Seed

(A novella excerpt)

Cyan sat hunched on an old bucket, stained of paint and cracked at the edges, behind an abandoned building in the neighborhood. It was not great scenery, but it was the place she decided when Christopher had asked her for the quietest area in the neighborhood. It was not much, but it was where she hid when she had to avoid Yellow. She was courteous enough to offer Christopher the only other available seat: a broken chunk of cement block. 

The black camisole she wore dipped low, exposing Cyan’s entire sternum and a faint suggestion of cleavage. She wore no bra, she had none to wear. Streaks of stretch marks that ran vertically atop her chest, disappeared beneath the material of her shirt. Her pants, once black, but now dulled to a murky gray, had an abundance of holes all through the material, and particularly in the back under one of her butt cheeks. It hung loosely off her, two sizes too big. It hardly made sense to wear what she had on, but, yet she did. 

Cyan’s black shirt, though thin, hid her ribs that were jutting through her sallow brown skin. One of her eyes was almond shaped with a faint grey shadow around its brown orbs. Her eyelids sagged, noticeable only when she blinked. Although one eye was severely blackened, her other eye showed some distance as well, quite sunken into her gaunt face. Her dark brown dreadlocks sat matted under a washed out Celtics cap. She often licked her lips as they were dry and calloused, possibly from dehydration or the attempted efforts to draw in labored breaths that had a rattling sound to it. Her brown skin looked washed out and weathered, her face darker than the rest of her body. Cyan had a crooked mouth, thin lips with a sore leaking on her bottom lip. Her back and arms had bumps that mixed between a hue of red and brown. Cyan’s face was a tapestry of time. She was forty, but the lines etched on her forehead told another story. Each line represented an eternity of hardship. 

Time had passed by and Christopher pressed record on his camera.

“I, uh…I overheard the lady in Glorias’s store call you ‘Ciggy.’ Is that your real name? Or just something that people around here call you?”

Cyan peered at him, one slow blink after the other. She took a while to respond, simply giving him a long, worn-out stare as if she was instead looking for an excuse to ignore him. Then she coughed, a dry, racking sound escaping her lips.“M-my mudda mighta’ like ha rum plen’y, b-but i’ne t’ink she was dat drunk tuh name ha baby afta’ ah cigarette,” she said with a short, cracked laugh, wiping her mouth on her forearm. While adjusting herself on the bucket, she added, “But no. I name Cyan. Das my real guv’ment name.

Christopher smiled, “Oh, like the color?” 

Cyan tilted her head with furrowed eyebrows, “Das a color?”

“Yeah,” he nodded. “It’s a light blue color. Well, actually it’s more of the in between color of blue and green. Like the ocean.” 

“Oh, I always thought…well, my mudda tell me she name me after my daddy. She say it was the o-only t’ing he eva gi’e ha. But I doh’ know.” There was a pause. She looked down at her trembling hands, but her mouth gaped open and closed like a fish. “She say a lot of t’ings. Yuh cyan’ take ha word fuh gospel.” 

“It could be true, though.” 

Abruptly, her tone shifted, “Why you even care?” 

“I’m curious, I thought it was interesting when I heard it.” 

“Hm,” she hummed. 

“Do you know his name?” 

“No,” she said whilst shaking her head, slowly. She grabbed her twitching fingers with her next hand, and placed them in her lap. “I’ne neva meet him. Neva see a picture, nunna dat. Just…j-just stories from ha. An’ it den wasn’t much ah dem. I make up one name for him in my head,” she sheepishly admitted. “I name him Cyon. When I t’ink ah him, d-das what I call him. Sayin’ daddy doh feel right, yuh know? Sometimes when I talk tuh him, I look up at de sky and das what I say. Cyon.” 

Christopher’s face softened, “That’s…really beautiful, actually.”

“Is it? I be feelin’ foolish. Like some poppyshow. ‘Cuz yuh know God watching.” 

Christopher nodded, “It is a beautiful thing, Cyan. It’s not stupid at all. It’s human.” 

“W-w-what so beautiful about dat? I’ne gat no daddy,” she snapped.

“That’s not what I meant, Cyan.” 

Her lips thinned and she glanced away from his intense gaze. A pigeon flapped over her head, causing her to flinch. Christopher cleared his throat, “Do you prefer if people call you Ciggy instead of Cyan?” 

“I doh know. People doh really call me nuttin’ dese days. If someone call me Cyan, it does jus’ re’mine me ah w’en i’se growing up. ‘Cuz das w’en I was only known as Cyan.” She swallowed. “Now dey jus’ does call me Ciggy, or de woman who does beg.” 

“Was it someone around here that gave you that name?” 

She nodded, “Yellow. De same person I was askin’ you ‘bout when I saw you.” 

“And how long did you have that name?” 

“Since I come d’an hea. Well…no, becuz’ Yellow usta call me dat from when i’se ah chile, when me and my mudda first move hea. But it really stick when I start livin’ ran hea.” 

“You didn’t always live here?” 

“Nope,” she said with a pop. 

“Where did you grow up?” Chris asked. 

Cyan adjusted herself on the piece of cement. Scratching at her the sore on her elbow, her eyes traveling to him. “Here, de Bahamas.” 

“Just not this area?” 

“No,” Cyan shook her head. Her lips twitched, and her head moved too loosely, like she had no control of it. “I grow up on ah nudda island. W’en w-we come hea, Yellow was livin’ where we was at de t-time. Den he d-d-did leave, and w’en I c-come Prov Street, he was right hea. B-but before all dat, I usta’ live in Gran’ Bahama, my mudda was from dere. But her mudda was from here…I t’ink she say her mudda was from here. I wouldn’t know, I een neva’ meet de woman. But from what my mudda tell me, i’ne really missin’ out on anyt’ing.” 

Chris cleared his throat, “What was it like growing up in Grand Bahama? Do you remember?” 

Cyan tipped her chin up at him, staring at him suspiciously. “Why?” 

“I am just curious to learn about your life, your childhood.” 

“My life?” Cyan asked. “What about it?” Although she dug her nails across her skin, scratching herself raw, her fingers involuntarily moved on their own..

“Well, you mentioned your mother right? Tell me about her.” 

Cyan kissed her teeth. “I’ne see ha since I been out hea. Een das somet’ing else? D-dis island so so small and yuh doh even run into de same people sometime. Das how I know I ain’ ga neva’ see you again.” She paused, looking him straight in the eye. “Sorry, wa your name is again?” 

“Christopher,” he replied. 

“I doh remember what i’se saying. What I’se sayin’ Christopha?” 

“You was telling me about your mother. What was she like?” 

“I doh know. She was dead before I was even born.” 

Christopher blinked, “What?” 

Cyan giggled to herself, “I ain’t serious. But ain’ das what people does say w’en dey mummy ain’ love dem like how dey posed to?” 

Christopher remained silent, replying with a stare that was a mixture of confusion and nonjudging. 

“She name Simone. Simone. Das a nice name, hey? It so soft. Dead lady like and ting, she smiled to herself. “I wish my name was Simone. Stead she name me after my daddy. My mudda used to say she doh know him either. D-den it turn to ha saying hese a raggedy ass man. Dat he wasn’t no good. Dat he had ah wife and das why he een wan me or her.” 

“How did that make you feel?” 

“I usta’ be mad, yuh kno’. B-but you kno’ wha’ I t’ink it is? I t’ink he wanted me but he ain’ wan’ ha. So, she take me from him. She make sure I ain’ had no daddy. I usta’ ask her what he name was since she name me after him, she usta’ tell me stay in a chile’s place. W-what dat even mean, bey? She ain’ even neva’ treat me like no chile anyway. So how she could tell me stay in a chile’s place?” 

“Did she say that a lot?” 

Cyan tipped her chin at him, then coughed—really hard, as if her lungs were trying to climb through her esophagus. “No. Just d-dat one time. She ain’ say it no more ‘cuz…’cuz den she wudda sound dumb. B-but she was pretty. Dead pretty. Too, too pretty. Like dat was all she was, dat was her whole t’ing. Just b-b-being pretty.” 

She scratched at her sore, eyes darting. “An’ she wanted me tuh be like dat too…pretty. L-like her. But dat ain’ work.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“She say ise too black. She say it straight like dat. I ‘member her saying i’ne ga get nuttin’ ‘less I work fuh it. Say my hair, my hair was wrong. It ain’ soft, it ain’t curly. She tell me plenty plenty time my head nappy an’ full ah peas,” Cyan let her shoulders fall. “I jus’ look like my daddy mussy. I gat he name, he face. Gat he skin too. She ain’ n-never let me forget.” 

She blinked hard, flinching at the sound of someone’s horn. “It hurt, yuh know. For a while ‘cuz it wasn’t only what she say. But my mudda change when she did see de w’erl wasn’t gon’ love me like it did love her. S-she just stop carin’. An’ I mean she ain’ try no more. I mean, s-she ain’ n-n-never really try, but she fuh real stop pretendin’. She stop doing my hair fuh school, say my hair was ha’d and doh listen. Too much work. She pay one woman to do it fuh her, keep it braided. 

Ain’ hit me how bad it was ‘til high school. M-man, dey tear me to pieces. Who ain’ laugh at me did point, an’ who a-ain’ point call me all type t’ings. I had to learn on my own ‘cuz my mudda ain’ show me. Mummy just ain’ care.”

“Wow. And you said it was only her around? No aunts, or uncles.” Cyan shook her head. She tipped forward, almost losing her complete balance. “Oh shit,” she says. She grinned, thanking Christopher for helping her steady herself. Her teeth showed. They were yellow and she had two missing bottom teeth. “Y-yeah, it was jus’ me and her for de mos’ pa’t. Tell you de truth, I don’ even rememba’ where we usta’ live before she meet her boyfrien’. I don’t rememba’ nothing. I don’ think we had our own place for dat long tuh tell you de truth. At least when we move tuh dis island.”

“So there was someone else around?”

“Ha boyfriend, what he name again? Elvis, I t’ink. Elvis…”she trailed out, her eyes shutting tightly. She reached up and played with a loc, but once again, her fingers twitched. “Elvis, Elvis, Elvis. Yeah, Elvis. He been ‘ran since I know myself fuh true. From i’se a chile. From wha’ my m-mudda usta ‘tell me he let her live dere. She ain’ had to pay nun. She was pretty. An’ s-she tell me all de time, pretty woman does get what dey want. I mussc een pretty aye, Chris?” She let out a dry laugh. “Look where I is. I cyan’ be pretty. My mummy tell me when yuh pretty, man does do anyt’ing fuh you. Say dey, say dey does give you money and if yuh lucky, a place tuh stay. And if yuh even luckier, he give you b-baby. He g’i you more dan’ one baby, he might gi’ you more dan he gi’ de udda gyal. More dan’ he wife and t’ing. But i’se gotta beg man and woman fuh money. And dey is roll dey window up. Tell me get from dey car. T-tell me dey een gat it just like me. Simone was right about one t’ing, w-when yuh open yuh legs yuh does get what yuh want.” 

Christopher shifted on his cement block, scrutinizing Cyan in all her glory. “You said you haven’t seen her since you’ve been out here? Do you think she’s still alive?”

“Maybe. I don’ kno tuh tell you de truth. I t’ink so doe. I t’ink I saw her de udda day. She did come ran here for breakfus’. She don’ know I does stay ‘ran hea. She don’ know ‘dis my new home. Dat dis been my home longer dan ha home been my home. Cyan shut her one eye tightly, fist clenching and unclenching as she leaned forward, looking as if she was about to fall off the bucket block. “She een know what I been t’rough. But guess wha Christopha? I stronga na’, bigga too. I could fight ha. I fight plen’y niggas out hea, plen’y.” Her eyes flapped open, “Plen’y, Christopha.”