I had a beautiful, clear-blue dress falling below my knees. My legs were covered with thick white socks that kept me warm, and on my back hung a yellow backpack which seemed to hide almost the entirety of my body; filled with scribbled papers, elementary school books, notebooks, and a lot of colored markers. My left arm was straightened upwards, holding the hand of my father, a caring, short, and sensible man. He was walking slowly, making sure I wasn't moving too quickly and getting tired.
He always walked me to places like that, always ensuring I was the one who set the pace. In return, I held his hand tightly and never went far from him. I knew that if I misbehaved, he would be too shy and compassionate to shout at or scold me. I never did.
Like any other day, he was taking me to school.
"Papa!" He looked down at me, smiling with just his lips. I smiled in return, showing all my teeth. "Can I write in my puppy notebook today?"
The puppy notebook. I spent days pestering my parents to buy it for me, pointing it out and forcing them to look at it every time we passed the stationery shop. It had a very vivid, ugly pink color, but the glittery dog right in the middle of it was what obsessed me. When they finally bought it, I felt like I just accomplished a life milestone.
"You know you have to finish filling out the one you started already, honey. Give it a month, okay?"
I pouted and complained. Every day I asked, and every day I got the same answer. I was a child, so one month felt like forever.
One month felt like forever. Sweet innocence.
"We're here. Don't give me an attitude and do all your homework today, you will see how quickly you fill up that old notebook." He let go of my hand and patted a couple of times on my backpack. Excited, I nodded and murmured a quick `goodbye´ before running towards all the other kids my age.
I was impatient to go to class that day. I didn't feel an ounce of worry, anxiety, or dread. Life felt like a white canvas or an unexplored map—I didn't know what was out there, nor did I have a clear notion of where I was, but it didn't feel terrifying; it was just naivety, innocence.
* * *
The classroom was crowded with noisy, loud six-year-olds. The teacher was trying to get us to read, but getting more than twenty children to listen to you was a rather difficult task. Another girl and I had our heads down, passing notes to each other written in illegible handwriting while pretending to read. We were giggling loudly enough to get noticed and questioned.
I didn't notice our teacher hovering over us as I was deliberately avoiding eye contact, so when she spoke and called our names, I felt a little startled.
"Audrey", I understood.
I raised my head, gasping. I felt all my blood falling to my feet, and my heart started pounding in my chest. It wasn't her voice that got a reaction out of me—it was the name I thought I heard.
"Yes, Miss? I'm sorry… What did you say?"
"Grace." She repeated. But that wasn't the same name I understood at first. "Do you mind showing me the last sentence you read in the book?"
With a shaky hand, I pointed at the first sentence of the page. The teacher shook her head and started scolding both the girl and me for not following instructions.
I couldn't listen, even if I wanted to. That name kept repeating itself in my head over and over, and over again. Audrey. Audrey. Audrey. I felt something in my lower stomach that I've never felt before, a strong pinch. It was as if someone grabbed my guts from the inside and twisted them in their hand, making all my body ache and my heart feel heavy.
I was a kid— at least I still was, even if just for the following minutes. That feeling gave me nausea, and I didn't understand what was going on.
I raised my hand, cutting the teacher's speech.
"Bathroom," I whispered, holding my stomach. "Bathroom, Miss."
"Audrey, you can't fake being sick to avoid getting punished for disobeying."
What? How did she call me again?
It didn't matter in the moment; I urgently had to go.
"Miss, please."
"Okay, Grace. You might go, but make it quick."
I stood up quickly. The nausea increased, and my vision started to fade. But that wasn't the worst of all—It was the sense of impending doom. I wouldn't have been able to explain it, but it felt as if something unknown was right behind me, ready to catch me.
I ran to the bathroom. I had to puke.
Once in, I locked the door behind me and gripped the toilet seat, holding for dear life. I coughed and gagged, tears falling down my cheeks. I had to vomit, but I couldn't. And whatever thing was behind me felt closer, and closer.
Audrey, Audrey, Audrey. Why couldn't I stop thinking about that name?
Suddenly, and probably thanks to the dash to the bathroom, a rash of heat passed over me. Wheezing, I grabbed my dress and pulled it up, wanting it gone. I had a sleeveless white shirt and a pair of small pants under it; it wasn't a big deal.
I saw the color.I had a beautiful, clear-blue dress falling below my knees.
It wasn't my first time wearing a dress of that length and color; I already worn one similar. But last time it was longer and more visually appealing. Last time it fit a taller body, a body with different sizes.
The last time I wore a dress like that, I was older. And the last time I had it on, the blue color was spattered with red blood stains.
I looked at my hands. Small hands coated with strokes of paint and glitter. Bringing them to my eyes, I started sobbing.