Sweet Blasphemy

My name is Seraphina Blakeley. Seraphina. Not Seraphine. Seraphina. Everywhere I have ever gone, people have adamantly insisted that my name is Seraphine. They wrote it in permanent marker on my nametag on every field trip I’ve ever taken. When I was in the hospital earlier this year, the temporary plaque on my door read: Seraphine Blakeley.
Seraphine.
I do not know why this infuriates me so. No- no. I take that statement back. I do know why. It infuriates me because by not bothering to learn my name and to learn it correctly, it gives me the impression that these Seraphine-christening people do not care. They do not care that I have corrected them a thousand times or that I will do so a thousand times again. All they know is that I am unimportant, unimportant and trivial, just like the “a” on the end of my name. I am just another little kid to these people. And sooner rather than later, I will move along and they will never see me again.
Being called “Seraphine” makes me want smack people.
I did once, when the nurse in the hospital was getting ready to discharge me after two long months of incarceration and being forced to talk about my feelings. She’d been the same nurse who’d took me to my room the first night I got there. She had been my favorite nurse. We’d eaten breakfast together on my first morning. She’d called me Seraphine several times that breakfast, but that had not bothered me so much. I’d just met her. It was an easy mistake to make. I corrected her pleasantly and had kept eating.
Yet every time I’d seen her after that, I’d been greeted as “hello there, Seraphine.” And although she’d be greeted in response with a “my name is Seraphina, Nurse Patricia” every single time, she would invariably do it again the next time we crossed paths.
I had thought Nurse Patricia and I were friends. After all, she was the one who gave me a sparkly band-aid after she drew my blood. She’d get me an extra glass of orange juice in the morning without complaining about spoiled children and their greediness for citrus products. I mean, Nurse Patty was the only nurse I would ever ask for the key to the bathroom, for god’s sake (the other nurses terrified me)! But on my last day, she led me down the hallway to the set of locked, steel, bulletproof glassed doors and said: “Are you sure your parents can handle you, Seraphine?”
I had punched her.
And yes, it was a dumb thing to do. I realize this. I have suffered the consequences of my violent loss of control. Just because of that slight physical assault, that only caused Nurse Patty to have a slight black eye, which only gave me a slight history of violent outbursts- I was locked in the hospital for another three weeks.
But now I am free. I am in the car with my parents, in the back seat, on the ride back to my house. I have not seen my house in almost three months. Three whole months! I have lost so much time! I start kindergarten in two weeks! I have so much to do! I must study- what if the teacher expects us to have the dictionary memorized? What if my basic knowledge of algebra is not good enough? What if all of my classmates are already learning geometry?!?
I shiver in the back of my parents’ car, anxious to get home and start memorizing the rules of geometry. I will not be the dumb kid in the class. I will not allow myself to be alienated from my peers!
Oh how wonderful it will be to have friends! I never have anyone to play with. My existence is a desolate and solitary one. All of the neighborhood children run from me when I try to join in on their complex games, games that involve ropes and pastels that color the asphalt and complicated foot movements. I have tried to learn these games- but the secret to them still eludes me. Based on my research, they are quite honestly too simple to make any sense. Of course I am missing a crucial bit of information- my peers’ brains surely require challenges that the data I possess does not present!
“Seraphina?” My father asks from the passenger seat of the car. “Seraphina, are you having an Incident? Do we need to take you back to the hospital?”
I shake my head vigorously. No, no I am not having an Incident, father. The Incidents do not exist.
“Incidents” is what my mother and father call the times when I drift off into my own little world. They think that there is something wrong with my brain. They think that I see things that are not really there.
But they are wrong!
I see things that anyone could see if they tried hard enough! For example, at my grandmother’s funeral, I saw her spirit standing beside her coffin. It was obvious, clear as day- it was my Gramma, lacy white gloves and all. I tried to go up there and talk to her, and tell her that she needed to stop playing around and let my daddy know she was okay, but my dad grabbed me. He said that I wasn’t allowed near his mom’s coffin. That it was too sad for me to handle.
I think what he meant to say was that the sight of my grandmother’s corpse would be too macabre for me. Gramma had gotten run over by a car while she crossed the street, on her way to church to go talk to God or something.
I remember telling my dad grouchily that if he didn’t want anyone looking at his mommy’s gnarled corpse than maybe he shouldn’t have chosen to have an open coffin ceremony. My daddy didn’t like that- he grabbed me by the ear and dragged me away from the crowd of mourners and locked me in the car. I pounded on the glass and yelled at him to let me out so I could go talk to Gramma, but he just turned the climate control system and the radio on and then walked away.
I don’t know what he expected me to do. Just sit in the car and play with the radio while strange men lowered my Gramma’s body into the earth-hole, her spirit watching with a morose expression all the while? Instead, I yelled at Gramma to come over and rescue me. She, and only she, noticed me. Gramma drifted over, gliding over the fallen autumn leaves until she passed through the car and was floating next to me.
“Gramma, we have to show daddy that you’re okay!” I’d burst out, yanking on the door handle to no avail.
“I’m afraid he can’t see me, sweetheart,” my Gramma had said gently. I scrunched my eyebrows together, all scrunchy-like, the way I do when I’m making my “what’s that supposed to mean” face.
“What? Why?” I inquired. “You’re right here! Did he not get his contact lens prescription updated? Maybe if we hold you close enough, he’ll see you. Maybe if we got his glasses-“
“Seraphina, there isn’t a prescription in the world that’s strong enough to let your daddy, or any other person, see me,” Gramma said, a melancholy smile on her thin, painted-pink lips. “Only special people can see me.”
“I can see you!” I argued.
“Yes, my dear,” Gramma laughed. She smoothed my fluffy hair and kissed the top of my head. “You can see me. But you are one of those special people. Your daddy is not. I’m afraid the only thing we can do for your daddy is just to let him grieve and, eventually, move on.”
“No!” I protested. “No, grieving is sadness, and sadness is bad! My daddy doesn’t have to grieve! He just has to know that you’re okay! How can I let him know that you’re okay? Isn’t there a way that he can see you too?”
“He can see me in his memories, my sweet little dove,” Gramma said.
“No! That’s poop! He needs to see you now!” I shouted.
“Seraphina!” My Gramma exclaimed, her expression and tone cross. “Seraphina, throwing a tantrum does not solve anything. Your daddy has to learn how to let go, how to believe in the power of Death, on his own.”
“The power of Death?” I asked dubiously. “The only power that Death has is the power to kill people. Death is nothing but a big child throwing a temper tantrum, taking lives just because he feels like it.”
“Seraphina!” hollered my Gramma. Something that looked very much like terror filled her eyes and she pulled me close to her chest. I coughed as the overwhelming scents of amber and musk filled me nostrils and clogged my throat, making me gag. “Seraphina, you must take that back this instant!”
“Why?” I challenged. “Why should I? Is Death going to smite me just because I’m telling the truth? He can’t handle a little criticism?”
Before Gramma could answer, I heard the click of my dad unlocking the car and he and my mom slid into the front seats.
“Daddy! Daddy, turn around and look behind you- Gramma’s here!” I said, excited and a little desperate. Gramma had to be lying. Of course my dad could see her. Only crazy people see things that no one else could. And I was not crazy.
But when my dad craned his neck to look at the seat next to me, his gaze was empty. Gramma sat there in plain sight, and he did not see her.
“I’ve had enough of your bullshit, Seraphina,” he spat out. “Just keep quiet, and try to be normal for once. I don’t want to hear about your imaginary friends, especially ones that you’ve based off of your dead grandmother. Because that’s sick, Seraphina. It’s sick, and maybe you’re sick.”
“But daddy she’s not imaginary, she’s right here! Say something. Gramma!” I cried, and tugged on Gramma’s velvet sleeve. Gramma patted me on the head, tears filling her pale eyes.
“Seraphina, you have to let it go,” she whispered. “If you want to be a normal girl, you have to pretend that you can’t see me.”
“But I can see you!” I shouted in response. “Why would I pretend that I can’t? That’s something mean people do in TV shows! I’m not a mean person; that’s why I’m not gonna let daddy be sad that you’re dead if you’re right here! I’m going to get him to see you!”
“The only way that your daddy will ever be able to see me again is if he is dead as well,” Gramma said softly.
“No!” I sobbed, clutching onto her. “No, there’s got to be another way! There has to be! There has to be a way, and I won’t stop until I find it!”
“Seraphina, stop screaming!” My dad yelled from the front seat. “There is nobody there! You’re scaring me, and you’re scaring your mother! This is not funny, or cute, or helpful in any way and we both want you to stop!”
“Seraphina, you have to chose to be normal. Or he will come for you,” Gramma said, taking my hands in hers and pleading with me. “I don’t want that life for you, my dove. You have to let go of me, and of your fantasy worlds, or it’ll all be over or you! You have to stop trying to convince your parents that I’m here, and instead convince them and everyone else that you’re normal!”
“But I’m not normal!” I ripped my hands out of Gramma’s and locked eyes with her. “I’m not normal, and I’ll never stop! Never!”
“Seraphina-” Gramma tried, her voice cracking as tears spilled out of her eyes and nestled into the craggy wrinkles of her face.
“No!” I interrupted. “I will be whoever I want to be and I will not pretend!”
Gramma was silent, staring at me with a moony glaze on the glass of her eyes. Her lip quivered as she extended her leathery hand to my face and caressed my cheek with her thumb. “You have chosen,” she murmured, then she vanished from my sight.
My father took me directly to the hospital, where they diagnosed me with a bunch of nonsense mental disorders. Then they strapped me into an ambulance and took me to another hospital, the hospital that Nurse Patty worked at, the one that I have just left now after almost three months.
I had had “Incidents” before the one with Gramma, but none of them had been so bad. One time, when I watched a documentary on Albert Einstein on the Discovery channel, his ghost followed me around for nearly a week. My mother had thought that I was just playing around, that I was using my imagination. Usually, that’s what would happen when I’d see people that my parents couldn’t. But the Incident at Gramma’s funeral was the last straw for them, I guess. I guess it’s hard not to see what’s right in front of you. I don’t know how they can survive being so blind.
In present day, my mother is not letting me off the hook so easily for spacing out. “Seraphina, a nod is not a response,” she says.
Although I am quite sure that a nod is a sign used for affirmation in countries all over the world, I do not say so. I just say: “Yes, I’m certain that I don’t need to go back to the hospital.”
“Alright,” my mother says, trying to sound firm, but it is obvious she is not sure how to proceed. I guess it’s hard to be the parent of a supposed lunatic.
Not having a response to her noncommittal response, I stare out the car window, hoping to see some familiar territory. The hospital the ambulance took me to was miles away from my hometown hospital, and I haven’t the slightest idea where we are.
“Seraphina, normal children don’t just stare out the window in the car. They talk,” my father says probingly. I squint. I’m pretty sure that if people weren’t supposed to look out of the windows in the car, they wouldn’t be there.
“What is there to talk about?” I say dryly. “You locked me up in the loony bin and now you’re treating me like a bomb that could go off any second. Would you like to talk about that?” I ask politely.
My father just stares at me.
I turn back to the window and start humming the Sesame Street theme song. “My birthday is coming up,” I announce. “I’ll be six in a month. Are we going to have a party? I think we should have a party. I have the guest list all planned out already.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see my parents exchange glances that say: “What in the name of hashbrowns is this about?”
My mother nudges my dad when no one responds, and he sighs. “Who would you like to invite, Seraphina?” he groans.
“I’m thinking that I’d like to invite Edgar Allen Poe,” I say placidly. “Hm. Or Shakespeare. Or both? Do you think they’d get along?”
“Uh-I-Seraphina, both of those men are dead,” my mother splutters. She and my father exchange those wide-eyed glances again.
“Yes,” I say, not sure what the big deal is. “Shakespeare for much longer than Poe. Two hundred years, I think.”
“Seraphina, you can’t invite dead people to your birthday party,” My mother squeaks. “For one, they- well they’re not going to come, hopefully, and for two, it’s… something an insane person wants to do! Please tell me you don’t actually want to be friends with dead people?” She sounds like she’s having a heart palpitation. Her knuckles are white from gripping the steering wheel so hard.
“Uh…” I scratch my neck, thinking that maybe I shouldn’t have brought the topic up. “Of course not. They’re dead. I want, um, living friends who are normal and girls and, um, play Barbies and… stuff.”
Both of my parents release great breaths of relief. I blow a strand of pale blonde hair out of my face.
I am silent for the rest of the ride home. I don't even greet the WWII soldier who pops up through the carpeted floor of the car and tips his hat at me. I just give him a slight nod and zip my lips when my parents aren't looking. Thankfully, he understands. He sighs and says: "So they're those type of parents. The ruler-back kind. Have you tried telling them you're just talking to imaginary friends?"
I chuckle darkly under my breath and roll my eyes.
The soldier rests a sympathetic hand on my shoulder. "It'll be okay, kid," he says. "You'll make it through. All you have to do is graduate, and then you'll be a free bird."
Although I have not been able to say anything to him, the soldier is being nice to me. It makes my tummy feel all warm, and I feel a smile spread across my face. He's right. When I move out, I can talk to the ghosts as much as I want- I can interview soldiers from any war in history, and I won't even have to worry about being institutionalized!
"What are you smiling about, Seraphina?" My mother asks me, sounding exhausted.
"Ponies," I blurt out. I see my mother's eyebrows crinkle in the mirror. "I am thinking about the wondrous virtues of our equestrian friends, and how beneficial they are to… carnivals."
Beside me, the soldier snorts.
"You sound like you swallowed a thesaurus," he remarks. "Are you a genius, or something? You can't be more than five."
"Six," I correct automatically. I turned six in the hospital- and guess what? My parents hadn't remembered.
"What?" My mom asks.
Buttmonkeys! "I want six ponies," I declare. "When I grow up, I'm going to live in a castle and have six ponies and marry a prince."
The soldier snorts again.
I have the sudden urge to smack him. Once my parents have decided that my pony dream is a "normal thing" and not a "crazy Seraphina thing", I shoot a poisonous glare at the soldier. Normally, I would've loved to encounter him. I would've jumped at the opportunity to interview someone who'd fought in the most horrible war in history- but today, I am trying to be normal for my parents, so they don't drive me back the hospital.
The soldier finally gets a clue and vanishes, dissolving into thin air, reappearing who-knows-where. Once I am sure he is gone, I let out a sigh of relief. I make a pact with myself, swearing that I will stay silent and be normal for the rest of the car ride home.
My life is hard enough without dead people involved.

When we reach my house, I unbuckle and fly out of the car, running into my house faster than I've ever run before. "I'm going to my room!" I call out to my parents.
"Take as long as you want!" I hear my father shout from downstairs. I can hear the relief in his voice. That car ride must have put as much strain on my parents as it had on me. My parents don't actually want to be parents, I think. They just wanted a kid because that is what society dictates that they should want. I'm pretty sure that they regret having me, only if for the fact that they think I'm insane. I think it'd be best for all of us if once I'm eighteen, we head our separate ways, and only interact via Christmas cards if we have to. The least I can do for inconveniencing them so much is to get out of their hair once I'm old enough. And to be honest, I think I owe it to myself as well. I don't think I can handle having an intimate relationship with them after I move out. I'm pretty sure that would drive me bonkers for good.
After ascending the stairs, I pad down the hallway and enter my room. Before even looking around, I make sure to close my door all the way. Finally truly alone after months of being constantly monitored, I exhale in luxury and lean my head against the white-painted door. After taking a moment to savor the moment, I turn away from the door and go to plop down in my pink, furry shag chair.
But there's already someone in it.
I stifle a scream by shoving my fist in my mouth. There's a young boy, around my age, sitting in my chair and sketching in one of my notebooks. After hearing the muffled noise of my scream, he looks up. His electric blue eyes lock on mine, and I feel faint.
I don't realize that I have fainted until I feel arms around me and I hear chuckling.
"I thought you'd be used to sudden appearances by now, Sibyl," the boy remarks. I moan as he sets me down on my purple carpeted floor. This can't be happening. This can't be happening. Why can't I just have one moment where I'm not being interrupted by eccentric ghosts? When I muster the willpower to open my eyes and face my reality, my gaze locks on his.
"Can you please leave me alone, and never return?" I croak.
The boy laughs.
"No can do," he says jovially. "But don't worry- I'm not like anyone you've ever met before. I'm not one of those ghosts that want something from you, and I'm not a human that'll call you crazy 'cause you're talking to things that I can't see." He helps me sit up. "I'm here to be your friend, that's all."
I stare at him dubiously.
"I don't believe you," I announce, after analyzing him extensively. It does not escape my notice that he is wearing scuffed up Converse and a shirt that says: 'Marilyn Manson' and has a picture of a Goth dude on it. He looks like the kind of boy my mother would tell me to stay away from.
I do not know why, but that makes me like him a bit more than I had originally.
The boy laughs. "I'll prove it to you. We can hang out for a bit, and if you still don't like me, I'll leave," he says. "Is that okay with you?"
I bite my lip. On one hand, I had just been institutionalized for being friends with imaginary people. I had just swore to myself that I would ignore the ghosts (or whatever they were) at all costs, that I would try to be normal. But on the other hand, I was very lonely, and had been for as long as I could remember. And here was a boy that was offering to be my friend. I weigh my options carefully. Finally, I decide to take a risk.
"Alright," I concede. "I'll give you a chance. What's your name?"
The boy flashes me a super-white smile. "Andy," he says. "And yours?" His lip curls, like it was a rhetorical question, like he already knows the answer. I do not see how that is possible, however, so I decide to answer.
"Seraphina," I say.
Andy takes my hand and pulls me to my feet. "Pleased to meet you, Seraphina," he grins.
Seraphina.
Seraphina.
I have officially decided that I like this boy.

Notes

Sorry that BVB hasn't really made an appearance yet, except for sort of Andy. This is my first fic, so I'm sorry if it's bad! Seraphina isn't going to be this young for the rest of the story, I just had to show her at this age to set the story up. R&R (sorry I accidentally deleted this story and just had to repost it, so if you subscribed and then didn't get updates, it's 'cause I'm an idiot, but I'm glad you found it again!) ^^

*chapter title cred: "Million Dollar Houses (The Painter)" by Pierce the Veil*