-doll nighties and six inch heels. Elaborate wigs adorned dramatically painted faces. The unusually distinct smell of marijuana and cigarettes swirled about them in a heavy cloud.

Making their way to their seats elicited a smattering of lurid, derogatory vagina ‘jokes’ and condemning glares from gaudy patrons. Lyla’s internal warning gauge that had failed her so dismally before was now hyper sensitive and strongly screamed….‘could be a bad situation here!…..RUN!’

As the piano was rolled out onto the stage at intermission, the house lights raised, the curtain closed over the screen, and the girls made the connection between ‘Mommy Dearest’ that had just finished and the enormous, crude tinfoil coat hangers dangling from the ceiling. Suddenly they understood the real theme of the ‘festival’ and sought refuge in the ladies room while they pondered what gross suggestions could be conjured up to accompany Marilyn Monroe’s ‘Some like it Hot’!

Apparently, transvestites consider themselves woman enough to use the ladies loos!

Lyla would’ve found the whole scene as hilarious as Vivienne did, if she’d not been so disgusted by the implications of the metal coat hanger and its vulgar nudge at all she had buried of her first sexual experience.

When summer arrived Lyla found she couldn’t bring herself to sunbathe topless anymore on the suburban beach like most other young women. The rent had risen substantially and she began to feel that it was time to move on. The distance between her soul’s journey and the tender emptiness that filled her had become such a dense, wide whirlpool that daily she had to fight against it’s downward pull. Turning her back once and for all on the illusions of the modeling world, Lyla returned to the only other thing she knew how to do well. She was desperate to forge a new identity before she was devoured by the wretched woman she had to face in the mirror everyday.

When the opportunity presented itself, Lyla became a ‘trouble shooter’ in the back office of a stockbroker’s. Soon thereafter she moved away from the foreshore and away from the unwelcome memories that the bay surrendered. Vivienne and Lyla went their separate ways. Some time later when Lyla saw Vivienne’s face smiling down on her from a billboard she was filled with contradictions. Gladness for Vivienne, sadness for herself. It was the kind of sadness that comes from a loss. Not quite grief, but something deep and reluctant and gnawing.

Gradually with the passing of time and the outward busyness of work that was intellectually engaging, her numbness dissipated. It was replaced not by a sense of purpose which would have been ideal but instead by a mundane ritualistic outward pretense that she was functioning and ...ok. Truthfully, she lacked the substance of feminine essence. She was hollow. Lyla was as utterly unsure of herself as a woman and ignorant of the sensual being she was meant to be. She resided precariously on the verge of hopelessness and detachment until the day, in need of extra money to prop up her meager wages, she answered an ad in the ‘positions vacant’ column for an evening receptionist job. It was a very ‘unusual’ job and there she met Petra.

Petra could see the wounded girl. Petra knew exactly what she needed and Lyla would soon discard her self effacing attitude for an identity that was as unexpected as it was healing.

5.

‘Petra’s Intuitive Recruitment.’

Lyla had not revealed to anyone the private, inner self loathing she soaked in. She forced herself to ignore the emptiness that threatened to engulf her. Lyla’s physical condition was rapidly deteriorating. She couldn’t eat. Just couldn’t bring food to her mouth. She was exhausted most days, barely able to get out of bed.

The first thing Petra insisted upon, after offering Lyla the job as evening receptionist, was that Lyla seek professional medical help. Petra recognized the emancipated frame that screamed of an eating disorder and she was right.

The hidden monster of anorexia had begun to devour Lyla.

"As far as I am concerned, you’re perfect for the job. You’re gorgeous……enticingly so, young, and on the phone, your voice is….well.. ‘interesting’…

With a bit of self assurance you could be quite alluring. Bernard will especially appreciate that."

Petra wasn’t finished…. But…. you’re not healthy.. you need to put some more flesh over those bones… women are supposed to have hips and curves and my Dear, you have to look affluent… not rough around the edges, not haggard like some starving desperate street walker or drug addict.

Petra was brutal, but kind, honest but harsh and Lyla liked her immediately. Something in her recognized that Petra would be just the influence in her life she needed.

"Just because you’re a ‘Mistress’ doesn’t mean you look like one. I prefer to appear as if prepared to go to the ‘Royal Derby’…minus the hat of course.

We run a very up market ‘house’ here as you can tell, and our clientele, mostly men, but the occasional woman, expect to have the illusion of escape into a forgiving, accepting, fantasy be as real as possible.

They come here to leave one reality for another of their choosing and this illusion must be supported by engaging all of the senses, the minute they step through those doors."

Lyla was becoming more and more intrigued. Obviously this wasn’t going to be a simple ‘answer the phone, tend to queries and administration job’. This had the potential to be very, very interesting.

Just when she was imagining what type of person would be a ‘client,’ Petra smiled, leaned in close to her and said quietly, provocatively, You will meet extremely well heeled men. The kind your Daddy probably wants you to marry. We are expensive…quite expensive and this ‘game’ is taken seriously. Do not expect ‘riff-raff’ my Dear, oh no…. expect to see the players of a world, from a world, you never knew existed.

Petra went on to explain the strict privacy clauses, the discrete ‘client’ book that was kept locked in the safe along with copies of drivers licenses. She went over mundane tasks such as preparing refreshments and keeping the reception area with its walls of mirrors flawless. She showed Lyla the directory with the contacts such as the florist, to ensure the enormous flower arrangements were brought in fresh every two days.

The candles were to always be lit and never allowed to burn past two thirds. There was a cupboard of essential oil scent sprays that were to be used prior to the arrival of a client in accordance with their known sensory ‘anchors’. There was the wine cellar to be kept stocked and the glass fronted humidor cupboard filled with cigars. Details it seems…. were imperative, and safety even more so. There were phrases, words that if heard indicated the police were to be called and even the reason why.

Just when Lyla thought she could ask questions about the phone protocol and how bookings were taken, Petra announced perfunctorily, that it was time for ‘High tea.’ Petra, blonde, petite, simply elegant and yet formidably flawless in presentation was proving to be an extraordinarily interesting woman.

Not quite eccentric in the conventional sense…there was a depth, a wisdom, a charisma about her. It was…Lyla deduced…esoteric in nature and extremely alluring.

Lyla was actually a little embarrassed that she wanted to ask if Petra was a ‘Madam.’ It somehow seemed too insulting to label the woman at all. Instead, she circumnavigated the enquiry by asking if she had been in the field for long. Had she began as the receptionist also?

Surprisingly Petra answered Yes. But after dabbing her crimson painted mouth with the linen serviette that lay aside her scones and creme she continued… " I began on reception but soon realized it was much more interesting and fun, and incredibly rewarding on the other side of the desk. Lyla let her continue…That was fifteen or so years ago now… and I am still learning."

Oh? queried Lyla.

Yes, replied Petra.I found it so fascinating that I went back to school, studied Psych then got my masters in NLP. For the past two years I’ve ventured further into alternative ‘healing’…..have you ever heard of energy work, muscle testing, and reiki?

It was all entirely surreal to Lyla but she was…. for the first time since her violent ordeal, feeling the tugs of something interesting her….was she in some way…reawakening… reaching for life? It felt as if warm water was being gently trickled over the parts of her that had frozen…and the warmth was creating an opening of her spirit where she could let chance push away the unhappiness. A brief glimpse of clarity was afforded by the warmth rising up within her unexpectedly.

It occurred to her in her earnestness to forget she had also forgotten how to live. This ‘world’ she had inadvertently stumbled upon was presenting itself as incredibly intriguing and she wanted to know it all. Especially when Petra stressed that sex…. was not offered as part of the service.

Lyla couldn’t fathom why someone would pay so much money to not have sex. Obviously she had a lot to learn and when given the ‘royal tour’ of the ‘house’, her eyes involuntarily grew wide as she realized exactly how much she had yet to comprehend. This required a whole new perspective.

The two women had just surveyed the elaborate ‘fancy dress’ costume wardrobe when a very fit looking elderly man flanked by a black and white boarder collie came walking down the dimly lit corridor towards them. He smiled as he extended his hand to Lyla then let out a whistle. "She’s a beauty Petra…just heaven…. a bit