Pain & Promises

Introduction

Yes. I hate the person I’ve become. Looking in the mirror and not recognizing myself. I laugh at my memories. The obscure imaginations of what was and could never be.

“Life is hard”, they say.

“Change is inevitable”, “This too shall pass”, they repeatedly chanted when they did not know how to comfort the pain you’ve just described.

You know, for an 18-year-old, I’ve seen a lot. I’ve seen the worst, experienced worse, and had the opportunity to understand the horrors of the world. They never understood though. Maybe they will now.

Chapter 1: I Was Seven

I could feel the spray falling. The road is wet, and the air is sticky. Those two are fighting in the road like they always do. In the room, in the yard, on the bus, at work, at my school, anywhere he can get a beating in, it happens. Their curses are echoing through these streets, yet no one bothers to come outside.

I can see the neighbors peeping through their blinds as though it’s just another night of entertainment; but this night seemed worst of all.

He’s punching my mother. His fists are bloody from her bruised face and all she can do is pull on his dreads to get some sort of leverage. He’s shorter than she is, but his anger is a tall man that oppresses her being.

I’m just sitting here watching them rumble, questioning why none of these nosey neighbors are trying to stop them. Are people really that careless or do they just believe this is how they mind their own business?

“Fine!” I mumbled, “I’ll stop them!”, as though I would miraculously gain the ability to put an end to all of this.

I squeezed between the two of them, screaming over their strained voices hoping that my tiny hands would somehow part their bodies and break them apart. But the exact opposite happened. Caught in the crossfire, I end up catching a blow to the side of my face.

Fool! Now look at me, on the floor with my head bleeding and my clothes even more soaked than before. Maybe I couldn’t push him off her, but at least my falling to the ground was enough for him to stop beating her - or so I thought.

“You push my child on the ground!!” She screams at the top of her lungs.

He doesn’t seem to care though. His focus now is throwing all of our clothes into the puddle at the foot of the steps. My shirt is suffocating my chest. For some reason I can’t breathe, as though a huge elephant is sitting on top of me.

“Mommy I can’t breathe”- I said while gasping, but she cannot hear me over her loud outbursts. I can’t tell if the blood on my shirt is hers or mine.

Are these people really going to just stare through their windows?

I can see them watching like bats in a dark cave. Not a soul came out to help prevent this from getting to where it is.

After he throws everything outside in the rain - all but our mattresses, she decides that we should walk down to the store so that she can use their phone. I’m still soaking wet and she’s dripping blood, but it’s not fazing her.

Before we get there, we see two police cars storming through the corner. I guess our neighbors were concerned, or maybe it was just a noise complaint. They pulled on the side of us and shined their flashlights in our faces, blinding us. My head is pounding, and I can barely breathe.

“Ma’am we got a call a few minutes ago about two persons fighting” - the police says as though he can’t see the gushing wound from her forehead.

Her voice is shaking as she tries to explain what happened.

***

We end up back to the house and he’s on a rampage. Throwing things down, breaking up our stuff and threatening to lock himself inside the house until the police left.

One of the police calls me to the side.

“Honey, what’s your name? How old are you?” the police asks with pity in her voice.

“My name is Shiré and I’m 7”, I said gasping for breath as my wet shirt vacuums my chest.

“We need to get you to a clinic; you don’t sound so good. But first, could you tell me what happened?”

“Well, you see, they were arguing in the kitchen about what to eat again. They argue every night. He had just come home, but I could tell he was drinking because he was more upset than usual. He started yelling at her about not having the food done by the time he came home, but before she could say a word, he slapped her. I screamed, and he told me to go into the room, but I didn’t want to. I stood in the hall, and I could hear how he hit her. She cried, begging him to stop, apologizing for doing absolutely nothing wrong. He opened the door and pushed her outside down the steps. Then, he took the outside hose, wrapped it around his hand and started whapping her with it like a belt. I didn’t know what to do, so I went outside behind them to call my neighbor, but they didn’t answer. I just stood and waited. He punched her in her face, her stomach, and kicked her in her back. That’s her blood all over his tee-shirt. She got up and they fell on the ground. That’s how he got the bruises on his knee. He just wouldn’t stop. She started bleeding more, and I got scared, so I tried to stop them. That’s when he pushed me on the ground. I could hear her scream for a second, but I hit my head. Everything went black for like a second, then I realized I was sitting in a puddle. My clothes were wet, he was gone, and my head was hurting. She was screaming loud while he threw our clothes in the road. Then y’all came.”

The handcuffs on his wrist were so snug and shiny. That was the first time I’ve ever seen gold handcuffs. I guess my story was enough for him to get locked up. I actually wish that he never gets out of jail.

As they were putting him into the police car, my grammy pulled up behind them.

“Grammy Grammy Grammy!” I scream with absolute joy.

You see, she separated the two of us when she went to be with him and insisted that I would be taken care of. It broke my grammy’s heart, as well as mine, but despite that grammy always came to my rescue. Grammy came to take us home and took me to the hospital where I found out I had asthma.

(We found out I had asthma. She didn’t press charges. He beat her again. She was pregnant. I was Seven!)

Chapter 2: Fool Me Once

One week later! It’s seven o’clock in the morning and SHE’s packing her special ‘to go’ bag. The same one she packs when we’re staying the week by him. She’s rushing as though trying to beat the clock; gathering all my things and ‘jucking’ them into the bag. She tells me to put on my shoes as a horn blows loudly outside.

“Why do I have to leave grammy, we just moved back with her?” I asked confusedly.

My Barbie digital watch says 7:38 as we storm out the house. His black Cadillac is outside waiting.

Just so you know, she didn’t press charges on him, and now we’re going back to the exact house he threw our clothes out of. I can’t wrap my head around her continuously going back to him. Two days ago, she cursed his name for treating her the way he did, and now we’re on our way back to the exact place?

***

In no time, we’re there. I can still see mommy’s blood in the driveway. She pretends it’s not there but he’s talking about hosing it down - like a hose would wash away the memories and trauma. Is this the time I run away and catch the bus back to grammy’s house?

Back in this one-bedroom apartment. Mommy tells me to go outside and play while them two talk things out. I knew then that they were probably just having sex though. Yeah, I was only seven, but I heard everything through those thin walls, and I was never lacking common sense.

***

Dark has fallen, so now it’s time to eat the typical fried chicken and white rice. “Shiré, bring your ass here now” He shouts angrily.

“You drew in the dirt ‘Grammy come for me?’” “Your grammy don’t love you”, he says intensely, as though hoping to break my spirit. “All she does is

make your mommy feel less of a woman. She didn’t even want you in her house when your mommy had you. Get your priorities straight.”

At that moment, I knew he was just lying, but wow. Talk about stooping low.

***

Two hours have gone by, and it’s now time for me to bathe. Mommy said that I can play in the tub for an extra thirty minutes to help cheer me up. I really wish that was her true intentions though. Ever heard the saying “it be your own family that do it to ya?” Yeah, my mommy was the true definition of that.

As I was taking off my clothes, I could hear her down the hall whispering.

“Chris”, she said. “I hate him and want him to stay in jail”. “If we had gone to court and she went on the stand, you would be in jail.”

The conversation was muffled out, but I could hear someone coming. He bursts the door open with a belt in his hand and slung across his shoulder.

I run in the tub trying to hide myself, but he’s the least concerned about me being naked - or wet as a matter of fact. He’s holding both of my arms together and is whopping me. I’m screaming to mommy to help me, but she’s just standing in the door watching him beat me butt naked.

“Don’t you ever say out your mouth that you hate me.”

“Don’t you ever wish for me to go to jail.”

“You don’t have a daddy, I’m your daddy.”

“And your mother will do what I say, not you. You are a child!”

As though the words weren’t as hurtful already, the ‘whaps’ that accompanied each syllable literally tore me apart.

***

My body was filled with ridges. The water stung against my skin. However, she didn’t even care that he just did that. I can hear her down the hall reassuring him that I won’t do that again, as though they just sent me a message and it’s received. What did I do to deserve that?

I am seven! Lying naked in the bathtub, crying my lungs out with ridges all over my body. Who can come to my rescue now?

Chapter 3: How It All Began

Things were much different than they are now. I have vague memories of when my mommy and daddy were together. Daddy wasn’t always around because his job was in Exuma, and we lived in Nassau, but he was always there for me. I remember daddy used to carry me on his bike around the block. He’d put his helmet on my head and seat me in front of him. I’d hold on tightly to his arms while he steered. I even remember when daddy let me drive his black Honda. I was 4. He sat me in his lap with his feet on the pedals and told me to steer. You could not tell me I wasn’t driving, but whole time he steered with his knees. There aren’t many memories, but the ones I have I am very fond of.

Then one day, it all changed. Daddy met this Jamaican woman while he was working on the island, and somehow allowed her to persuade him into creating a new family. She told him that in order to marry her, he’d have to stop sending me money. I was 4 when she told him this.

It’s two years after he was supposed to be back on my birthday, but he never came home. Mommy said he’s fine, he’s just busy with work - but I figured he likes life better without us. Otherwise, why would he stop sending us money and stop calling to wish me happy birthday and Merry Christmas?

Mommy got the message though, and decided she’d move on. One Sunday while by grammy, mommy comes home and brings a man she says is her friend. Him! Mommy says his name is Mr. Bethell. He’s short, fair skin, and has an open gate between his front teeth like mine. His lips are pretty dark. He has really nice hair and looks really young.

“Hi baby girl” he says in a childish tone, as his tactic to get me to like him.

“Hi Mr. Bethell!”

He lifts me up and holds me, as though to show mommy he’s good with kids. We sit down in grammy’s front room, and he’s asking me a load of questions.

“He’s nice”, I think to myself, as I glimpse mommy smiling from ear to ear. Why does he have his feet on grammy’s coffee table though? Has he been here before?

Mommy made us food, so now our conversation is about our favorite foods.

“I love cookies and ice-cream and pizza. Those are my favorites”.

He doesn’t respond. Everything goes quiet for a while and now I feel like I said something wrong.

“Baby girl, I want to be your daddy”, Mr. Bethell strangely and boldly bleats out. Mommy’s eyes open up wide like he just asked for her hand in marriage. “I know your daddy left you and hasn’t come back, but I could be your daddy. I promise you I’d never leave you. You can call me daddy.”

On the very first day, I meet this strange man, and he wants to be my daddy? Exactly how does that work? I feel like I’m a part of an adoption agency and I just enticed one of their clients.

Am I to take up this offer now? What does he mean by daddy?

Mommy calls me over and starts explaining to me what is going on. At this time, I am 6 years old, and lost as hell! She isn’t leaving much room for a response from me, as though she’s begging me to call him daddy three hours into meeting him. Awkwardly after our intervention, I walk over to him and call him daddy. He’s delighted and carries us for ice cream. He becomes ‘daddy’ for the next 6 years. Sadly though, three months after his new title, mommy starts coming home with purple bruises all over her body. She’s already fair skin like the Americans, so everything shows. Grammy never fancied him because she could see behind his deceptive smile that he was really a demon in sheep’s clothing. Mommy should’ve probably listened to her though, seeing that grammies always know best. Instead, she allowed him too to persuade her and be defiant to grammy.

Chapter 4: I Was Seven

Mr Bethell finally saved enough money to move into the bigger apartment next door. This one is a two bedroom, so now I have my own room. I mean, he sold my bed to help buy this place, so I’m sleeping on the floor, and my room doesn’t have a curtain on the window - but it’s mine. I’m excited to have my own room. That way they can have their peace and quiet.

Today is my birthday and I get my favorite Jasmine Bratz perfume. I was in love with this ever since my grammy bought me one for Christmas. This only reminds me of her more and more though. Mommy brought me to the mall to play in the game room since I’m now 8 years old. She’s telling me she has another birthday gift for me, but I don’t see it anywhere. Out of nowhere, I see grammy walking. She looks so lonely and depressed, so I run to her. This is the best birthday gift ever. I get to see my grammy. She says she can’t stay because she has to go to work. She gives me ten dollars and a kiss. My heart is as huge as the moon at this point.

We finally get home after a long day of pure happiness. To our surprise, there’s a gym set in the living room – yet, I still don’t have a bed. I’m expecting to receive a birthday gift along with these brand-new things, but he doesn’t even tell me Happy Birthday. Did I do something wrong?

Mommy says it’s time for me to get my final gift and sits me on the bed. They are both smiling at me, but I don’t see any gift.

“You’re going to be a big sister!!!!!”

I don’t know whether to be happy or worried. He just made her sleep outside last night. Did he not know she was pregnant?

You see, yesterday while in my room, I could hear them arguing about money. Mommy cannot afford to buy me new clothes, so every week she has to rewash the clothes she brought for me to wear. Mommy works at the Nursery where she only gets paid so much to pay the utility bills. He’s an electrician who apparently only gets paid enough to pay rent, our food in the house, maintain his Cadillac, and buy unnecessary gym equipment for a two-bedroom apartment.

Mommy is begging him to stop spending his money carelessly and start saving so things can become easier, but he refuses to listen. All he cares to do is assert his position in the household and demand that she stops questioning him. It has been 3 weeks since the incident in the rain and they haven’t had an abusive argument since then - at least not until now. Mommy keeps pushing at the conversation and she starts screaming at him. The two start rumbling and hitting against furniture. I know at this point he’s beating her, but I can’t go out there again, not after what happened last time. They stop fighting, so I come out because it’s time to eat.

He gave her a sheet and a pillow and told her to sleep outside by the window. He wants to hear her by the A.C that’s under his room window, otherwise he will go outside and beat her again. I can hear her crying to come back inside as though she’s a dog outside on punishment. He’s more concerned though about the movie that’s on the television. The A.C is on 17, but it’s raining really hard outside. I’m sure she’s colder than I am. I can only cry and hope my mommy doesn’t get sick. It’s probably two in the morning and I can still hear her crying. He goes outside with his belt and tells her to shut up because he has work in the morning.

Is this what she rushed us back into? She probably caved into his empty lies and promises of not hurting her again. Like a fool, she fell back for him and trapped herself again. A fool in love. It’s time for me to wake up for school now and he finally lets her back inside.

She doesn’t say a word to me as though she’s ashamed, but I can sense the load of regret coming from her.

***

Three weeks later, mommy starts to look pregnant. Her bump is growing awfully fast. There are faded purple bruises on her belly where he hit her, but they are going away. They match the ones on her thighs, arms, and back. You’d think that now that she’s pregnant he’d stop hitting her, but it seems like it only got worse. The other day he pushed her into the refrigerator because she refused to kiss him while he was drunk. A week ago, he threatened to knock her down and kill both her and the baby because she wanted to catch the bus home from work. The week before, he actually held the knife to her stomach and promised her that if she left him, he would cut her up.

“Why do you hit mommy?” I asked him, “Won’t that hurt the baby?” I’m not sure why I asked those questions like they would trigger some form of remorse in his cold shallow heart.

“You want to question me when your daddy held a gun to her while she was pregnant with you? When he pulled the trigger and shot off the gun into the roof while your mommy was right in front of him? When she had a black eye because he hit her in her face with the gun?”

***

I was traumatized with the thought of daddy beating mommy. Mommy never denied what he said though, so is it true? Was my mommy being beaten while she was pregnant with me? Is this why she keeps coming back to him? An abusive relationship is all she knows?

***

My friends down the street are starting to recognize the pattern of clothes I wear weekly. That’s fine though. I’m much cleaner than any of them are. 

***

Today, we’re playing a new game in the abandoned house across the road. No-one lives here, but somehow, it’s still fully furnished. There’s a lot of used condoms on the floors and worn-down cigarette buds, but we don’t really care. We’re about to play hide and seek across 4 yards. Starting with this house and ending by Chaz’s house at the end of the corner. Chaz is it, so it would be quite clever of me to hide in his yard. He’d never expect it.

About 20 minutes pass, but no one has come to find me - and I really have to pee. I can’t pee in his yard because what if he comes and catches me mid pee? That’d seem pretty gross - and ghetto. I think I’m going to leave and go home before he reaches this way. By the time he gets here I should be back. Crazy enough though, I probably shouldn’t be in this yard barefoot. There are a lot of broken glass lying around and I step on a piece.

Nonetheless, I walked too fast. That broken Kalik glass shard is literally sticking out of my foot. I can see the center of my sole split in two. How am I supposed to run home with glass in my foot without mommy seeing? Plus, I really, really have to pee man.

Chaz comes and he sees me bleeding and offers to yuck the bottle out, so I let him.

(I find it crazy that we never had the thought of getting infections from these types of injuries).

Happily, mommy was busy cooking food for him, so I got to the bathroom and stuck a band-aid on my foot.

***

Later that evening, he comes home, and mommy tells me to go and wait in their room. I can hear mommy in the kitchen yelling at him to “check” me out. What did I do now?

He comes in the room and tells me to take my panties off and lay in the bed. Mommy is on the left side of me and he’s on the right with his work flashlight staring between my legs.

“You see anything wrong? Any bleeding?”

He keeps spreading as though he’s looking further and further to find something that’s not there.

“It doesn’t look wider, and I don’t see any blood. You said she came inside limping?”

At this point, I could not do anything but cry. My mother’s plan was to draw conclusions based on her assumption, have him look deep between my legs with a flashlight to see if I’d been having sex, instead of ASKING ME!!

“I came home limping because I got a slice from a piece of glass on my foot. See the band-aid.”

Decency? Out the window all because of HER! I was only 7!