PRINCIPIA - GAYA

PRINCIPIA - GAYA (part 1)

  I not always been this girl you see wandering by Rio's downtown, like I new exactly what I supposed to do. I not always been a witch too, or knew Aretuza and the occult arts nor worships Gaya, the earth Goddess. Actually it all started in the inner of Minas Gerais' State, in a poor neighborhood, with even poorest folk, that all they had was a religion to keep'em on track.

  Inside a small, beat up, green house lived Edna, Zélio and their child Edzelio, or Lio how the boy prefered to be called. Edna repaired clothes from home, while Zelio worked in a butter biscuit factory, as a packer. The family's routine was pretty much like any other around. Zelio used to work his five shifts on the week. Ms. Edna (like those seeking for her sewing talents used to shout from her porch) tender their son in the mornings, when the young was at school, the woman was running the sewing machine, then she'd pick Lio up from the school, before the time her husband gets home, the dinner should be ready.

  Zelio, like every rough and blunt man, with no good job, too many bills and a wife he thinks "it's not up to his levels", spends a huge amount of his hours surrounded by friends, women and too much alcohol. He'd be home around 21h, fix himself a plate of a whimsily cooked meal, made by his wife. When she got luck, all she had to deal was some critic about her food, other days, when she wasn't lucky enough, the punishment comes from his hands, to what she promptly blame his problems at work, or some mistake she might have done cooking.

  – Your father's been very stressed out lately, please don't bother him with anything else.

  She used to say, before sending me to play in my room.

  On Sundays, they dressed in their fanciest clothes, tucked me in in a formal blue shirt and linen grey pants. Together we'd go to the church's service down the street. Where mom praid asking for my father to be less of hard tempered. Dad usually seeks forgiveness for mom's new bruise he caused this week. Now me, I'd vary my prayers "that my hair wasn't so high puffed, or my nose less wide, but one thing I kept asking constantly to God lately on services, was to my father to disappear".

  The days were good. There were some troubles in the school, but I was a good student in general, had some girls I was friends with, and used to handle well with boys that picked on me. While at home, I'd play a lot in my room, helped mom cleaning, we used to snack watching tv together, and once in a while I'd assist her cooking dinner. But nothing in this world was better than when she needed help adjusting some girls' dress. Those were the times when I could slide the fabric over my head, till the piece tickled my ankles. Mom was careful enough with the pins, and I was happiest as never.

  In the beginning, mom got a little bit uncomfortable with my joy, but after sometime she stopped to care, and even let me wander the house inside those dresses.

  – Out of this, before your father gets home! He wont like to see you in dress, Lio!

  The scare in mother's eyes made me realise how dead serious she was. Problem is, I've never been a common boy, always too delicate, too gentle, too soft, too much of a weirdo. On top of all that, I used to see things, things normal children shouldn't be able to see.

  I love talk and spend some time with grandma Guilherma, my mom's mother. She was funny, easy laugh and quite bossy. One day, mom was cooking some of grandma's recipes, whilst I draw some drawings, crayons all over the kitchen's table. I was around five years old.

  – Grandma Mema is saying you did put too much olive oil in it, a-and that you slice the vegetables wrong.

  Mom screamed and let whatever she was holding fall on the floor, with a metallic clang. She stood there by the sink, looking at me horrified.

  Well, it wasn't my fault that she did put too much olive oil, or that the vegetables really were sliced wrongly, or that her mother used to say exactly this all the time to her, till three years before I was born, when Mema died. Wasn't my fault that I could see Mema too, sat in that chair, or hear her whispers telling me she likes my drawings.

  Mom bolted with me to our church's minister, who made me all this hard questions. Five years old and I had to deal with demonic possessions, according to him. Then they led me to a room in the back of church, slapped my forehead several times,yelled at me, waved the holy bible in front of my face and commanded me to "be gone", but didn't let me when I tried. I got so troubled that I fainted and fell. After that, the minister told her I "was pure" again.

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