Part III: Mama
Trigger Warning: This short story, fictional work is Part 3 of VI and will have explicit details about pedophilia/familial child rape, abuse, poverty, and neglect. If this is something you think you should not be reading, please, do not continue.
I was supposed to protect my baby girl. She’s my only child. The one God gave me. We tried. Tried for years. After six years of trying, we stopped. We wasn’t even thinkin’ ‘bout no babies anymore, then before you know it, just like that, here comes Phara. She came into this world crying her soul out. Such a noisy thing. My Mama would say, “That child is letting y’all know she’s here! Sheila, slap a titty in her mouth, please! She’s hungry. That’s a hungry cry!” She was always right. Always. She was right about Bennie too. Said he wasn’t no good. Told me to watch my crops. How couldn’t I see this under my nose, in my home? My baby? I don’t even want to think about what he’s been doing to my baby. I can’t let myself. I tried. Been walkin’ ‘round my Mama’s house praying some sense into all of this. Ain’t none. No sense.
NONE AT ALL.
I look at Phara, she looks hurt. Like the pain spilling outta her has nowhere to go. An ocean of heartache, swirling into her little body. She is mixed emotions walkin’ ‘round here, silent as a sneaky wind. Corinne said we need to take her to have the kit done. Check her out. Some lil’ child up at the school done told her she might be pregnant. That’s the last thing I need to be putting my baby through. Pregnancy tests, sonograms, ultrasounds, abortion… Mama would have a natural fit about the abortion. But, my baby with a baby? Its sister? A Mama. A Mama/Sister. What would that make me? My husband laid up with our child, if she’s pregnant… Dear God, what am I? Granny/Mama. A Granny/Mama? I don’t even want to think about this. Corinne said the quicker we get it over with, the better. Every time I think about Bennie climbing his sweaty self on top of my baby, a piece of my soul breaks off, snaps at its core, and shakes itself loose from my body.
I will not host this pain. I ain’t got no room for no more pain. I be shoutin’ at pain, “YOU CAN’T HAVE MY BODY! IT’S MINE! NO MORE OF YOUR CLAWS! I WANT OUT!” Pain sits right there and laughs at me. I am a joke. Laughing stock. An audience of one hears me. Me. I am the only one listening. No one else does. God is on leave. Working those doubles at the job has kept me from keeping my baby safe. I gotta blame something. Something else gotta be the blame. If I can’t leave my child home until her own Daddy gets there, hoping she’s safe, where can I leave her? If I can’t feel safe in my own bed, next to my husband, where can I feel safe? Ain’t no husband. Ain’t no Daddy. Bennie is dead to me. My mind knows. My heart still tryna catch up. How? How does something like this happen?
I close my eyes. I say a prayer. I breathe in deep. This is a nightmare. I will wake up soon. I will wake up to a smiling Phara, double-less work, my past life gone, and the sun willing to shine once again. A nightmare. This is a nightmare. I open my eyes. I am still at 4201 Crescent Way, Apt C. My Mama’s place…