Tag / YA

by BiSKITs & Gravy

FE/26 – Part III

S.L.Jordan

Now watch me whip (kill it!)

Watch me nae nae (okay!)

Now watch me whip whip

Watch me nae nae (can you do it?)

Now watch me

Ooh watch me, watch me

Ooh watch me, watch me

Ooh watch me, watch me

Ooh ooh ooh ooh

Last day of school and the neighborhood was jumping. “The block was hot” was my momma would say, I think she got that from some old rapper. Guys were cruising in their parents’ cars, and all the fly girls were posted up. Stoop. Porch. Park bench, didn’t matter.

I was carefully juggling groceries as I headed to my mom’s job to surprise her. I had taken some of my birthday money and bought the ingredients from key lime pie. Our favorite. I had made it to the front door of her building without accident when a hooded figure almost knocked me down the stoop.

“Heyyyyy” I yelled at his retreating back as I snatched my buds from my ears, “you didn’t see me?” I continued yelling as he forced his way through the pedestrians on the sidewalk before ducking into the nearest alley. I was shaken, but the eggs were not. “Freaking dope fiends” I muttered as I picked up my keys and replaced my ear buds, thankful that the cashier at the store double bagged my items. I told my mom many times she should find another building to rent her office store. The entrance almost always reeked of stale urine, and sometimes – on rare occasion- actual crap, human crap. 

“Baby, sometimes you have to wade in the trash to get things done.” She would say, whatever I wasn’t wading in no trash when I grew up.

The hall and stairwell was eerily quiet, I could always count on Sister Hastings to be on what I call her hallway porch around this time, making the hair on my arm slowly rise to attention. I remember starting to speed walk which turned into a light jog when I saw her office door ajar. Not ajar. Wide open, like someone had forced open. 

I walked into a scene that showed signs of a fight. Papers and furniture strewn led me to the start of a blood trail, and I dropped my bags. I could hear the glass bottle of lime juice as it smashed the cartoon of eggs. The yolk slowly started to run into the pool of blood. The metallic scent of blood hung heavy in the air and coated my tongue. Gagging I stumbled through what was traditionally the living room turned waiting room through the apartment until I found her, halfway to her safe where she kept her gun. 

Her throat had been slit from what I could see – It wasn’t until later that I found out the exact number of times someone had stabbed her – but she was still breathing. Slow and shallow. Fumbling with my cell phone I grabbed the nearest piece of cloth I could see to  stop the bleeding while I waited for someone to answer.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

“please come quick. my mother, her throat. blood everywhere. please”

“are you in a safe place?”

“yes. please. her throat has been cut. it’s so much blood”

“give me your address and i will send EMS out immediately”

“313205 westmoreland blvd apt 4051”

“sending someone out to you. i will stay with you on the phone until someone arrives. keep pressure on the wound”

“please hurry”

To be continued for the fourth installment … 

by BiSKITs & Gravy

FE/26 – Part II

by S.L. Jordan

The last four months the terrors have increased in frequency and intensity, turning me into a night owl of sorts. I stayed at the studio longer, worked harder, and practiced more, anything that would keep me from thinking. From having feelings – the emotional ones anyway – my bruises distracted me from those. I wanted to be numb. I’m a light sleeper now, and have intimately acquainted with the sounds of my apartment building.  Sometimes, I can’t wait until this stage of my life is over and done, and other times I feel like it’s the only thing keeping us connected.

I waited until the morning rush died down before exiting my apartment, which meant I was running late, and in order to make it on time I would have to take the express bus. I preferred the express, even thought it was more money, but there were fewer stops, fewer stops meant there was less of a chance of running into someone I knew. Or someone that used to know the old me I should say, because no one knew me now.

Everything was grey. It was like the universe knew what today meant. Today wasn’t a day for sunshine and cloudless skies. At least not yet. Today was weighted, like a comfort blanket. The bus rolled to a stop, and I blindly stepped on and swiped my card.

“Good Morning …”

I felt the lingering question in that pause, ignoring it I replied with a clipped “Mornin’” I said and made my way to the back. Hood pulled low I situated myself so I wouldn’t make eye contact with the driver, he knew my route. He knew where I was going and why. Most people did, and while I knew they meant well I couldn’t take seeing the sympathy in their eyes. Not anymore.

The stainless steel seats held the chill from the air and seeped through my jeans to me, but that chill kept my mind in the present. I moved through every day like a fog. I craved consistent stimuli, diversions, and dustractions. For the first time in four years I was hoping to feel something. Relief. Joy. Justice. Hell, I’d even take raging resentment right now. I knew I needed to move on, purge that night. It played like a loop of unfortunate events that has been my life for the last 1,460 days. Lightning lit the sky up like Fourth of July off the river, followed by thunder that sliced through the silence like a snake whip, whistling before its sharp crack, causing more than a few riders to jump out of their own personal reverie. A set of siblings nervously giggled as they counted between the two.

“One-Mississippi, Two-Mississippi, Three-Mississippi …”

I was young when mama taught me about counting between the two, anything to stop me from wailing. She used to say, I was worse than the tornado alarm. I smirked in spite of myself. Looking up I could see I was about three stops away from my own personal storm. Each stop took me closer …

 “Four-Mississippi, Five-Mississippi”.

Have you ever wanted to be somewhere so bad, but couldn’t get there slow enough either? I know. It’s a conundrum. One I had been facing five days a week for the last three weeks straight.

“Wayne County Court – Division 1 next stop” said the pleasant automated voice over the loudspeaker. I rang the buzzer. With leaden feet I walked down that aisle, that route, that bus, for the late time.

More grey. Tall. Solid. Grey. The municipal building stood like a sentry, blocking any sun that could have shined upon those entering its doors. Neutral in its stance. I stood there, numb, for who knows how long. I nearly jumped out of my skin when I felt a warm, soft hand slowly pry my grip apart. Honey brown eyes, glistening with unshed tears brought me back. My godmother had been waiting for me outside the courthouse. Umbrella and bible in hand. It had started raining. She covered us both, while fumbling in her purse for a tissue.  That’s when I noticed the bloody half-moons I had dug into my palms. Four semi circles in each hand. Instantly, the smell of iron in the air yanked me back to June 6, 2015. My eyes were blurred with tears, as I recalled the worst day of my life.

To be continued …

by BiSKITs & Gravy

FE/26 – Part I

by S.L. Jordan

I woke up with the fresh stench of blood lingering in my nostrils, so real I could taste it. Tangy and metallic. I barely made it to the wastebasket before vomit violently projected itself from my body. The spins forced me back to the bed, I closed my eyes to steady myself when the air – sour with the scent of vomit- caused another roll of waves to turn my stomach. I barely made it to my early morning date with Earl at the Porcelain Throne.  Strawn out on the cool, discolored, chipped tile floor I stared at the stucco ceiling while becoming painfully aware of my body. What I willingly let happen to it the night before, and every night before that. Bruising, the result of blood vessels bursting and pooling just below the skin, spotted my body like some sleek exotic cat.

Wedged between the throne, the shower and sink base I was cat-a-corner to my bed. With a clear view of my living quarters, last night’s scene laid out before me, I began to piece it together. I could see my gym bag left at the door, keys still in the deadbolt, the trail of blood and sweat stained clothing littered the floor, and finally, the culprit for the morning’s merry-go-round, a fifth of Johnnie Walker – red label of course, empty on its side speckled with bits of vomit. As my vision began to clear up, I could see last night was a repeat of the every night this week. Three glass bottles, plastic nooses around their necks, hung from the knob on the front door.

I crawled my way back to the bed as my legs weren’t stable enough to carry me there. The sheets were soaked with sweat, my pillow a mixture of sweat, tears and spit. This was the fourth night in a row this week I was awaken by memories I couldn’t escape. Four last week. Four the week before. On my nightstand stood the rarely touched bottle of sleeping pills my doctor first prescribed years ago. Experience taught me that when the trial was this close, nothing could stop the night terrors from coming. The strongest street drugs and pharmaceuticals were no match for the body’s natural chemistry. The faded needle marks on my arm a living testament to that fact. I had tried everything. Now, I just let them have their way with me. Torment my nights and shadow my days. Ignoring the constant vibrating of my phone I watched as it fell off the nightstand and danced across the floor. Stripping my bed of linen, I tossed them in the corner. Joining the other sweat stained sets, at this rate I would run out of sheets before the days of the week.

Leaving a trail of soggy pajamas I made my way across the small rectangular studio – in fact my efficiency was nothing but rectangles varying in width and length jutting out in awkward seemingly unplanned angles- illuminated by the first blush of the morning sun fighting its way through a heavyweight cloud before sliding in the northeast window. I could hear the day slowing awakening. Early morning commuters shuffling their way to and from work, side hustles, secret rendezvouses. From my small corner apartment perched in the window I could see Mr. Daniels coming outside for a cigarette. He and Mrs. Daniels just had a baby a few months prior, and he was regulated to the outdoors for his nicotine fix. Directly beneath my window the familiar sounds of the METRO could be heard as it came to a stop, my neighbor was returning from the third shift at the Casino, one of the few places for under-educated, unskilled millennials to work. He walked over to Mr. Daniels and they shared a cig, a few puffs billowing in the chilly dawn air before his wife knocked at the kitchen window.

I stopped by my own kitchen to start a fresh pot of coffee. I don’t particularly like coffee, but I needed something to sober up. Pushing aside unpacked boxes, I searched through the mass of unwashed dishes that had accumulated over the last week until I found a cup that would suffice with a quick rinse of hot water. Maybe I could find some time this weekend to clean up around here.

In the bathroom I stood listening to the whirl and drip of the machine, I appraised the deep dark purple bruises that sprouted up overnight. 1, 2, 3 … three more than last week. Reaching into the makeshift medicine cabinet I caught my reflection in the mirror, my face was noticeably swollen on the right side. Working the muscles of my jaw I felt the hinge lock and unlock. That butterfly kick to the face last night left more of a lasting impact than I thought.

To be continued …