HUMAN TARGET
[From the Beginning to the End]
Includes all three books of the series
“Diary of a Human Target”:
Book One (Tainted Youth)
Book Two (The Path Towards the Inside)
Book Three (Homestretch)
written by
ISIDORA VEY
This diary is a work of fiction.
Any similarity to persons and events
is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2018, Isidora Vey
All rights reserved.
This book may not be reproduced,
in part or in full, digital or otherwise,
without prior written permission from the author.
Phase One: Distant Innocence
page 5
Class A Junior
11
Class B Junior
15
Class C Junior
22
Class D Junior
29
Class E Junior
37
Class F Junior
45
Class A Gymnasium
49
Class B Gymnasium
56
Phase Two: Descent
72
Class C Gymnasium
72
Class A Lyceum
94
Class B Lyceum
101
Class C Lyceum
108
Daydreaming
115
Phase Three: Circumspection
122
Running on Empty
130
Apprenticeship
142
Running on Empty Again
151
Phase Four: Days of Hope
163
Indignation
173
New Horizons
187
Circle of Promises
197
Obsession
211
Life goes on...
222
Phase Five: Metaphysical Quest
page 228
Dead Ends
245
Distractions
259
281
Self-determination
308
Crisis
323
Phase Seven: A World of Seductions
339
Regression
355
Deviations
363
Life (?) goes on...
386
Fateful Summer
397
Phase Eight: Paroxysm
419
Concord
435
Culmination
448
Omens
459
Pincer movements
469
Phase Nine: War
491
Last hopes
514
Traumatic Summer
527
Tremors
545
Exit
556
Awareness
564
I don't know when I first started feeling like a target; maybe on
the day I was born, on 21st June 1963, a Friday with a new moon,
after an eight-month-gestation and artificial throes. Everybody
was taken by surprise because, as it is known, babies born at the
end of eight months don't survive.
But maybe not; anyway, my first years were very innocent. My
infancy memories fade away in a hazy nirvana, as time seemed
flexible and non-linear and space stretched languidly to infinity,
since children of that age can hardly tell the difference between
dreams and reality.
Back at those times, my parents and I often used to go to the
local cinema. I was particularly fond of watching Greek of
foreign movies, although I had a small problem: I always got
scared when the screen lit up, the moment when the blackness of
the dark canvas was dispelled by the blinding light of the
projector. For this reason, just before the film started, I stood up
on my chair, turned my back on the screen and waited for the
movie to begin. In the meantime, those sitting behind me were
pretty annoyed: “Turn round and be seated!” I often heard but
paid no heed. My parents told me the same but I just couldn't
face the screen unless the film had started for good. What was I
really afraid of? What did I fear that would flash before me on
the black screen?
I was about three and a half years old when a doll of mine lost a
leg, which made me very upset. I took the toy in my hand, got
out in the yard and threw it away with might and main. The doll
flew over the two adjacent building plots and bumped against the
wall of aunt Penelope's garden, about thirty metres away. That
seemed strange to me and I ran into the house to fetch my
mother. I told her what had happened, but she did not at all
believe that I had managed to throw the doll so far. “That's
impossible! Don't tell lies!” she scolded me and got into the
kitchen again.
During those years I was quite innocent and credulous, always
ready to trust anybody about anything. I also had no problem
giving my toys away to other children, although they usually
didn't let me even touch theirs. Pretty soon, they all started
calling me “stupid” and I could not understand the reason why.
It was a warm spring morning and I was walking along the
street, together with my mother, when two boys of my age,
sitting quietly in their garden, called me: “Hey you, come here,
we want to give you a present!”. My mother attempted to
dissuade me but I wouldn't listen.
“So, where is the present?” I asked.
The two boys giggled but said nothing.
Then, a sudden slap on my face gave me quite a jolt.
“This is the present!” one of the kids said and then they both
burst into wild laughter. I started crying and got away at once,
more bewildered than sad. This was just a prank, alright, but
why don't I ever come up with such tricks? Why can't I ever think
of making fun of anybody? I wondered. I was only four years old
then, but I could already sense I was different from the other
children.
In the mornings I used to play alone and carefree in the open
field next to our house. However, there were two older girls who
passed by quite often. As soon as they saw me, they always
stopped and sought to scare me, telling me that they were
witches: “We come from Africa and we know all about magic! If
you don't sing to us, we shall make you like this!” they hissed
and showed me an olive-tree leaf. Fearing that I would be either
beaten up or turned into a leaf, I started singing immediately.
One day, when I was four and a half years old, my mother and I
paid a visit to Mrs Daphne, who lived nearby. While the two
women were chatting in the balcony, I spent my time exploring
the garden, the yard, the stairs. I had ended up on the terrace,
when I saw a girl of my age playing in the next garden. I smiled
to her spontaneously; she looked at me angrily and called me
“pig”. I didn't get it at once; I thought I had heard wrong.
“Hi! How are you?” I asked politely.
“You, pig!” she cried again.
I walked away sad and returned to my mother in the balcony. Ten
minutes later, the bell rang and the hostess went to answer the
door. It was another friend of Mrs Daphne, together with her
daughter. I was really taken aback when I recognized one of the
two African girls who took pleasure in frightening me. Hardly
realizing how it started, we soon had a bad fight; she pushed me
down and hit me, shouting in a strident voice: “I am African, I
know how to cast spells and I can kill you!”. I burst into crying
and I wanted to leave at once.
One winter night, as I was riffling through my father's medical
book, I saw a picture that shocked me more than anything else in
my life till then: It was a drawing of a human skeleton. I was
scared out of my wits at the thought of some horrible illness that
could reduce a man like this! I asked my father immediately and
he explained to me that all people are like this inside and this is
what remains when they die. Speechless with terror, I ran to my
bed at once, determined to fall asleep at once and forget all about
it. However, when I woke up next morning, I realized that a
traumatic experience is never forgotten.
On 12th November 1967 my younger sister was born. She was
brought home a few days later; I remember, the weather was
incredibly cold and the wind was blowing with a vengeance.
Some months later, she took her name, Alice.
At first I didn't have any particular problem with her.
Nevertheless, as time passed, I could see that our parents and
relatives liked her more than me because she was “such a smart
girl”, “all airs and graces”, “a cutie”. Moreover, no matter what
mischief she was up to, she was always excused because she was
“the little one”. I, on the contrary, was often thrashed over a trifle
and nobody ever excused me for anything. Let alone I almost
forgot my name: I was no longer Yvonne. I was “the big one”.
My best friend was Gregory, my father's godson, who was two
years younger than me and lived in the same neighbourhood.
Sometimes I can still hear his shrill voice ringing in my ears:
“Let's go out and play!”. I also used to play with Urania, the
baker's blue-eyed daughter, who was two years older than me.
The three of us had great fun together playing in the fields every
day, living the most wondrous adventures in our imagination. I
reminisce a scene, when I was about five years old and I was
leading four other children into a field, all of us holding thin
twigs in our tiny hands, as though they were scepters.
In contrast to the other girls, who could hardly wait to grow up,
get married and have children, I openly expressed my aversion to
the role of housewife and mother. I simply liked running around
and exploring the fields instead of helping mum with the
housework. I used to avoid dolls; I preferred playing “Indians
and Cowboys” with the boys rather than “mother and children”
with the girls. For this reason, the housewives of the
neighbourhood disliked me a lot and had no problem in showing
it to me. In fact, they foamed with rage anytime they saw me
playing in the streets and called me “tomboy”. Especially aunt
Pauline, Gregory's mother, kept on trumpeting forth that when
she was at my age she could manage the whole housework by
herself. As about her mother, a fat old hag always loaded with
fancy gold jewels, she literally hated me. She called me names
and threatened me to beat me up, whenever she saw me. One
day, while Gregory and I were playing quietly in his yard, the old
hag rushed out and took him quickly inside the house, shouting
to me: “If you don't disappear at once, I will tear you asunder!”
My father was seldom at home because he worked as a captain in
the merchant navy. I remember, it was a sunny summer day
when he and I paid a visit to a colleague seaman. First, we
gathered olives in a green field. Then, we went to the seaman's
house, which was a nice traditional cottage with a spacious
whitewashed yard. As soon as I entered the bedroom, I saw an
old rifle hanging on a wall. I raised Cain to make them give it to
me. After a lot of hesitation, the host's black-dressed mother took
down the gun and handed it to me. Beaming with happiness, I
took it out to the yard and started aiming at stuff. The old woman
brought me a chair. “Oh, the girl may faint!” she exclaimed full
of concern, but I couldn't understand why I may faint. Because
I'm a girl, maybe? Anyway, I found out soon that I couldn't hit
anything because the rifle had no bullets. I definitely wanted
bullets, I made a song and danced about it, but they refused to do
me that favour. In all probability, they didn't have any bullets at
all.
Another day I was feeling bored because my friend Gregory was
nowhere to see. Namely, I was looking forward to playing with
some impressive cowboy pistols he had -a recent gift his aunt
Calliope had brought from America. After lunch, I decided to
visit him. I entered the house through the back door and found
nobody in the kitchen. I slowly walked to Gregory's room, there
was no one there either. I peeped through the ajar bedroom door
and saw that the whole family was fast asleep inside. Being very
careful so as not to make a sound, I searched among Gregory's
toys, found the two shiny golden pistols, took them in my hands
and went off at a run. As soon as I arrived home, my mother saw
my new toys and she started shouting:
“Tell me right now, where did you find these guns?”
“I found them on the road!” I replied quickly, with my most
innocent face.
“These pistols are too expensive to be Greek! Start talking, did
you steal them from an American boy?”
“No, no, I found them!” I insisted.
A little later, aunt Pauline rolled up; my mother showed her the
guns and aunt confirmed that they belonged to Gregory. I
awkwardly excused myself that I had taken the toys “by
mistake”, I said I was sorry and gave them back. “Never mind,
but Yvonne left the back door open when she left!” aunt Pauline
said calmly.
A few days later, I met Gregory in a big building plot next to his
house; we decided to play stone-throwing battle and barricaded
ourselves behind two opposite heaps of gravel. All at once, I
grabbed a huge flat stone and hurled it at Gregory. Yet, borne
along by my own impetus, I didn't aim well; the stone flew really
high and landed behind a two-metre wall at the far end of the
field. Right then, a pained woman's voice was heard: “Oh, my
head!”. Gregory ran quickly and disappeared behind some thick
leafage; I didn't find the time to escape, so I just hid behind my
heap of gravel. In no time, an old man appeared and yelled at me
angrily: “I know you are hiding behind the gravel, show yourself
or I'll come and beat you!” I hesitated for a few moments, but I
finally exposed myself and was obliged to get a blasting from the
old man, for ten long minutes.
It took me many years to realize the oddity of the event: the
stone had covered a distance of about 30 metres, at a height of
2,5 metres . Even as an adult, I doubt whether I could throw a
stone that far...
Wondrous things used to happen to me back at those years:
Sometimes I emptied my mind from all thoughts and
spontaneously had a strange feeling that I were hollow inside, as
if my body were devoid of inner organs; or I felt like sinking in a
dark vortex, only for a split second, before I started up agitated.
Some other times, I had the odd impression of being cut off from
the world that surrounded me; everything and everyone else
seemed to turn up around me in coordination, like a sinister
three-dimensional kaleidoscope. Almost every night, when I
went to bed and closed my eyes, I had a weird yet delightful
experience: I felt like whirling deeper and deeper under a
vertiginous night sky; at the zenith of my virtual universe,
thousands of colourful stars sparkled like fabulous treasure.
Too bad that such experiences will become rarer and rarer as
years go by, and they will disappear for good with the advent of
adolescence.
My first day at elementary school, in mid September 1969,
proved to be a rather disagreeable experience: I had never been
with so many children together before, and I felt like a fish out of
water. However, the other pupils seemed to have no problem at
all. As soon as I realized that I was going to be glued to a desk
for hours, away from my friends and my games in the street, I
decided to play truant in the very first break. I approached a girl
and told her to come home with me. She was worried that a
teacher might see us (so what?), but I finally persuaded her. “If
the bell rings, we are finished!” she kept murmuring all the way
home and I couldn't understand why she was so afraid . When we
arrived, the girl left at once and I lied to my mother that classes
had been dismissed. However, after an hour or so, a boy from the
sixth class showed up and took me back to school.
A few days later, when I returned from school, I noticed there
was something different about our house: Until the previous day,
we had been living at 30 Nereid st., in the north of Glyfada.
However, all the numbers in our street had just changed and
from then on we would be living at number 13. I knew the
superstition about the unlucky number, I felt a little uneasy, but I
refused to regard that as a sign of fate .
Anyway, I soon got used to the school routine. I particularly
singled out Fotis Armaos, a boy in my class, whom I liked a lot:
He was a tall, blond, nice kid and an excellent student. Two or
three times I ran to him and hugged him, but he found it strange
and tried to avoid me. Once he shouted at me: “Leave me alone!
I'm Captain Kirk! Captain Kirk!” I preferred to keep a distance
ever since.
Nevertheless, I am sure that the feeling of being targeted got
stronger and stronger ever since I started school. For some
strange reason, it was not easy for me to get into groups of
children and play with them. In fact, they didn't show any
willingness to include me in their games. Once, I spent the whole
break watching a group of girls playing skipping-rope. More and
more girls joined the game, I kept on asking them to let me play
too, but they didn't even deign to answer. Only when I went to
the teacher and complained, did they finally let me play -just for
a few seconds; then, the bell rang.
The first friend I got at school was Duchess, a very beautiful girl
with voluminous black hair falling to her shoulders. I had not at
all noticed her worn out clothes and shoes, nor did I care about
her complete incapability of learning. Three months had already
passed, but she could not write a word, not even the alphabet. All
the other children avoided her -and me as well.
One day, another classmate approached and talked to me during
the break: it was Louise Hoidas, a short, chubby, curly-haired
girl, who suggested I should get rid of Duchess and join her large
party. She explained that the other children didn't want to play
with me because of Duchess and that if I left her, I would find
lots of friends. Soon I became the object of a funny tug-of-war:
Louise was pulling my right sleeve and Duchess the left one,
until I decided to follow Louise.
Some days later, Louise didn't want my company anymore,
although we still sat together, at the same desk. As about
Duchess, she was never seen at school again. I didn't manage to
find any other friends during the rest of the year, so I spent most
of the breaks wandering alone in the schoolyard; and more often
than not, I bumped upon those nasty African girls who never lost
a chance of making fun of me.
I am not at all sure whether the teacher liked me or not. Once,
Louise and I were talking continuously during the lesson; at a
moment, we both laughed at a picture of a crab in our reading-
book. The teacher was annoyed, she yelled at both of us but
whacked my palms four times with her wooden ruler. It hurt a
lot, a lot more than I had expected; I burst into tears and didn't
stop crying for the rest of the lesson. For the next five days, that
painful experience kept coming into my mind again and again,
filling me with fear and agony.
Despite the above mishaps, I managed to pass the class with full
marks. As I was walking up Hymettus Avenue together with my
mother, both feeling happy about my success, a red-haired boy
suddenly darted out of a yard, pointed a finger at me and shouted
maliciously: “You, shit!”
“Isn't he a fool, mum!” I said loudly and kept on walking, as if
nothing had happened.
Just for a moment it occurred to me that the incident might have
been a bad omen for my future, but I dismissed the thought
immediately.
That summer, my grandma Jane, my father's mother, came from
Cefallonia and stayed with us for two months, because she
wanted to see some doctors in Athens. One day mum grumbled
to dad over the wine that grandma drank all the time (for she was
too fond of the bottle), and then she went on an errand. When she
got back, my father told her that in the meantime he had asked
his mother to leave and return to the island as soon as possible.
So, the very next day the old woman packed up and got ready to
set off.
“Are you leaving, grandma?” I wondered, as I saw her in our
veranda with her luggage in hand.
“Yes, I'm leaving because your dad sends me away!” she replied.
“But why?”
“It seems that he doesn't want me here,” she answered frigidly.
A few days later, my father signed up as a captain on a merchant
ship. Soon mum received a letter from him, commanding her to
send her mother off too, otherwise he would never return home.
My mother obeyed at once. However, grandma Alice didn't have
her own house, so she ended up in an old people's home in
Athens. A month later, she had a stroke and died. “Because of
too much happiness,” said mum bitterly.
On the day of the funeral, the coffin with the dead body inside
was left on the big table of the sitting room, according to the
custom. The lid of the coffin stood by the front door, as a sign of
mourning. From dawn till dusk relatives and neighbours came
along to pay their respects to the dead woman. As about me, I
showed a paradox frivolity all day, playing with Gregory in the
yard and stealing flowers from the wreaths. It is not that I didn't
care about grandma Alice; she was a quiet woman, who never
bothered anybody. Yet, it was impossible for me to feel sorry for
her loss, as if I refused to accept the reality of death.
In general, my mother has always been the model of self-
sacrifice, constantly occupying herself with the household chores
and the increasing demands of my father and his family: From
the very first day of their marriage, my father's relatives (usually
his parents or his six sisters) used to land on our house and stay
for months each time, even when my dad travelled abroad
because of his job. While they were here, my grandpas
demanded to be taken to a different doctor every day; as about
my aunts, they came just for fun and tourism. They were all
obsessed with Athens, the capital of Greece, maybe because they
had all grown up in