The world, for Fontessa, was a chilling, unwelcoming place. From her earliest memories, a gnawing emptiness resided where love should have been, a cold void echoing between her and the two people who called themselves her parents. She hated her mother with a quiet, burning intensity, a feeling born not of malice, but of profound confusion and despair. Why? she’d ask the silent walls of her mind, Why don’t they love me? Why was I born into a family of people who never loved her? What kind of person is she that she did not deserve love as a child?
Her small, good heart, desperate for warmth, concocted a desperate plan. If being a quiet, obedient child earned her only indifference, perhaps being bad would at least make them see her. "If they did not love me when I was good," a tiny rebel whispered inside her, "maybe they will love me while I am bad." And so, Fontessa began to act out. She talked back, her voice startlingly sharp for her age. She refused to listen to anything her parents said, her small acts of defiance a desperate plea for recognition. It worked, a little. She got attention, yes, but it was not the attention she wanted. It came in the form of raised voices, harsh words, and, inevitably, the sting of a belt.
Tired of the beatings, but still starved for affection, she started rebelling even more. The cycle escalated: her desperation, their anger, her pain. "No love, all this hate," she’d whisper to herself, nursing fresh bruises in the dark. "Why were they so mad?" A new thought flickered, a desperate hope to mend the fractured pieces of their lives for them. "What can I do to make their life better?" She knew. She would run away. That always seemed to get her a fleeting moment of connection. Her mom, eyes wide with a temporary, performative panic, would pull her into a tight hug, whispering, “I love you, my baby.”
But like a cruel mirage, the love evaporated as soon as Fontessa was safely back inside. It was always back to no love. Her father, a ghost of a man, was often lost in the haze of his crack addiction, his presence a dark cloud that drifted in and out of their lives. Her mother, a storm of her own, only seemed to exist for him, her world revolving around his unpredictable orbit, never her children. "My GOD," Fontessa would think, "what is going on?"
The household was a volatile place. Her mother was a different person depending on her father's state. When he was gone, or lost in his addiction, her mother turned mean, her words sharp, her patience nonexistent, lashing out at her children. But when her husband was home, acting up, demanding attention, her mother would switch, becoming unnervingly nice to her kids, a fragile shield against his chaos. Yet, in all of this, Fontessa was still ignored, an invisible child navigating a landscape of shifting parental moods.
Emotions were a luxury Fontessa was not allowed. "Don't you dare cry," her mother's cold voice would echo, and so, Fontessa never did. Not even when she got a beating, her face set, her eyes dry, a silent testament to her resolve not to break. Her other brothers and sisters looked at her strangely, their own tears a common sight, making Fontessa feel like an alien in her own family. They thought she was weird, but they couldn't see what she saw.
From an early age, Fontessa would talk, not to her siblings or her parents, but to the shadowy figures that danced at the edges of her vision. Fantasies, she thought, or perhaps something more. She would talk to demons all day, their whispers and forms a terrifying, yet constant, company, a stark contrast to the human silence around her. She didn't understand why she saw demonic things, things no one else could see, why she was privy to a hidden, often horrifying, reality.
Years later, as an adult, Fontessa found solace in a different kind of presence. She drew close to God, and through that spiritual awakening, she began to understand. She was different. The visions, the acute sensitivity to the darkness around her – it wasn't a curse, but a different way of seeing, a spiritual gift woven into her being, sharpened by the raw neglect of her childhood.
Her mother was dead now, her father in a nursing home, a shell of the man he once was. The chaos of her youth had subsided into a quiet, almost serene existence. Yet, despite the peace, despite the understanding, the deep-seated yearning remained. Even now, a grown woman, having navigated the treacherous waters of her past, Fontessa still found herself wanting the one thing she never had: the simple, unconditional love from the parents she never truly knew. The emptiness had shrunk, but it was still there, a phantom limb aching for a connection that would never be.