Stomach of the Ventriloquist

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Ventriloquy (1): noun. The art of projecting your voice so that it seems to come from another source (as from a ventriloquist's dummy).
Ventriloquy (2): noun. Originally, ventriloquism was a religious practice. The Greeks called this gastromancy. The noises produced by the stomach were thought to be the voices of the unliving, who took up residence in the stomach of the ventriloquist. The ventriloquist would then interpret the sounds, as they were thought to be able to speak to the dead, as well as foretell the future.

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NOW, I'VE never been quite a saint.
And although I do not claim to have lived my life to its fullest extent, I have learned my fair share of rules, tips and tricks, do's and don'ts throughout my experiences as a popular, pretty teenager. I mean, there are the basics: don't flirt with your dentist, let the frozen Popsicle thaw before taking a bite, and don't wax your upper lip without considering the consequences you'll have to bear when those tiny little hairs grow back in two weeks, from microscopic to international.
These concepts may seem foolish to you, of course, but when you're as counterfeit as me they seem to be of importance; because instead of flirting back, your dentist will respond by telling you you're completely neglecting your gum line while brushing, your eager lips will stick to the frosty, sugary goodness of that Arctic Popsicle for up to a half hour, and when you get lazy and skip this month's moustache wax, you'll look like a gorilla.
I know what's running through your mind right now. Either I'm out of my own, or stoned as hell, or really damn pretentious if I consider the above cardinal rules to live by. Honestly, I can't tell which of those three things I am and am not because at times I find myself experimenting with all their colourful combinations that make my world stop and spin and the same time.
I was taken on a journey and I truthfully have no choice but to let you in on it. It wasn't quite that lovely, hardly pleasurable whatsoever, but I amply, objectionably and irrefutably deserved it – and I do suppose it did do my plastic self some good, that spoonful – or rather truckload – of karma thrust upon me. This journey I speak of is touching at most, for those of you who have kind rabbit-like hearts; the rest of you might just vomit or stop caring altogether. So buckle up, the ride is about to start and we'll plunge into a dark tunnel of puppets, horror and glitter.
I guess the story has to start with birth, though in all honesty, it really starts with a lie. Delightful little Delilah Lauvely Chamberlain (note the hush-hush play on words) was six pounds and nine ounces, with a lovely flock of dark fluffy hair atop her strangely shaped baby-head. This bouncing baby girl fell out of her mother (for lack of a better word, of course. I'm sure it was much more painful than that – at least for mom) on the tenth of November at midday in 1993, two weeks earlier than expected and in a hospital in France. The birth, for some reason, took sixteen hours, as if mother had more than one tiny human to extract from herself.
This baby was only a quarter French on her mom's side, and in the future would never seek to learn the language much to her parent's – though really more of her mother's – dismay. They had vacationed in France for a sole purpose: for their baby girl to be born there and perhaps pick up the dialect so that they could have an intriguingly cultural daughter with an adorable accent back in America a few years later. Bad news, mom and dad: I hate linguistics, and could probably manage with simply web-speak.
Next, horror struck. The happy family trio suddenly lost a tertiary fraction. That's right: dad died, like any other dad could ever die. A car accident. A horrible, mangling car accident that required nearly the Jaws of Life to fish my father's body from the driver's seat. Delilah, merely a year old with surprisingly light hair despite what she was born with, was constantly thrown into day-cares because her mom was going through some horribly emotional crisis with dad's passing. Now I've never wanted to blame my mom because she did what she could for me to grow into a lovely young lady, and although it wasn't quite enough anyway, I just wish she'd have held me closer. Been the one to soothe my tearful tantrums late in the night, perhaps shedding a few droplets herself and we could cry together and miss dad and tell each other it would be okay (although at the time I could probably hardly say anything more profound than “Kitty cat!”). Mom had dealt with her own troubles and left me to fight my own. Growing up without a dad, never being able to have a real conversation with him had battered my heart blue for so long. It was like a land shark had ripped a piece of my abdomen right from me and held it hostage forever and I realized that I didn't even know half of myself. The notion plagued my brain for the whole duration of my life.
Of course, liars will be dirty liars, and I actually did know for a fact now that my dad was more comfortable with transportation's greener counterpart of walking or biking or taking the bus but I'll let the story continue.
Fast forward: the first day of Kindergarten, and that cute little Delilah Lauvely felt like she'd just witnessed a double rainbow. I actually remember the feeling of colours coursing through my veins – “I can go play with these dinosaurs, or those dolls over there, or maybe draw some puppies, and other kids will play with me! They like me, too! Oh, how I love being liked!”. Even at four, I was starving for attention. And holy shit, did I make some of those uglier, fatter little girls have the worst first day of school of all time.
What, are you surprised? You shouldn't be. Not all girls titled “Delilah” have to be sweet, caring and generally nice girls. The name in itself actually means “seductive, languishing, lovelorn and beguiling,” and in biblical idiom there was a temptress with this exact name who bewitched Samson (whoever that guy is) into revealing secrets about himself. In short, the name means “conniving whore,” which is why it pretty much suits me well.
Pudgy Lawson Greenwich asked me in sixth grade, “Why aren't you nice?” before chowing down on a beef-and-jelly sandwich. If I remember correctly, I replied with jutting out my skinny, prissy hip, placing a small hand on it and saying with a raised eyebrow and a high, unfaltering voice, “Honey, I don't do nice.”
Quite a character, wasn't I? Am I? Oh, whatever. The main point here is that mom could never bring herself to care for my attitude and neither could I.
For example, on his birthday, I, heavily intoxicated by marijuana, made out with my boyfriend's best friend. On his birthday. Yeah, I mean, I didn't really like the lad all that much, though I did love him just a little; too much talk, no play, you know? He took things too seriously, but I suppose he didn't completely deserve that little birthday surprise. Make a wish, Adam. Hope it comes true before I vomit on your birthday cake.
He actually said he'd marry me one day and, not impressed, I replied with “Cute,” then lit up a joint. And Adam had never liked that I used drugs, but at that point, I was fifteen and didn't give a shit about what was frowned upon in society – mostly because I knew he'd plead for divorce after realizing his wife was a disgusting, dirty bitch. In fact, not even the “good” kind of bitch whose apple went sour after something horrible happened in her life, and could easily be restored to a lovely young woman with time and healing. No no. Not me.
Because if that's the case with me, that horrible thing would be my dad's mysterious passing, and that would have to mean I've been a bitch since I was a baby. Now, that sounds kind of plausible, but I'm quite confident it's too late for me to have a change of heart now anyway. Maybe I've done just too much damage. Stabbed too many spinal cords. Harpooned too many hearts.
Just this year I arrived to homecoming, drunk, nearly sitting on the outside of my mind and vomited inside my “best friend's” handbag when I had inhaled too many appetizers. She told me later, because of course I didn't remember even going to homecoming, that all I did was shrug, tell her it didn't match her dress anyway, and waltz away (only to later pass out in the parking lot). For so long, I couldn't tell why I did what I did. At first maybe I thought it was because I was free-spirited, then realized my spirit was in a decaying, trashy state, caged up in the utmost corner of my chest. Next I considered that I didn't want to have lived my whole life with regret because I really hadn't lived it at all; the idea was crossed out quickly because regret already played the biggest role in my performance of an existence. The closest thing I've come to the explanation I've always owed myself was that everyone needs a bitch to make their lives hell, because what's a world without war? What's a child without a few scars? Slap on the wrist? You gotta be tough, and the only way to get tough is to be treated like a... puppet, shall I say. Maybe once. Maybe a few times over. This world is not for the folk of big, glass balloon hearts.
It's a hard job to have, actually, being the snooty bitch of a school, always having horrible nicknames strewn about behind your back – but then again, I probably called other people even more nasty monikers than I'd heard of myself and in no way did I even deserve to complain about it. I act like I was helping people. Really, I was so unhappy with my life that I tried to ruin others' so that mine would shine in comparison.
My mother had wanted lovely – she got the opposite.
I don't even understand how the word “lovely” works. “Oh, she's a lovely lady” – does that mean that she's love-ish? Love-like? How can someone be similar to love? Love is an emotion, not an adjective. Love is a mutual thing involving two people – just because one girl is lovely, doesn't mean everyone falls in love with her or that she's even pleasurable to be around. Having the blessed middle name of “Lauvely” has made me realize that frankly there is no true significance in the word “lovely,” if not just some random thing that some person blurted a thousand trillion nillion years ago when at a horrible loss for words.
In the light of this, the fact that being lovely is practically nothing, I'll leave you with the beginning of the saddest and most horrible end. So sad, that you could honestly feel sorry for me, the Delilah, the bitch, the one of ruin and rage. Just be warned, please... The road from here isn't very pretty: it's a plethora of horror, cabaret, and ventriloquy.

//

It was the beginning of 1993. The death of rock and roll was in the air and a man named Perry and his wife were cuddling much closer than I'd really like to describe in their tiny little flat on the sixth floor. They lived in a small metropolitan town in Pennsylvania, somewhat quiet but not boring. Still, yet, they were already growing tired of their newly wed lives and to what I gather, they required change to continue on with each other. This here was a turn, and it was a turn for the worse, though at the time mommy and daddy thought differently.
“Oh, hon, I want a baby,” my mother had said, rearranging herself on the long grey couch, “I want a French baby.”
“Yeah? Boy or girl?” Perry mumbled, smiling, and planted a kiss on her frizzy permed blonde hair.
“I want a girl first.”
“Really? What if it's a boy?”
Stella glowered quietly and muttered, “It won't be a boy.”
“Alright, supposing you can somehow assert that this baby will be a girl...”
“She'll be a lovely girl, Perry. She has to be.”
“Yeah? You could teach her how to be pretty.” Perry grinned and moved his hands over her back like windshield wipers, breathing her body in.
“What should her name be? Oh... What's the French word for lovely?” Stella wondered, letting the compliment sink in the air and dissolve into the carpet, and peeled herself from her husband to fetch a dictionary. She flicked the switch at the side of the room and the light flickered on. When the darkness was chased away by the fluorescent bulbs, so was the sultry mood Perry had been in – a mood for animal sex. Stella rummaged around in a nearby bookshelf.
Mother was obsessed with France. She didn't know how to speak the language of the Frenchmen, never had, but she still wanted a kid who could. She wanted a sophisticated, elegant, intriguing daughter.
“Hm,” she flipped through the pages of the worn book, “Here. Feminine: Belle, Jolie, Charmante.”
“We could name her Bella, short for Isabella,” Perry said. “That would be really cute.”
“No. That sounds Italian.”
“What about Jolly?”
“Absolutely not.” Stella muttered. “Jolly. Yeah right. She's not Santa Clause, Perry. And over my dead body will she ever be fat and ugly.”
“Ouch, baby. Don't forget who's buying your Christmas presents this year.” Perry laughed and winked. Upon receiving a glower, he raked his mind for alternate names, if only to soothe his irritable wife. “Charmante. How about Charmander? You know, the cute little orange guy from that new show Pokemon? I think it could catch on.”
“You're being silly, Perry,” Stella frowned and threw the dictionary onto the couch where it sunk into its crevice, “I just want a lovely daughter. A lovely French daughter. I need you to be serious, Perry.”
“Why don't you just name her lovely in a French accent, then? Lauvely. Problem solved. It sound great, doesn't it?” he said with a hint of exasperation in his voice.
“My God, Perry, that's beautiful!” she exclaimed, seemingly realizing for the first time that her husband had a fascinating, simple mind, and she planted herself into his lap. “You're a genius! Lauvely. Low-velle-y. It's adorable.”
“Can we get to making the baby now?” he persisted, holding her tighter.
“Hush hush, Perry. Not now. She needs a first name.”
“I thought we already – ”
“That was her middle name, Perry,” mother said, looking stern, the corners of her mouth almost curling in like a cat's snarl.
“Alright, fine. Delilah. Let's name her Delilah. That's it. She'll be wonderful, baby. She'll be simple and lovely and wonderful. I promise.”
Stella sighed and knew that Delilah Lauvely would have to be the name of their first daughter. She loved it even if she didn't want to admit it, and she hated that her husband just had a mind in which creations could be easily made.
Mother was a major control freak. Firstly, she had to have a daughter first, not a son. Somehow she made sure that her first baby had female sexual organs and matching body parts. From the little things I remember of my childhood, the house was always ridiculously clean and if I made a baby-mess (food on the walls, Play-Doh on the carpet, you know), she'd go ballistic. She always worked like a clock, ticking, stuck to a schedule, and became crabby and bitchy when things didn't go as planned. Sometimes she'd tell me that some people she knew deserved to die, and that was all. To be honest, Stella Chamberlain was a hard, no-good woman and probably hated herself more than I did.
I didn't really understand why my dad had ever married her, but then again, I didn't even know my dad. He could have only liked her for her bangin' hips and pretty face, not at all interested in her calendar brain or her cracking, working knuckles. Dad seemed like a simple, easily-satisfied goofball but I also knew that he'd do anything for his wife and I could never figure out why. What did he ever see in her? And, in the light that I am even worse than her... What would he ever see in me?
The only picture I'd ever seen of him was taken when I was a baby, probably only weeks before he died. The picture was ripped down his chest as if he were holding something in his other arm that was not appropriate – I had never known just what it was and I didn't dare ask mother. He had a light brown, wavy mop of hair that fell around his face and hung just above his shoulders. The scruff on his surprisingly attractive face was formulated into some kind of moustache-beard combination accommodating a solar patch under his bottom lip. His face itself was much too wrinkled considering how young he must have been in the photo – it had to have been at least fifteen years ago. I sat in his arms, dumbstruck, a light-haired French child, with my thumb in my mouth: and I could swear it was the last exact time that I had ever been an innocent human.
I knew I had his eyes, but to my knowledge, father was a good man. A good person. Something I could successfully say I did not inherit from him. His blue rings were the only things that carried on in my lineage and his kind soul died along the way, somewhere lost in sex and love and the godforsaken married life.
Although mother was quite like me in a way that she was selfish and demanding, she and my father still deserved a beautiful daughter who would enamour them the second she passed from the womb and who would fall in love with everyone she met. She would be bright and sparkly and excel in every possible human way and commit her life to other people. She was supposed to be a wonderful girl and woman, who'd live her life as best as she could without looking backward, or worse – downward. Not a horrible, selfish thing like me who merited nothing but misery.
They didn't get what they deserved. Oh, but I did.