Pantomime
Clementine Origins: Part One
“Here’s your fuckin’ trophy. I’m outta here.”
I still can’t believe I said that to her. I can’t count how many times by then I must’ve imagined telling my mother to fuck off. And then I actually did it, but it didn’t feel like how I thought it would. It felt like watching a movie. Like I was behind myself a few feet away watching someone else scream an obscenity with my mouth and shove that gaudy trophy at her with my hands, but it wasn’t me, not any part of me that knew what the hell I was doing anyway. Figures I’d finally stand up to her and not even get the satisfaction of it. I just watched myself throw that trophy at her like a grenade and then run for cover.
I knew if I ran she’d never chase me. Not just because the stick up her ass would never allow her to be seen breaking a sweat in public. No, she’d have to actually want to catch me. But I wasn’t worth chasing after anymore that evening. She got what she came for. With her precious trophy finally in hand, her only priority then would’ve been saving face. My mother has an air about her like she’s always running for mayor. No, she’d go back inside the hall saying I had a case of nerves or needed to be at some other “engagement.” Then she’d gladhand around the room, making like she’d just won Junior Miss Blue Bonnet. It would’ve taken a far more public outburst than that to derail the Leona Slaughter show. I’m sure she was still itching to get home and tell me off, thinking this was just a slightly more explicit version of the same ol’ song and dance we’ve been doing for years. But not that time. That time I was done done.
Something my mother never understood was that if she would’ve just supported me, treated me more like her daughter than her hostage, none of this ever would’ve happened. She wasn’t always like this. Doing the pageants was actually my idea. I was eight years old when I asked her if I could compete. I told her I wanted to be a beauty queen someday just like she was and she cried and told me it was the happiest day of her life. She taught me everything I know. It was a lot of work, but I took to all of it right away. Everybody thinks of kiddie pageants and gets stuck on the makeup and the hair and the skimpy outfits. No one ever talks about the hours of practicing dance routines, gymnastics classes, vocal coaching twice a week, and that’s when I was still young, when it was still fun. When it was still our thing.
Then I turned twelve and a fucking flower started growing out of my head. Well, it wasn’t a flower at first, but it changes a little every time it regrows. The first time, it was just a little sprout, a thin stem and two tiny leaves. My mother must’ve just thought I had somehow gotten a twig in my hair. When she plucked it out it felt like she had pulled out a couple hairs with it, or at least that’s what I had thought.
“Ouch!”
”Oh, quit being dramatic. That didn’t hurt.”
A few weeks passed and I didn’t think anything of it. Till it happened again.
“Honestly Clementine, when were you even outside?”
The same quick, sharp pain. The same disgusted confusion etched across her face. God forbid I went outside and played when I could be practicing.
A few more weeks later, when it happened again, I noticed it first. It had grown overnight and I caught a glimpse of it in the mirror while I was brushing my teeth. Huh. I combed my figure through my hair to brush it off, but as my hand passed over it, it was still there. That’s…weird. I spit out my toothpaste and turned off the sink, leaning forward as my fingertips discovered the spot where the base of the sprout met my scalp, where the two connected. I backed away from the mirror and spun around to lock the bathroom door, just in case. When I faced the mirror again, the color had drained from my face. I tried to steady my breathing as the realization fully took hold of me. The leaves were alive. And they were growing…out of me. Why? How? Questions for later. The only thing that mattered right then was making sure my mother never found out. I didn’t know why that had become my only priority then. My mom could be tough, sure, but she just wanted me to be the best, right? We were so close. Why was my first instinct to hide it from her?
I took a deep breath to steel myself and stepped forward again, leaned over the sink and locked eyes with my reflection. I’d do it fast and hard, rip it off like a bandaid. I pinched the small stem, my fingernails poised at the base, ready to force themselves together to sever the botanical intruder from me. It wouldn’t hurt this time since I knew it was coming.
Or so I thought. I winced at the pain, but held back the tears that sprang to my eyes. I flushed the evidence and tousled my hair back into place. I nodded at my reflection, the only confidant of my new secret, and continued getting ready for my day as if nothing had happened.
But it had. And it would again.
The next time it happened though, the stem was thicker. It hurt more to pull it out. Noticeably more. That time I couldn’t hold the tears back as the pain pulsed at the tender spot on my head. The time after that it grew back thicker still and this time with a small flower bud nestled between the two leaves. I knew I wouldn’t be able to just pluck it from my scalp anymore, so I crept down to my father’s workbench in the basement to retrieve his pocketknife and snuck it back upstairs to the bathroom, locking the door behind me. I stood there for what felt like an hour, the knife held aloft in my shaking hand, but I couldn’t get up the nerve. Something about needing to use something besides my hands to remove it felt like a level up. I couldn’t bring myself to do it, but I still didn’t dare tell anyone. I could hear my mother’s voice in my head. What would people say?
One of the talent routines in my arsenal at the time involved a lasso and a cowgirl getup. It was around that time I suddenly got very attached to that bedazzled, pink hat. I knew I couldn’t hide it forever, but I had to buy myself as much time as I could. My brain wasn’t running on logic anymore, just fear. After a couple days though, the “mommy’s little cowgirl” schtick got tired and I was told I needed to take it off at the dinner table. Reluctantly, I obeyed and there it was, like a little daisy sticking straight out of the top of my head. My dad didn’t seem to know what to think of it, but my mother’s eyes narrowed suspiciously as she pushed her chair away from the table.
“What in God’s name is that?”
“I—I don’t know…”
She came around the table towards me. I put my hand up to try and stop her, but she knocked it away and took hold of my head to examine it closer. She parted my hair to find the root of it. Then she held it firmly and pulled. My mother gasped at the noticeable resistance to remove it. I yelped from the jolt of pain, my hands flying up to the crown of my head to protect it from further pain, but it was too late. Through teary eyes I looked up at my mother, standing over me, staring at me with horrified confusion. She turned her head to inspect the small flower hanging limply in her hand. She brought it close to her face, tensely scrutinizing the base of the stem where it had just been connected to me.
“Is that…”
A small red drop bloomed at the raw end of the stem and dripped onto the linen tablecloth. I shakily lowered my hands from my head to find my fingertips wet with blood. My father’s fork clattered to his plate, the sound inaudible over my sudden shrieking. I thrust myself away from the table, my chair toppling over behind me, the tablecloth now stained with my bloody handprints as I tore off toward the bathroom, my mother’s footsteps thudding up the carpeted stairs behind me.
To be continued…