I was so engulfed in the drama that I didn’t notice his Benz pull up alongside the sidewalk. Everything was spiraling out of control—neighbors were nosy, coming out of their houses and peeking from their windows.
“Juicy, what the fuck you done got into now?” His hand reached the cusp of my chin, trying to examine me like I had bruises on my face.
“I’m fine. She’s the one who needs a fuckin’ doctor!” I pointed at Yolanda.
Her mouth was gaped open, bloody, and anyone would think I did more damage aside from popping her in the nose. You couldn’t tell if the blood was coming from her mouth or her nose, though.
“I’m stop droppin’ yo ass off. Next time we come over here, I’m gonna have to supervise yo Laila Ali, jackin’ ass. Out here beatin’ bitches up like Kimbo Slice,” he joked, walking past me to check on Yolanda. She slapped his hand away and ignored his aid.
“I don’t need none of you motherfuckas’ help.”
“Mimi, go put her in the car,” I stated, motioning toward the car. Moriah was distraught and had witnessed enough. As bad as it was, she’d endured enough trauma—none I could take back, none I could erase.
“I’m ’bout to call the police on that bitch,” Yolanda grimaced, attempting to hold onto the railing, but she lost her balance. Somehow she rummaged through her purse and pulled out her phone.
Romelo, quick on his feet, reached for it and stepped on it—shattering the screen.
“No, you ain’t. I’on even play that shit.”
“That bitch?—”
“Call me another one.” I stepped toward her, but Romelo put his hand on my stomach and gently pushed me back.
“Aye, chill the fuck out!”
“No, fuck that bitch! You ain’t never did shit for me. I don’t owe you shit, not even a thank you! You need to rot in hell for the way you treated me—the way you treated your kids. All of their fuckin’ life, you gave them the bare minimum, but you’ll give your last to a nigga if he asked for it. Hoe, you sad!” I yelled. “Fuck, I look like bowing down to a bitch like you. You’re a sad representation of a mama, and you always will be.”
Fueled by rage, I swung past Romelo but was defeated by his pushback.
“Go get in the car,” he muttered coolly.
I stared at him for a second. I wasn’t budging. I wanted Yolanda’s bottle of a beaten-ass to feel me.
“Go. Get. In. The. Fuckin’. Car,” he demanded.
I shot Yolanda an evil stare before trotting away and getting in the car like Romelo told me to. I’d have to deal with the consequences later.
It’s a lot of shit I’ve kept bottled up—my mama. She’s a sensitive topic, and through my adolescence, I never coped with it. I was too young to speak on being hurt and too young to know what it was like not to have a mama I could call “mama.” That’s the pain I carried, forced to stuff in my backpack and suck it up.
Yolanda was a bogus ass placeholder, but I never had the guts to run away—too afraid of what the real world would do. So I suffered until I became tolerable. I’ve always been independent and done shit on my own. Taking on the role of a mother at a young age wasn’t easy, but I did that shit without thinking back. Black girls carry a lot of weight because our ancestors taught us that black women can take on the load. Our ancestors taught their daughters that it’s okay to play house—cook dinner, wear the apron, help with homework, and don’t talk back. When will it stop? When will it become okay to break the cycle?
“Synthia, is my mama okay?” Moriah sniffled.
Taking a deep breath with tears forming before my eyes, I glanced over at Yolanda through the window. Romelo knelt down, talking to her, pointing at me and Moriah. Our eyes were locked, and we never broke the gaze until Romelo drove off, peeling away the trauma and pent-up emotions that had been suppressed between us over the years.
EPILOGUE
A MONTH LATER
TRECEE JONES
Swaying side to side, I toyed around with the stress ball. It was the only type of relief I could get. They kept picking at me, stabbing at my emotions and trying to get inside my head. Truly, on the inside, I felt like a potato. I didn’t need the help, nothing was wrong with me, but apparently my actions led them to think otherwise.
Sitting on the weathered wooden bench in the park, the sun filtered through the blinds. Outside I could hear laughter from children playing nearby. Their giggles were a painful reminder of my soul slowly nipping away. None of this shit got easier. I don’t give a fuck what nobody says. This place is built to torture people. They don’t give a fuck about me—no one does! I’m put here to rot. Every fucking day, I found myself spiraling deeper into a darkness I thought I could escape.
According to them, they were diagnosing me with high-functioning depression. How the fuck do they do that, when theydon’t know shit about me? I drank alcohol and took a few pills that happened to be opioids. How hard is it to believe it was a mistake? Shit, mistakes happen every fucking day, man! I’m not crazy! I know who the fuck I am.
I’m going through a fucking breakup! Why can’t people understand the tenacity of that—or maybe the level of importance is vague, and I’m overreacting with silly actions. I’m not going through a crisis. I just want to be left alone.
