Shadow Land

Somewhere over the rainbow way up high

There’s a land that I’ve heard of

Once in a lullaby

Somewhere over the rainbow skies are blue

And the dreams that you dare to dream

Really do come true

Prelude

My name is Carla Veronique Larkson and I’m twenty years old as I begin this story - a tale of my life. I’m writing principally because I have an intuitive belief I may soon disappear, finding myself in circumstances where I cannot communicate. While I have no desire to vanish, my departure, nonetheless, may be by my own choice. There is also an unpleasant possibility that I could be taken forcibly. I’m not sure. In fact the whole point is I’m not sure of anything.

Should I mysteriously depart this happy life I currently live, I hope that what I write now will provide a sort of explanation, especially to the people I love so dearly, of the circumstances that have led to this occurrence.

The decision I’ve made to lay my life out chronologically, rather than simply convey the relevant facts surrounding my present situation, is for a number of reasons. By telling my story from the beginning, as I have come to understand it, I hope the mystery will evolve for you who read it the way it has for me. And, if in writing this story I’m also bidding farewell, my desire to express honestly and accurately the depth of feelings I have for those I love  (of more importance to me than even this puzzle) can, I believe, only be achieved by bringing them to life in context.

What I can put simply is that it all revolves around my peculiarities, things that till recently I’d simply accepted, like everyone else, as, well, I don’t know, idiosyncratic perhaps. And somehow mixed up in it all is the possibility of a strange race of people.

Chapter 1

Sitting and thinking about how to begin I realise that the mystery I’m about to tell is, I’m sure, nothing more than a prelude to an even more bizarre story, in which I somehow play a role, and that is unfolding as I write.

Also, I’m suddenly struck dumb by the realisation that if I’m to tell my life’s tale truthfully, and as the truth is what I wish to tell, then some things I have to relate will, no doubt, shock and may possibly hurt loved ones. I apologise in advance and ask forgiveness of those who suffer in this way.

Perhaps I should do like on television today and exonerate myself from responsibility by providing a totally inaccurate and mindless consumer warning - The following text contains…

As I think back on things I realise I was born with a number of distinctive characteristics. A marked sense of sexual arousal is one, the result of which has led to behaviour bound to cause controversy. Nothing shocks quite as much as sex. It’s feared and misunderstood, seldom talked about openly, hidden behind the arras. Yet it pervades our lives in so many ways. And being so young perhaps the attraction is even stronger.

Attempting to put into words the pleasure I derive from the touch and feel of human flesh is, well, beyond me. Both my parents would often remark how, as a baby, I quickly responded to the soothing contact of human hands. As I grew I became what was often described as a touchy-feely child. My parents are intelligent and permissive people so up until I was about eight never minded my wandering about shedding my clothes and clambering onto their knees asking to be touched, or tickled as we called it. With my parents this touching was limited mostly to back scratching, but I think I was tickling myself between my legs as far back as I can remember.

Another thing that’s distinctive is my fear and loathing of violence. This phobia, as the doctors first described it came to light when I was quite young. Like most parents, mine too hoped that the TV would keep us children amused while they pursued grown-up activities. At a very early age, when put in front of the television to watch a cartoon, the violence displayed brought on so much anxiety that I became physically ill, then fainted. This became a common occurrence in situations where I was exposed to any form of continued hostility. I avoided the box. This condition also kept me a relatively solitary child, as roughhouse games brought on the same terror.

Then there is the eating of meat, poultry and fish, something I detested from as long back as I can recall. It also makes me physically ill. Once again the doctors simply diagnosed it as psychosomatic, saying, ‘She is a normal healthy girl who should eat meat.’

I now believe in the causes of vegetarianism and think no one should eat meat if they do not wish to, but back then, as it does today, it simply made me unwell. My papa, bless him, rescued me from the constant dilemma of meal times by likewise declaring himself a vegetarian. My mother scoffed, but he changed, and today is still a non-meat eater.

These oddities may give a preconceived notion that I’m a shy, delicate, little namby-pamby of a girl. However, in addition to having the personality more closely associated with an extrovert, I’ve always been strong and tall. Today I stand over one metre eight. Add to that, I’ve always been physically powerful, with an abundance of energy. Illness is foreign to me. Despite a love of sweet things I’ve no fillings in my strong white teeth. My eyesight is 20-20, or better, if that is possible, coupled with an ability to adapt instantly to night vision. I could always hear my parents returning home when others couldn’t, and from as long back as I can recall, six hours sleep a night has always been sufficient.

Childhood with my brother Sven, who is eighteen months younger, quieter and more introspective, was heaven. He was my one and only trusted and loyal friend during this period. I simply adore him and we share a true, faithful and loving companionship to this day.

Our Swedish parents emigrated when my brother and I were still tots, moving in the hope of more rewarding opportunities in their respective professional fields. We were too young for the upheaval to have any real effect and at least two pleasant sets of circumstances resulted. Though I had already established the habit of sharing a bed with Sven, I couldn’t bear not being close to him at night, the move brought initial economic circumstances that suddenly forced the situation to be a matter of necessity, and it remained that way for some years. Secondly, our parents, who soon became immersed in their careers, left Sven and I to ourselves for long periods of time. They were also busy making new friends and acquaintances, and having no relatives and the like to call on, I was left in charge of my baby brother, giving us the opportunity to play in our own exotic world of make-believe.

As I didn’t enjoy television I would entice Sven into activities of my own invention, often involving dressing up and the singing of songs. Music is my great love. Also I have a talent for hearing and remembering and so could imitate people we’d hear talking, getting their accent pitch perfect. It didn’t matter what language they spoke - Japanese, French, German, Swedish, English - I’d remember and repeat it accurately. Of course I had no idea most of the time what I was saying but it amused Sven and me enormously. When he got bored I’d get him to read aloud, reading being his great love.

As time progressed and we continued to play in isolation, (being from a foreign land also contributed to our segregation from other children in those early years), our games became more focused on the physical touch. We had noted our sexual differences in ways that are, I presume, common in most mixed households, but as I began to become aware of the pleasure derived from certain erogenous zones, my love of touching and being touched grew more exploratory, encompassing my younger brother. I used sensuous contact to calm Sven, and stop him from becoming overly excited, a situation that often led to aggressive behaviour on his part, which of course would frighten me. Our games were still very innocent but we knew instinctively our parents would disapprove of this as we became older. But by then the habit had formed, and the strong desire we both had to continue this activity dominated. It became our little secret.

Despite our little private games I’d like to stress that both Sven and I gave our parents little to feel concerned about. We, and especially I, did almost everything they asked. As I required less sleep than was usual I was always up early, happy to assist with domestic chores. I diligently looked after our beautiful Persian cat, feeding and grooming her. By the age of three I could dress myself and by five make my own bed. I would then tend to the dress of my brother, as well as tidy up after him. My parents loved boasting of how I mothered Sven. It gave them the confidence to leave us to ourselves. I should also comment now that although our parents left us to our own devices for long periods of time, as they struggled to make financial good, they were still loving and affectionate towards us, and we both adore them.

My paradise with Sven, however, was taken from me all too quickly.

I was well over thirteen years old at the time and had come home from school unexpectedly early. My father was bent backwards resting on the dining table, his trousers around his ankles and the girl who did the cleaning, (by now my parents were earning good money), was stark naked, performing oral sex on him. I watched, mesmerised, though I had no idea really what they were doing. Lena was only in her late teens and I hadn’t thought of her as a grown-up, but seeing her nude my attention was drawn to her large breasts, things that were growing rapidly on me. I must have made a noise or something for the next thing I knew they were both staring at me in amazement.

Not long after this incident Sven and I were bundled off to different boarding schools, much to our distress. Soon after my parents separated; it was amicable and the reasons were a lot more complex than papa simply fancying a bit on the side with Lena.

Chapter 2

Boarding school introduced a whole new epoch to my life.

I was once described academically, to the indignation of my mother, as slow, and I was. There had been an early expectation that I would turn out to be intellectual given that by the age of two my parents said I was already capable of learning long sentences, and at about four when my parents started teaching us English I picked it up quickly and effortlessly, easily recalling what was Swedish and what was not. But this didn’t correlate with me being academic. Complex matters like understanding grammar, mathematical formulas and convoluted arguments are, in actual fact, just simply beyond me. Without my remarkable retentive memory, allowing me to remember and repeat, and give the impression of understanding, I might still be in year one.

School was not something I enjoyed, and this wasn’t just because I had trouble comprehending lessons; for me, it was a place fraught with the fear of violence.

The exclusive institution where, as very naïve adolescent, I got sent, were only interested in what it deemed achievers, and I didn’t fit the bill. Also I’d developed, with the encouragement of my parents, independent ways, and that, alongside my vegetarianism all went very much against the authoritarian grain. I fell in with the duller, but thankfully harmless, students, keeping myself, though, very much to myself. Being in this loveless institute were I was trapped twenty-four hours, seven days a week, drove me insane.

There was little point in the continual pleas I made to my parents to let me come home, as home no longer existed. Mama and papa were busy re-establishing themselves, and their careers at that point necessitated a lot of dedicated time. My father was also frequently required to travel to far flown places. He felt my suffering, however, but trapped within his conflicting desires he simply grieved along with me, and realising the futility of this situation I stopped complaining to him. My mother simply told me to stop moaning; ‘Life is full of misery Carla, so get use to it.’ She was also very unhappy, but masked it with bluster that I was both too young and too full of my own crisis to understand.

The only bright spot of the year was the guitar my father brought me. To my joy I discovered my long slim fingers found chords easy to form and that I also had a pleasant easy vocal style. It provided much needed companionship and escape.

Sven had been sent to a similar institute for boys, and being academic faired better than I did. His good looks, intelligent ways and quiet manners also made him popular. Sven soon came to enjoy this type of schooling, and had no desire to return to our old way of life. The realisation I’d also lost my only playmate to the broader world added to my misery.

Adding further to my gloom was puberty; my body was changing at an alarming rate. I started getting my period and had no one to tell me what it was all about. I thought at first I was dying, and was glad. It fell to Sven to explain matters. My mother had given me a rundown on the change to adulthood, as she called it, but clearly uncomfortable, mama spoke quickly, and so most things went over my head. Plus, I was also too much absorbed with these things called brassieres that she was giving me to wear to listen closely to what else she was saying.

When end of the school year finally came, the upheaval caused by my parent’s separation meant our holidays were all over the place. Sven and I hardly saw each other.

Mama, disappointed with my results and moved by my pleas not to send me back to boarding school, enrolled me in a new institution that allowed me to live with her. By the time I began, despite the fact I was not yet quite fifteen years old, I had more-or-less grown into a woman – over one metre seven in height and wearing a 34 c bra. When I stood in front of the mirror I was impressed.

Suddenly I was popular, not just with other students but with teachers as well. It was the first realisation that we were living in a period where the eye ruled. And the fact I could strum the guitar and sing was another bonus.

My personality, however, was forced to contradictory. I loved being social and had a happy go lucky, cum cheeky style, but having an instinctive wariness of the pack mentality and the cruel games they could play, I felt it essential to remain solitary and aloof. This clash of styles was also evident in other ways. Being tall and physically strong I had an athletic and outgoing nature, but I shunned games and sport due to the aggressive nature required to participate.  

I did however attempt to join in swimming and track and field sports, though I soon found them boring, it all seemed such a pointless pursuit, and ‘winning’ was an achievement I couldn’t understand. It brings to mind a scene from my days at boarding school that not only illustrates the type of girl I was, and though wiser not much different, but also had the result of ending any activities of a sporting nature for many years.

‘Carla we need you to win the next race,’ said Miss Brown, with all the hype and pep of modern day coaches.

Genuinely perplexed, I asked, with all sincerity, ‘Why?’

The other girls laughed.

Miss Brown’s face, ugly now with rage, spat, ‘Are you trying to be funny?’

Wiping the smile from my face, having been pleased to amuse, and becoming slightly ill, smelling the pending violence in the air, I struggled to reply, ‘No, Miss Brown.’

‘Then get out there and win,’ she bawled.

I did, but only out of fear.

While my mother found my phobias annoying she would be damned before she would let other people make light of them. An impressive and intimidating person, making a respected name for herself in the world of law, mama dared the schools to challenge my right to be excluded from certain activities, or be forced to eat meat, poultry or fish. Later that day I rang her and told her I no longer wanted to do any sport, and caring nothing for the activity herself, she took up my cause with her usual vigour.

So, despite my newfound popularity I was still very lonely, spending most of my free time becoming proficient on the guitar. I believed music would one day be my vocation. Papa wanted to pay for private lessons, but my mother said no. ‘You play that guitar too much as it is. You need to concentrate on improving your academic skills.’ And my fear of having to ‘learn’ stopped me from minding. I was more than happy teaching myself.

My mother spent most of her time either working or socialising, so Skump, our cat took on the role of a living companion. She was only a tad older than me at sixteen, though her life was ending. Arthritis made it hard for her to walk and the vet had said other things were wrong, things that I couldn’t understand. She was on a lot of medication. I played nurse, and in between serenaded her with songs I’d learnt on guitar from the Great American Songbook.

One afternoon when I arrived home I found mama waiting just inside the door, dressed to go out. She was distressed, and seeing her like this took me aback, so I didn’t notice Skump in her cat cage, at first.  But when I did, I asked, full of anxiety, ‘What’s going on?’

‘Say goodbye to Skump, Carla, she’s had enough and I’m going to have her put to sleep.’ My mother spoke in Swedish, something she never did nowadays, and I knew it was because of the state she was in.

Alone I cried. The changes that had so brutally careened through my life I had, to date, born stoically as far as tears were concerned, but now they came, not just for the loss of Skump but for all the misery I felt. I was a pitiful mess the rest of the year, and academically I only just slipped through.

When school finally ended and holidays came, papa took Sven and I away with him. I thought I’d be happy, but more trials awaited me.

We went to stay in a private chalet in the snow, and my father brought along his new female ‘friend.’ She seemed so much younger than mama. This woman, whom Sven nicknamed ‘The Betty’ too, paid so little attention to him and I that her real name is something that even my good memory can’t recall.

My brother was moody and irritable and wouldn’t confide in me as to what was bothering him; now I understand it was, of course, puberty. I’d hoped we might innocently share a bed but he was horrified at the suggestion.

‘Carla we’re brother and sister, we can’t keep doing that.’

I knew he was referring to the games we once played, and not being able to communicate made it worse. And I wasn’t sure, in all honesty, what I did want from Sven, except to be close to him. Those desires I craved, to be touched and to touch had not left me, but as a result of the long period of being by myself I had grown accustomed to living without. Though, I craved for the day when I’d find someone...

Papa did his best to make things fun for us, but trapped with a trio of unhappy people was too much for even his positive attitude, and in the end we all had a very dull time. We returned early, Sven going off to be with mama, and The Betty disappearing. I went and stayed with my father who had finally found a home he wanted to live in. And to my enormous joy he had brought himself a baby grand piano. Papa, I was surprised to learn, was quite a gifted player. His interest in jazz had influenced me, and now we played songs together with surprisingly pleasing results.

‘Carla, your playing has progressed amazingly and your voice is so beautiful. I don’t care what your mother says I’m sending you off to get tuition. There’s a career awaiting you in music.’

Before returning to school that year I received a stern lecture from my mother on getting good grades, adding that she hoped I would follow in her footsteps as a lawyer. When I responded saying I wanted to be a musician… well, let’s just note that I did as papa suggested, and avoided the subject of music as a possible career choice when in her company.

I was determined to try a lot harder and make more of an effort to blend in and participate, especially socially, that year at school. A new girl was in my class; her name was Antoinette. She was small, slim and flat chested, her jet-black hair was tied in pig- tails and her blue eyes were made larger by black horn rimmed spectacles. Antoinette had the air of the librarian type. She looked harmless and innocent, and all this appealed. Plus I’d assumed she was clever. By the end of the first week we started sitting together, and by the second I agreed to her request to come back to mama’s and do our homework together.

While I was right about her academic skills, I was dead wrong about her being innocent. Away from teachers and other students Antoinette came out of her goody two shoes pose, and the liberated and informed girl that she was, surfaced. On that first occasion, after establishing we were alone, as we took our books from our bags, she said, with a laconic sigh, ‘You know Carla, Miss Stevens is majorly fucked up. She has no idea.’

I was so innocent back then the vernacular of our generation, and bad language were something I knew little about. It made me laugh, as I protested, ‘She’s our teacher, Antoinette, surely she knows more than us?’

Antoinette shook her pretty head. ‘Ah, ah, you maybe kiddo, but not me.’ Then laughing added, ‘She’s ol’school.’ I looked at her, amazed at her new style and its temerity.

She laughed again at my look. ‘We gotta word you up, Carla. You ain’t cool.’

While happy to be ‘worded up’ and made cool I was, though, perplexed why Antoinette honestly believed she knew more than our teacher.

‘Not think, Carla, know. Trust me, I’m not boasting, you’ll see.’

I saw and learnt a lot that afternoon but it had little to do with academic matters. At that point my father was the only really enjoyable company I had, and though he didn’t treat me like a kid there was a gulf. Antoinette bridged the gap that day, and it wasn’t solely an age thing. While making it clear she wanted a close and personal relationship, Antoinette also demonstrated she was prepared to invest time and effort to achieve it. I was left sure in the knowledge that through my association with her not only would I find amusement in ways that were new and on a levels that were exciting, but how to wise up. The pleasure I felt at this realisation is a cherished moment.

In the midst of many facts discovered that afternoon was also Antoinette’s love of swearing, claiming she’d picked up the habit from her father.

‘He’s right proper bastard and I hate him!’

Shocked at the thought of someone hating their own father but sensing in her case it was true, and the subject best left alone at present, I asked, ‘Why imitate someone you dislike?’

‘To annoy the shit out of him!’

A day