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>Tearless Tuesday and Dante’s Inferno, con’td

September 1, 2010

>I, being the linear, organized being that I am, expect certain things of my weekdays.

Monday (almost) always brings tears. One or the other, often both, set out on their week fussing, whining, complaining, moaning. Begrudging the start of a new week and return to things un-fun. They want the cartoons and the jammies and the lack of structure that week-end brings.

Monday (almost) always brings tears. Sometimes even for me.

But Tuesday, Tuesday is always better. Tuesday found Scrappy perched at his little table, merrily eating applesauce with his buddies, too busy to even wave goodbye from the window. Tuesday found Scooby stomping about in new light-up sneakers, eager to show his friends.

Tuesday I was productive and efficient, and I got a haircut, to boot. I call that a win, wouldn’t you?

(Scooby just reminded me that he asked for more milk TEN MINUTES AGO. I winced and hopped up. He called after me: “I forgive you!”)

And, just for fun, I noodled a bit more on the life of times of Venetia Dante.


Venetia drove slowly through the dusky evening, trailed, as always, by the staid black sedan containing her bodyguards. The local police hovering, restrained by plush offices, espresso machines, and custom-tailored uniforms.

Pulling into a curving drive she left the car running. Not turning, she spoke to the figure that appeared at her elbow. “I won’t be needing the car again today, Mitchell. Please see to it the scratches are removed from the hood before tomorrow.”

Not turning, she did not see the rolling eyes, the shaking heads, the sighs of disbelief. She never saw them, or perhaps, she chose not to. Perhaps she simply didn’t care. Caring would imply that what they thought actually mattered.

To Venetia, nothing mattered. And that’s the rub.

She wasn’t but six months old when her condition became obvious. While other babies were struggling to sit upright, Venetia was watching. Always watching – her eyes alert and knowing.

Her first words, at the age of 11 months, were: “No, thank you. I’d prefer milk.” as her startled mother proffered a sippy cup of juice.

By 18 months she had begun to draw, lilting images of trees and sun.

At two, she finished “Gone With the Wind” and curious about the war, asked questions of her doting grandfather. “Why were they so opposed to the emancipation of the slaves, Papa?”

He merely laughed, delighted in this fire-haired moppet with the large eyes and serious gaze. Milk-white skin so thin that blue veins laced the inside of her wrists. Milk-white skin so thin that when she screamed, her pearly forehead turned a horrifying shade of red.

How could they not give her all she asked for? Who wouldn’t indulge the mature-whims of this tiny genius? She did not demand toys, or candy, as other children cried in the aisles of Wal-mart. No, she merely wanted the priveleges she felt were her due. In keeping with her mental state, she never saw herself as a child.

“Papa, I’d like my own car. It is ridiculous that I should have to be driven about by Mitchell in that ugly thing.”

As always, he gave her what she wanted, greasing palms and granting favors in order to ensure her free passage. To ensure that they looked the other way as she drove her Mercedes around the city.

The other mothers clucked in disapproval. She’s not a normal child! They would worry. She should be outside, playing with dolls, on the playground.

It’s not that her family denied her these things, no, not at all. She never wanted them. She never had any interest in children her own age.

To Venetia, it was her age that was her prison.

2 Comments leave one →
  1. September 1, 2010 8:27 pm

    >Oooh…so glad to read more Venetia! I am feeling bad for her for sure!

  2. September 1, 2010 11:00 pm

    >:O….ummm AWESOME!!!!! How did I not know about Venetia? PS: I haven't forgotten that I need to do my 7 thingies 🙂 Just been a wee bit nuts.

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