Prologue
JOURNEI EVANS - thirteen years ago
“Daddy, I’m sorry. I swear I’ll stay in my room. I just wanted somethin’ to eat!” I yelled and continued to bang on the wooden basement door. In that very moment, I was begging the person that helped create me to let me out. Dark, creepy, and cold described the closed-in area I would be in for the next few days. My dad was a heartless man. Every day since my mother died, he made sure to abuse me any way he could. And every day, I tried to kill myself as the result.
I hated that house, but I had nowhere to go. Running away had crossed my mind too many times, but because I had no friends or money, that was what I was putting up with. At the age of thirteen, my childhood was ruined, and I matured way before I was supposed to. My mind wasn’t on dolls the way it should’ve been. It was on surviving.
My mother died from the hands of Jourdell Evans almost two years ago. One too many drinks and friendly hands left her unconscious in front of my bedroom door. Alcohol was his best friend, his higher power, and his main focus.
I needed the only parent I had left, but he needed a bottle. Getting drunk day in and day out was his main priority, not hisfamily. I always felt the lack of love he held for me, but he had no problem making his actions equivalent to his feelings.
The basement door was yanked open, and I took off down the stairs. He had already hit me twice that day. I wasn’t going for a third. As he stood at the top of the stairs with a bottle in his hand, I could smell the alcohol. It was almost like a cologne for him.
“You got one mo’ time to bang on my goddamn door. I’ll feed you when I’m ready. I wish you would’ve died with yo’ hoe ass mama.” He slurred every word.
I knew better than to say something back to him, so I stood there, letting my tears cover my face. He put the bottle to his mouth and finished it right there. Not once did he sway or choke. His alcohol tolerance seemed to grow day by day. That empty bottle came toward my body at a fast pace with the word “bitch” following it.
If he didn’t want me, why would he even get my mother pregnant? I didn’t ask to be here, nor did I ask him to love me. I felt like, as a parent, once you made that adult choice, you were supposed to see it through.
My father shut the door, making sure to lock it behind him. All I wanted was a ham sandwich. Last time I ate was two days ago, and that was a cup of applesauce I found in my book bag. The expiration date on it was for three months ago, but it was all I had.
I made my way over to the broke washing machine in the corner by memory. The sun was no longer up when I got caught sneaking food, so my eyes had to adjust until I got my hands on what I needed. I stashed a few things like a sleeping bag, a pillow, a flashlight, and a book in there. I was never left alone in the kitchen, so stashing some type of food wasn’t an option.
As I got settled, another suicidal thought came front and center. Whatever it took to get away from him, I was willing to do.
“Mommy, I know you said take care of my father, but I’m feeling the same way he is. I wish I died with you,” I cried out.
I was officially giving up. I was refusing to breathe another breath into this body. God clearly didn’t care about me. I prayed to Him numerous times, and each prayer went unanswered. The faith I did have withered each time my father struck me.
Turning the flashlight on, I examined the scars along my right arm. Some of the scars that designed my arm were still in the healing process. I cried a tad bit harder. I was thirteen and really thought being dead was better than living under the same roof as Jourdell Evans.
While I was in the basement, I never really looked around. I was either reading all day or crying myself to sleep. That time, I looked to find something—heck, anything—that could assist me in my departure. My eyes landed on an old mirror under the steps. I got up off the cold floor to inspect it.
The mirror was dirty and dusty. Along the frame, I could see rust as well as chipped paint. That would have to do. I went to the stairwell with tears still falling. I banged the mirror on the handrail causing it to shatter. I had a variety in sizes to choose from. I grabbed the biggest one off the floor and eyed it.
Before I got the chance to do anything, my father opened the door. “The fuck is you doin’ down here, bitch?”
I never acknowledged him. My eyes were still on the glass. It was either now or never, and I chose now. I sliced my wrist, going from right to left. Surprisingly, the pain was weaker than I expected. Blood dripped from my arm, and for the first time in two years, I smiled. I was on my way to my mother and away from the monster that created me.
When my eyes finally acknowledged him, I saw tears running down his face. My smile was fading, and confusion was taking over. I never saw my father cry, so I was lost on what was happening.
I was starting to feel like I was floating. I wasn’t in pain, so I knew for sure I was slipping away. I saw my father rushing down to me. My knees were giving out on me, and standing had become a challenge.
“Baby girl, I’m sorry. Why would you do that? You can’t leave me too.”
For once, he showed genuine emotions, but I was already on my way out. I felt myself falling, and that brought on another smile. Letting my eyes close was easier than struggling to keep them open. Mommy, here I come.
Journei – Thirteen Years Later
Every time I came to the gym, I dealt with men shooting their shot. It was like they waited to see who got turned down first before the next stupid nigga tried. Why must men be so damn childish? Yo’ homeboy didn’t make the cut, and neither would you. I had a zero-dick policy.
My father fucked it up for any man wantin’ to be with me. He showed me what men were capable of when they were mad, drunk, or in their feelings period. I almost died to get away from a man, so I refused to entertain one.
“Cord, how many times do I have to tell you and Fitz that I am a married woman? Stop being disrespectful please. Y’all really gon’ make me lose all manners and nut up on both of y’all,” I said with my back to him.
“If you married the way you claim, you would respect your marriage and wear your ring. That pretty ass hand don’t ever sparkle unless it’s from them fake ass jewels on your nails. I’m sayin’ though, Journei, you come to my gym three to four times a week, and you still ain’t tryna fuck with me?”
It was the begging for me. We were too old to be begging anybody for shit. That was weak as fuck, especially on a nigga’sbehalf. Better get you some balls ’cause a bitch like me ran over weak muthafuckas nowadays.
