The World She Knew

By Venus Diaz

A past full of pain and chaos-a world of deception, dysfunction, and darkness: The World She Knew is an emotional journey full of secrets, where the main character, Sage struggles to adapt to the environment that God provided for her. How does little Sage keep faith in the unseen? How can she justify a Higher Powers love for her, when all she feels is lost and forgotten? The World She Knew is a soundless scream, searching for hope underneath all the turmoil and faithless souls Sage encounters.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Apr 20, 2015
• ISBN: 9781490758237

Venus Diaz

Venus Diaz lives in upstate New York. She draws inspiration from life experiences and her academic studies. Venuss ability to get in touch with her inner self allows her to expand spiritually, especially with photography, drawing and writing.

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© Copyright 2015 Venus Diaz.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

ISBN: 978-1-4907-5824-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4907-5825-1 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4907-5823-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015905749

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

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Trafford rev. 05/18/2015

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Contents

Thoughts Prior to Diving In

Present Time

PART I

Innocence

1980s

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

Before Transitioning and Going Further

Present Time

PART II

Forgotten

1980s—Still

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

Present Time

PART III

Lost

1980s—Late

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

Present Time

Reflecting Upon the Request

For Mom, the woman starved for strength to embrace the child within

The pain of growing lonely and old,

Fear of the grave so cold

Mysteries of the future to come,

Wondering if you’ll be here to enjoy the fun

For you the Queen have given up on life’s quest,

When the King was laid out to eternal rest

The pawns you raised from oh so high,

Have forgotten about you and ignored your cries

Now you sit in your lonely chair,

And all you feel is emptiness and despair

What is keeping you alive?

Is it the pawn’s you’ve raised, or the sorrow inside?

—L. B. Marrero

THOUGHTS PRIOR TO DIVING IN

T he life I started could be measured on two different scales—traumatic or honorable, but the perception of my upbringing depends on the beliefs and values the observer dwells in. With time, I’ve discovered that my childhood set the stage for me being wounded in the spiritual realm. Throughout my years of trying to exist, I realized that not participating in some form of spirituality could leave me directionless and empty, and living a life without substance would require overlooking God’s lessons that are seeking to teach courage and truth deep within.

I stopped acknowledging God’s powers as a child, and to this day, I often question why he gave me life. Some would say it’s not my place to question God, but I believe I have no choice, considering it appeared as if he forgot me during my younger days. I mean, how could I recognize a god who did not recognize me? How could I acknowledge how great he is if he didn’t show me how great he was? And how could I not hate him for the foundation he laid before me?

These questions surfaced when I was reintroduced to God about four years ago. As I worked on developing a relationship with myself, I could not ignore God trying to reconnect with me. Gradually, I allowed him in, and gradually, he allowed me to have some of the pieces to help understand why he provided such a fragile foundation. To this day, I ponder over the whys and what-ifs regarding my childhood. But I could no longer deny God’s voice telling me I had to revisit the past in order to silence my questions and stop the aches from my beginnings.

Although the story of my earlier years from ages six to eleven was completed within months three years ago, 2010, emotionally, it was incomplete. It was incomplete because every time I revisited certain sections to edit, I’d shut down. I could not handle the words jumping out at me. They were so raw, transporting me back to the pain, paralyzing my inner voice.

As I tried to progress in life with my story in the background, God always found a way to let me know I had to finish it on every level—emotionally, spiritually, mentally, and physically. It was very clear that if I did not do such, I would not heal effectively and could limit any connection God established with me. Those who believe in his powers know that ignoring God’s requests is impossible.

At times, I wonder why he is so persistent about the total completion of this story. I try not to question his requests, but I feel reliving my childhood is like a pity party all over again, considering I know plenty of people who’ve experienced far worse than I have. But God helped me realize that life experiences that are full of sadness and chaos affect each of us on different levels. He helped me realize that in order to be fully healed from the past, I had to dive in, do the work, practice what I learn, and share my story.

Sage

2/2013

PRESENT TIME

Where do I begin retelling how I started in this life?

E VERY TIME I dream, it gets easier and easier to realize I’m in a distant land, a place where I can fly with Greek mythology creatures, perform exorcisms on the darkest of souls, or run scared from monks trying to lock me in their domain. The most memorable dreams consist of my mother and me in our authentic forms: I’m a little girl, about five or six; my mom, a strikingly exotic woman with a stunning white light radiating around her. In this dream, when she moves to a squat position, I run with pure excitement to her open arms. It’s only in her arms and in this state that all we endured in this life together as mother and child vanishes. Then I awake to reality, thankful for the dream, silently hum some lyrics, maybe Sugarland’s " Fall into Me or The Rolling Stones’ Wild Horses," and reach under the bed for a folder full of letters my mother and I exchanged throughout the years.

September 28, 2004

Dear Sage,

Last night, there were angels in my dream. They were holding me, touching me, caressing me. They were reminding me that I was still worth something, that I was a beautiful person, someone that could be loved. But they couldn’t stay because I wanted to let go. Sage, it was so beautiful; the feeling is like a true feeling of love (nothing sexual). When they looked at me, I felt their love. One held me, and that one is the one that told me he couldn’t stay because I wanted to let go. I want that feeling of love. No, I need that feeling of love. Sage, it was so powerful—the dream and the angels—’cause I decided to call them, because they were showing me who I could be if I really, really tried—that I still was worthy of being loved! What a beautiful dream, my lil’ Sage, what a beautiful dream.

I love you!

Mom

PART I

INNOCENCE

1980s

CHAPTER 1

M OMMY BELIEVES the mid-August heat can make the sounds of children more noticeable when twisting down a hot slide or splashing in a pool with the warm air carrying their happiness. But for me, being on a bike with two wheels brings out my toothless smile, rain or shine. A lot of practice went into convincing Mommy to ditch the baby tires because she thinks the removal of training wheels symbolizes a child’s independence. She says that children first learn to roll over in order to crawl, then they learn to walk. She also says that once a child discovers the art of coordination, they upgrade to a tricycle with the intentions of using their motor skills at full throttle. But it’s not until a child gets a bicycle with four wheels that they realize a new freedom awakes them when two are removed; only then will a child become weightless while their mommy transforms into the wind. Mommy believes that a child will always look to the wind regardless of how it shifts, but where a child ends up is determined by the weight of life’s challenges. She also says that I ran out of the womb, which is really confusing since I didn’t have a chance to roll over.

Even though Mommy said I wasn’t ready for two tires, I knew it was time. After all, we bought the pink-and-white bike last fall at a garage sale for two bucks when I was five. I didn’t mind the mismatched black seat or rust; it was the training wheels I wanted off the day we got it. But Mommy said, When the time arrives where you can ride without tipping over, I’ll take them off. And I’ll repaint it with the color you want.

A few weeks ago, I got Mommy to come outside to show her how fast and balanced I was on four wheels. When she came downstairs, she was with Kate, the wife of Daddy’s best friend, Tom. We were staying with them temporarily until our new trailer was ready in a small town called Langley, New York. Daddy says that it’s fifteen minutes from Tom, forty minutes southwest from Lake Ontario, and two hours east from where we used to live, Corning, New York. With Mommy standing there, I pedaled up the sidewalk, both hands gripping the rubber as I focused on the cement. Once I got to the fifth house, I turned to hear Mommy yelling, Good job, Sage! Keep it up! Then she disappeared.

I was so excited at the time; I took off for the two-lane street like the big boys and girls of the neighborhood were doing. When I passed a parked car, another swerved and let out a loud screeching noise. I put on the brakes and fell to the ground between the two cars. One smelled like burnt rubber. I looked to see where Mommy was. There was no sign of her. I checked myself for any bumps or cuts. I had none. I picked up my bike to quickly walk toward the backyard when the driver of the car took off.

Stay on the sidewalk from now on! I remember Kate shouting as she swept the driveway, with a cigarette dangling from her mouth, protected by pink lipstick. She looked like a giraffe with bare brownish-orange arms and legs that monkeys could swing from. My boys will think they can ride in the street like you. She continued to sweep when her white halter top revealed belly flab. Her cutoff shorts showcased her cheeks, hanging like the cigarette. And put Tommy Junior’s helmet and kneepads away. We can’t replace them if you go ruining them.

Sorry, Kate!

She leaned the broom against the porch, readjusted her golden wavy hair she could use as toilet paper. Sorry your mother, missy, not me.

Mommy never found out about the accident that I know of. The day we moved to Hazelton Trailer Park, she spray-painted my bike black and gold. The chain guard and handlebars were gold, and the frame was black, with matching black rubber handgrips. It was the same color as Daddy’s motorcycle, Midnight Cruiser. Mommy got stickers for the frame that spelled Mini Cruiser. My favorite part was the missing tiny wheels, just two big-girl tires wrapped tightly around the gold spokes.

The first week with Mini Cruiser, I was allowed to ride on the road our trailer home was on since the speed limit was only five miles per hour in Hazelton. And today, Daddy gave me permission to ride on the road behind the trailers across from us, but if I wasn’t back in ten minutes, I was limited to our road for the rest of the summer.

With the sun beating down my back, it was hard to pedal fast down the second street. Even though the air is superthick and my skin is sticky, the sound of tires against the broken pavement keeps my overheated face smiling. It also makes me wonder where the kid’s laughter and screaming are coming from.

Since we moved here, the only kid I met was Emma, the girl across the street. She’s nine and sort of legally blind. Her grandmother was overjoyed someone wanted to play with her. Unfortunately, Emma couldn’t go outside the fenced yard. And she definitely couldn’t ride a bike. So after a few hours of guiding her around the yard, I got bored and suggested we play hide-and-seek. I was never tagged. Daddy didn’t like how rude I was. I’m sure Emma’s grandmother didn’t like my disappearing act either. I pushed on the pedals with extra strength, passing their home, leaving just six trailers left before turning on our road again.

I have to agree with Mommy—two tires are way better. I can go faster while standing up. I can kick my feet out with one hand in the air. Sometimes, Daddy steers Midnight Cruiser with no hands. I bet it’s hard to do but probably tons of fun. I’m going to try it. I’ll ride to the last trailer with no hands.

Slowly removing my hands from the rubber grips with four trailers left until I turn, the bike wobbled back and forth, forcing my hands to their original station. At the third trailer, my knees turned inward as my legs controlled the direction of the bike. I moved my hands upward away from the gold paint, then a little more to eye level. Over my hands, I can see the highway where engines are roaring at the hot air with the last trailer below it. At the end of the second trailer, I put my arms over my head. Wee! I feel like I am flying with Mommy’s warm breeze wrapped around me.

Right before I had to turn on the main road to get back home, I saw it; out of nowhere, a big hole popped up. Immediately, I reached for the handlebars, but the front wheel was going in another direction, so I jumped off, hoping to land on my feet. Instead, my hands and knees are deep in the hole. Blood ran down my legs, and small pebbles stuck to the open skin of my palms. Thank goodness I didn’t have Tommy Junior’s helmet and kneepads; for sure, I would have ruined them.

I tried getting up, but it hurt too much to push my hands and knees against the concrete. It really hurt so much; a tear was trying to come out. I wanted to scream MOMMY! but the invisible kid’s screaming and highway traffic would drown out my cries. I turned on my butt with the edges of the hole cushioning it. My bike was not far from me. We both faced the busy highway. Our backsides were to the last trailer home, marking the end destination of riding with no hands.

Hey! You okay, sweetie? A female’s voice asked from a distance. I looked behind me to someone jogging this way. I couldn’t see much. My hands are too shaky to block the brightness of the sun.

Suddenly, a shadow was over me, a woman in a white robe sprinkled with pink ducks. The robe wasn’t long like Mommy’s robe; too much of her skin was showing. Maybe the robe belonged to her daughter.

Whoa! You had a bad fall, kiddo! Not looking at her pudgy light-brown legs, I attempted to get up again but couldn’t. So I sat there, stiff.

Riding with no hands is dangerous. You should be careful! Her voice was squeaky like Lucy, the woman who does really silly things on TV. And shouldn’t you be wearing a helmet? You’re too young to be without one! Helmets are for guys on motorcycles, four-year-olds on tricycles, not six-year-old girls on pink-and-white bikes. Now kneepads or gloves? Well, those would have been helpful.

As I tried to stop the blood from gushing, my eyes were fixed on Mini Cruiser’s chain flopped on the concrete. I don’t think Mommy or Daddy can repair it. Oh, no need to worry about your bike, sweetie. It will be fine. But those knees of yours are busted!

The woman grabbed my arm, helping me out of the hole. As I walked a few feet to my bike, I noticed that her hair was wrapped in blue rollers big enough for tiny birds to sleep on top of her head. She had lots of hair stopping at her wing bones, but I couldn’t tell if it was blond or brown. Come on, I’ll walk you home, kiddo.

Walking through the second trailer’s yard, I wiped the pebbles and blood on my shorts, while the cotton balls between the woman’s painted red toes made her walk funny, carrying my bike. You’re new to Hazelton? I smiled up at her. Actually, she was kind of pretty, not chunky at all, just short. Her long nose, pencil-thin upper lip, and half-finger length of forehead fit well on her long face. I’m Cindy. I live here in lot 21. She pointed to the second trailer next to us. It was really beat up and old looking. You have a name, kiddo?

Sage, I answered, picking skin from my hand, waiting for the usual response.

Sage? Like the seasoning? And there it is, the usual response. I smiled and kept walking. Sensing the dislike of my name, she changed the subject to her two siblings. They’re about your age, seven, she said, with my street in sight. They’re playing a few roads back with the other trailer rats. Trailer rats? Am I a trailer rat? If not, where do I sign up? Bet if I followed the screaming and laughing, I’d get some answers.

They live with you? I asked.

Who? She had a confused look. My sisters? My eyes were filled with curiosity. Of course! I’m the oldest.

Cindy is a little shorter than Mommy and wears makeup, like her too. Are you thirty-five? I asked.

Cindy’s bulgy light-brown eyes squinted with insult. No, kid! I’m only sixteen! My cheeks began to flush at the curb, checking both ways. I’m not sure why we stopped; Hazelton didn’t have much traffic.

Knock at the backdoor when you’re ready to meet the twins. Her trailer was much larger than ours and hurt my eyes again. It was painted brown with light-green trim. There were bricks, pieces of wood, and a ladder scattered on a porch that had missing steps under a broken window. My pops is doing some remodeling.

A dog’s growl broke Cindy’s concentration. She turned to see if we were in danger. Immediately, vicious barking filled our ears, forcing us to look at the brand-spanking new trailer Daddy bought. Keep it down, boy! Daddy’s head peeked out from under Lady Azul’s hood, our 1970 Mustang. Rizzo clawed the screen as I took off across the street without looking.

Daddy! Daddy! Not paying attention, I almost tripped over the curb when Daddy stood tall. A bottle of oil stained the ground. Daddy was already at Lady Azul’s door, with worry filling his small eyes. I fell, Daddy! Using his He-Man arms, he scooped me up.

What did you do, jelly bean? Tears filled the corners of my eyes from the sound of his mellow, deep voice. My head was planted in his shoulder, absorbing the hurt—hurt from falling in a hole, hurt in the open flesh of my hands and knees, hurt from the sight of Mini Cruiser that was lifeless in Cindy’s arms before she gently laid the bike against the enormous tree in our yard.

I saw her ride straight into the pothole on Willow Lane from our kitchen window, Cindy said.

Daddy walked quickly to our unpainted wooden steps, holding me tight. Thank you! Daddy said frantically. Rizzo stopped barking once Daddy opened the screen door. Once Cindy’s flip-flops reached the road, Rizzo’s attention was on me, with his tail wagging when Daddy sat me on the countertop.

Music filled the back of the trailer where Mommy and Daddy’s room was. Marcel! His voice was loud and clear, calling Mommy’s name. Daddy’s reddish mustache was so long that I couldn’t see his mouth. Marcel!

Every time I look at Daddy, I try to see how we resemble each other. It’s definitely not the hair. Mine is dark or light brown, depending on the sun. His is strawberry blond and wavy that is short up top with some length in the back. My straight hair goes to the middle of my back. And our eyes are completely different. His are close together, small and brown. Mine are greenish brown and spread apart. His sideburns are trimmed close to his square jaw. I don’t have sideburns, and my jaw is round. His nose is large with a bump on it. Mine is flat and cute like a button. Well, that’s what Daddy says.

Whenever I ask, Why don’t I look like you, Daddy? he’ll always say, Your mother’s DNA was very aggressive. You should be happy about that. Your mother’s striking dark features turn heads, jelly bean. But if you want, when you’re older, you have a choice to look like me. All you have to do is dye your hair red, grow a beard, and take steroids. I find his answer to be silly because red hair is for clowns. Beards are for lumberjacks. And I don’t even know what steroids are.

Damn it, Marcel! Get your ass in here! Daddy and his frustration towered over me. My feet plopped over the black marble, creating a hollow sound from my heels hitting the dark wood.

What? What? What? Mommy yelled, half running from their bedroom, arms full of stuff. I wiped my tears before she reached the kitchen. Crying would only upset her. She stopped in her tracks. Her eyes filled with panic, growing larger from leg to leg dripping with blood. Oh my goodness! she said, throwing the blanket and lotion on the kitchen table. Reaching for my legs, she pushed Daddy aside. Get the peroxide in our bathroom, babe. Towels too. My feet, dressed in white sandals, were in the sink as warm water splashed my knees from Mommy’s cupped hands.

Her beautiful wide eyes scanned me from head to toe. The darkness of their cat shape matched her clumpy long eyelashes. Her shiny dark bangs barely touched her arched eyebrows. Normally, her hair rests on her shoulders, but today, it was in a clip, displaying high cheekbones and her defined round jawline. There were long pieces of hair caressing the side of her firm fair skin, sometimes tickling her puffy bottom lip. She reminds me of the woman who gets in trouble with Clyde. Only Mommy never smiles like Bonnie, even with her striking dark features.

Mommy, the chain came off the bike. I jerked without a squeak while peroxide fizzed at the open flesh of my knees. Daddy and I watched Mommy’s every move as white bubbles surfaced.

The chubby girl across the street said she rode into a pothole. Maybe I should tell Daddy she’s not chubby; she just lacks height. But Mommy’s half smile erased the thought, causing me to copy her.

I didn’t see it! Well, I did, but I didn’t have time to go around it. She blew on the open wounds, soothing my mistake of seeing the pothole too late.

Pay attention, hon!I love the sound of Mommy’s voice. I can recognize it anywhere. It’s so solid, unique, and relaxing. Kind of like the woman on our radio singing about a landslide.

Mommy walked back to their room, leaving me on the sink. Your first accident two weeks ago should have been a lesson! she shouted. I guess Kate did tell on me, the overgrown snitch. Daddy grinned, wiping my legs dry.

She returned with clothes and tape to relieve Daddy. Looks like you’ll be greeting your big sister all scraped up, she said with defeat, removing the new white sandals along with the fresh blue shorts and white tank top. I stood on the counter in a one-piece bathing suit. They bought it yesterday with the other bloodstained items lying in the garbage.

Sage, do you know that very few children are lucky enough to blossom from purity? I nodded my head yes, too annoyed at the sound of my name to hear Mommy talk about how some kids are worse off than others. She brings this up every time sissy comes to town.

Why am I named after a seasoning? I asked, thinking of Cindy who not only triggered my interest in my name but is very good at switching topics.

Daddy was changing into a yellow T-shirt since his green one was covered in blood. What? Daddy said, throwing his hands in the air, trying to open his eyes to the max. You don’t like your name, Sagee Pooh? Only sissy is allowed to call me that. I gave Daddy the not-nice look.

It means a spiritually wise person, Mommy said, tying my worn-out brown sneakers against her chest. And when you’re older, you’ll appreciate your name. She put big Band-Aids on my knees using tape, regular-sized ones on my hands. Besides, other kids can’t rhyme much with ‘sage.’

Just be thankful she didn’t name you Venus! Mommy smirked at Daddy’s comment as he filled the cooler with drinks and red grapes. My eyebrows knitted together because I didn’t get it. I wonder if other kids my age knew what rhymed with Venus. Maybe Cindy’s sisters did.

How long will sissy be here? I didn’t want to ask but needed to know. Sissy and Cindy are the same age and could probably hang out. And I could play with the twins, who are possibly not blind. That would be no fun, guiding two blind girls around. I should have asked Cindy.

Hopefully not long! Daddy mumbled. Mommy shot Daddy a stern look, the signal to shut his trap. Daddy picked the cooler up, with Rizzo trailing behind as he opened the screen door with one foot.

Only a few weeks, Sage, she said, pulling my hair into