This diary is different from any other, because it is not intended to be kept secret; on the contrary, it is meant to be read by as many people as possible.
It could be the diary of every person who feels isolated and trapped in a hostile world and can't stay silent any more. It reflects a longing for real communication in an uncommunicative society.
Page by page, it exposes the subtle but inexorable war which is continually waged throughout human society, as it unfolds the tormented youth of Yvonne Fezarris: A free mind who is constantly targeted by visible and invisible evil forces and seeks to know the reason why -until she reaches an incredible conclusion...
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.