Woman at the Top of the Stairs

Woman at the Top of the Stairs

  By

  Deidra D. S. Green

  Note from the Publisher: This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead or references to locations, persons, events or locations is purely coincidental. The characters, circumstances and events are imaginative and not intended to reflect real events.

  Woman at the Top of the Stairs

  Copyright 2012 Deidra DS Green

  RATHSI Publishing, LLC

  www.rathsipublishing.com

  All Rights Reserved and Proprietary.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, in any form or format without written permission from Publisher. Send all requests via email to [email protected]

  Printed in the United States of America

  Other Books by Deidra D. S. Green:

  Sick, Sicker, Sickest (The first installment in the Chloe Daniels Mysteries)

  HUSH: 2nd Installment in Chloe Daniels

  Mischief’s Mayhem: 3rd Installment in Chloe Daniels

  Twisted Sister

  Twisted Sister II: Twisted’s Revenge

  Twisted Sister III: After the Twist

  TRENT

  Woman at the Top of the Stairs

  Woman at the Top of the Stairs II: Sweetest Revenge

  Woman at the Top of the Stairs III: The Final Say

  A Letter to My Mother (Four Part Letter Series)

  Elite Affairs: Orchestrated Beauty

  Elite Affairs II: Simple Elegance

  Suddenly Single: So Undeserving

  Let the Church Say

  Ivy: Some Say she’s Poison

  My Guy Friday

  They Call Me Ms. Cleo (Miss Dee)

  Interstate 64

  Visit Deidra D. S. Green at https://deidrawrites.weebly.com/

  Read Deidra’s Blog at https://deidrawrites.weebly.com/

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  Acknowledgements

  I am so grateful for the opportunity to share the written word with you! God is awesome and I am eternally grateful for the love he has shown me. Without him, I am but a sounding brass or tinkling symbol. I have to always say ‘thank you’ to my children. They are as much a part of the sacrifices that are made as I am. VcToryann C’Mone, Kamerron DeAnthony Alexander, I love you and appreciate you more than you will ever know. Thanks for being such a gift to me from the Most High. Thank you to my family and friends who continue to support me through the writing. I must also thank my readers for being willing to take the journey with me. To my publisher, Rathsi Publishing Company, you have supported me from the very beginning and are much appreciated. To the graphic designers, editors, beta readers, my beloved readership and everyone else who has been a part of this new project, THANK YOU SO MUCH!

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to every woman who has been at the top of the stairs…

 

  Chapter One

  God, I hate to be awakened out of my sleep! I work long days and my sleep is precious to me. But ever since that new couple moved downstairs, I have had more and more sleepless nights. I don’t like it…This shit has got to end…

  I try to mind my own business. I really do. I have been living in this apartment building for the past eight years. I know the lady who lives right across from me only because she needed to borrow a cup of sugar one day, and I obliged. Beyond that, I don’t get too much into other people’s business, and I for damn sure don’t let them in mine. I live alone, and I like it that way. I had a cat once. He got on my nerves because he was too finicky, and only wanted to be rubbed when he needed some attention. Needless to say I got rid of his ass after a few months. Catering to his needs reminded me of all the ignorant and self-absorbed men I have dealt with in my life. I’m not heartless though. I took him to a shelter that promised to find him a good home. I hope that worked out for him. It certainly worked out for me.

  I was born and raised in Georgia. I have lived here my entire life. I like Georgia. It’s an interesting combination of city and country all rolled into one. It’s funny; I live 10 minutes outside of Atlanta. Once you leave the bright lights of the city, the surrounding areas can be really dark, especially at night. If you haven’t been to Georgia this may sound weird to you, but there are no street lights. Even on major thoroughfares, there are no street lights. So when it gets dark, it is really, really dark; pitch black as the old folks would say.

  The overabundance of evergreens and the infamous 20 foot Georgia pine trees don’t help none either. The combination of no street lights and the nighttime shadows created by rows and rows of skyscraping lush trees makes it blacker than black. There are still a bunch of dirt roads here and streets with no sidewalks. The dirt roads run for miles and miles rambling through dense tree-laden areas and unspoiled landscape. Every now and then there may be a clearing where an old farm sits with a few cows and a horse or two. Pass that, you can ride for miles and miles on these dirt roads and never see a living soul.

  There are 10 units in the building I live in. The building is nice. I like the building because it’s small. I live on the end of the hall because I didn’t want to be sandwiched between a bunch of folks hearing all the shit that goes on in their lives. The walls are thin and you can hear everything no matter how much the landlord promises they are soundproofed. Motherfuckers lie, so I wanted to be sure to minimize that kind of disturbance. Now I only share one wall with an older gentleman. With the exception of turning the volume up really loud when he watches television, he leads a relatively quiet life. I think he’s hard of hearing. He has been here longer than I have. He doesn’t have a lot of people running in and out of his place. I like it that way. I don’t know his name. We only see each other in passing every now and again when he is coming upstairs from the corner store or retrieving his mail. Other than that, I don’t really see him too much.

  I’ve been working at my job for the last eight years. I’m a registered nurse. I like to help those who can’t help themselves, but even that has a limit. There are days I love my job. Other days I absolutely hate that motherfucker. Doctors can be arrogant sons of bitches and it burns my ass when they treat the nurses like fucking second-class citizens because they think they know so much more. It really pisses me off when their arrogance causes unnecessary pain to the patient or makes the patient wait unnecessarily for some bullshit that could have been resolved if they only listened to the nurse instead of chatting it up with an equally arrogant fellow doctor. I try to push through that bullshit and help the patients as much as I can, but it ain’t easy. Sometimes that shit really sucks. I work long hours just like most folks in the medical field. When I come home I like to relax and get my rest so I’ll be able to attend to my patients the next day. So when my relaxation time - or especially my sleep –is hampered and I go to work tired and aggravated, it could literally cost somebody their life. I take that type shit seriously. That’s why I hate when my sleep is disturbed.

  Like I said before, I live alone. That’s on purpose. I was married once, but that shit didn’t end well. We were married seven years. We didn’t have kids even though I wanted them. I was pregnant a few times, but things didn’t pan out the way they were supp
osed to. I think God played a few cruel jokes on my ass and I lost both babies. Since that time, I have pretty much kept to myself. I’m still young - 34 years old - and my momma always says God will send me a man that really loves me. Humph! He may or may not. Like I said, I think God has a sense of humor. At this point I really don’t care. I like the simplicity of my life. Being in a relationship now would just complicate things. I don’t do complicated real well. Every now and again I have to dodge a call from my ex who manages to find me no matter how many times I change my number. It’s been good as of late, though. I haven’t had any random phone calls in over a year. The other thing that disturbs my relaxation is the occasional friend or family member that insists on keeping me updated with what my ex has been up to, who he’s bedding or who he has a baby with. If I wanted to know what was going on in his life I would have stayed in his life. That’s why I keep my circle small and tight. I avoid drama and the people that insist on bringing it to my doorstep like the plague.

  A few months ago, a couple moved into the apartment directly underneath me. It seems like from the moment they moved in, all kinds of hell has been breaking lose. I’ve seen the guy a couple of times. He’s definitely nothing to write home about. I’ve bumped into the girl once or twice at the community mailboxes. She’s a pretty girl - at least she used to be. You can tell she is living a hard life. She always has her head down with her hair tied up in a scarf. She doesn’t readily make eye contact and shies away if she feels you are going to say something to her. She carries herself like she’s tired all the time or trying to balance the weight of the whole world on her scrawny little shoulders. She is much too young to look that tore down. It’s really sad to see her like that.

  I never caught her name. Like I said, she pretty much keeps to herself. I did get a piece of their mail in my box once. You would think as long as I’ve lived in this building I wouldn’t have that problem. Maybe it was that day the regular mail lady was out sick or something. It’s easy to make a mistake I guess. I live in apartment 212, and they live in 112. I guess the mail carrier got the numbers confused. Anyway, checking my mail that day I realized the error when I saw the name on the envelope: Zenobia Randolph. I thought to myself, what a pretty name for such a sad young lady. I knew one thing for sure. Percy was the cause of her sadness. The only reason I found out his first name is because I overheard her say it a couple of times in passing. Yeah, Percy was the bastard’s name.

  It seemed like on those days when I worked so hard that I was too tired to physically eat, and all I wanted to do was go to sleep, were the very nights he decided to get started. Of course it would start off low, but before long voices would be raised and you could hear shit breaking and bodies being tossed around. Some of the other neighbors would hear them, too, and a few times the police were called out to “investigate”. But they sorry asses don’t never do shit. I can hear them banging on the door announcing their presence. He denies it and she lies. The police can clearly see something is wrong, but they act like they don’t. They believe his bullshit, act like she doesn’t exist and walk away promising to lock his ass up next time. Well hell, the next time she might be dead and they’d be locking his ass up for killing her.

  One time, I thought for sure his ass was going downtown. They had been fighting all evening. I mean I could hear him whooping her ass through the floor boards. She was screaming and begging for her life. I started to stick my head out and go down there and beat on the damn door myself! But before I could crest the top of the stairs, here come the police again. They threatened to kick the door in. This time I thought for sure he was going to jail. I peered over the stairwell because I wanted to see them put the cuffs on his ass. When the door finally opened, he came to the door acting like there wasn’t a damn thing wrong. When he stepped out into the hall - the single, uncovered light bulb illuminating his face enough for me to see him clearly - he was breathing all heavy and sweating through the dingy white T-shirt he was wearing. If you didn’t know any better, you would have thought he had been working out or something. He had been working out all right…on that poor girl!

  I didn’t see her when the police were interrogating his lying ass, but even over their voices I could hear whimpering in the background. The difference between the last time the cops came and this time is that there was a male and female officer instead of two men - a black female officer at that. The female officer wasn’t trying to hear his bullshit, and cut him off every time he tried to lie and say nothing happened. She brushed pass him and made her way into the small apartment. I strained to see and hear, but from my vantage point I couldn’t. The railing and the position of their door obstructed my view. I do know this - that female officer was only in there a few minutes before I heard Zenobia screaming and running after the officer as she left the apartment and instructed Percy to stand against the wall and put his hands on the top of his head. Zenobia came tearing out into the hall begging the officer to let him go because he didn’t mean it. I mean, all manner of foolishness! I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I didn’t need to see her to know he had beaten the living shit out of her.

  Was she really begging the officer not to lock this fool up? Really? I am so glad the female officer wasn’t listening to the stupid shit she was saying. Zenobia was obviously delirious. Maybe he had knocked all the good sense she had in her head out. The second officer, a tall thin white man who looked like you could knock him over with a feather, intervened and stopped Zenobia from getting in the way of the arrest. She was fighting against the officer, and it took everything in him to hold her back. If she fought against that fool Percy like she was doing that poor officer, maybe he wouldn’t have kicked her ass all over that gattdamn apartment, I thought to myself.

  The female officer finally got Percy locked down. He didn’t resist. He knew his ass was caught. He hung his head like he was ashamed - not of what he did, but for getting busted. Zenobia was still crying and hollering even after the officers were descending the steps with her good-for-nothing man in tow. I could only shake my head at how stupid she was acting. Did she like him beating on her like that? The officers were doing her dumb ass a favor. She must didn’t know it.

  That night I slept peacefully for the first time in a long time. The next day I ran into her on the front steps as I was leaving to start my three to eleven shift at the hospital. She was coming up the steps looking dejected as usual and crying. Normally I try to mind my own damn business, but since she was sobbing so badly, I couldn’t help but try and see what the problem was. I almost kicked myself the moment I opened my mouth and said something.

  “Zenobia…Zenobia is it?”

  She paused as if she had been in a daze. She didn’t open her mouth, but shook her head letting me know she heard me. She still held her plaid scarf-covered head down; her eyes downcast focusing on the steps as if there was something there she was trying to find.

  “Hi, I’m Gina from apartment 212. Are you okay?”

  Again she didn’t speak. She sobbed even harder. I wasn’t exactly sure what to do; whether my inquiry was making the situation worse instead of better. I felt obligated to stay. Maybe she was in trouble and needed some help, but didn’t know how to ask for it. Against my better judgment I pressed on.

  “Are you okay, Zenobia?”

  She was slow to respond, but eventually she did. As she raised her head I could see the damage Percy had caused to her caramel face. Both of her eyes had deep red and purple circles around them giving her a raccoon kind of look. Had this been another kind of situation it may have been funny, but under these circumstances it was just sad. Her left cheek had visible fingerprint marks where he slapped her with an open hand. Her parched lips were cracked and dried blood was still in the corners; the remains of his vicious strike to her mouth.

  Once she composed herself enough to speak, her words came pouring out all at once. She was
speaking so fast and crying new tears so intensely, the wound to her lip cracked open and fresh blood begin to drip. I don’t think she even realized she was bleeding. Her lips were swollen. She probably didn’t have much feeling in them. It looked like it hurt. I reached into my purse and found a Kleenex. I extended it to her; tapping my own lip to give her the hint where she needed to wipe.

  “I don’t know what to do! They took him to jail last night and bail is set so high I don’t know if I have enough money to get him out. He looked so sad and upset when he left. I may have to go to the pawn shop to get the money ‘cause I know my family ain’t gone give it to me. I just need him back home with me,” she said starting to sob again.

  I guess I shouldn’t have been, but I was shocked again by what she said. Was I hearing her right? She wanted the man who beat her black and blue back home with her? I fought against my natural instinct to tell her to leave his stupid ass in jail after what he did. But who was I to tell her how to live her life? I probably shouldn’t have said anything in the first place, but I had stuck my nose in the shit now and felt compelled to say something. Hopefully, I could filter my real thoughts and say what she needed to hear.

  “Is that what you really want to do?” I asked trying to keep judgment out of my voice.

  She looked at me as though she didn’t understand the question, so I tried to break it down in a way that was crystal clear.

  “I mean, do you really want to bail him out after he did that to you?” I asked subtly gesturing towards her face.

  She must have felt embarrassed by the acknowledgment and immediately moved her hand to cover some of what she thought were her injuries. But it was much too late for that. I and anyone else who had seen her this morning got a good look at what he had done.

  She began to stutter and stammer; her eyes welling with tears again as she tried to explain herself and make excuses for him.

  “Oh, you mean this…see, he didn’t mean it. He was just upset, you know? If I had just left him alone and not argued with him, then this wouldn’t have happened,” she offered.

  “If you say so, but upset or not, ain’t no man supposed to treat his woman like that…”

  I was pretty much done with the conversation. It felt like I was talking to a brick wall trying to convince this woman, who obviously saw nothing wrong with what her man did to her, that the ass whooping she had been taking wasn’t normal.

  She had no further response. I could hear her mumbling under her breath as she ascended the stairs, “…I just don’t know what I’m gonna' do…”

  I couldn’t help but replay that scene in my head while I worked. What would make a woman think that kind of treatment was okay? Why would she want to bring him home when this may be her only chance to get away from him? Did she really think that lowly of herself that she felt somehow she deserved it? Even as I worked with my patients, I found myself shaking my head at the thoughts that were permeating my brain.

  By the time I got home after a hard shift I was exhausted. I showered, poured myself a stiff shot of bourbon with no chaser and climbed into my bed not bothering to turn on the television or the radio. A lot of times I would do that to try to drown out the noises and bumps in the night. But this night, I didn’t even have the energy for that. One of my favorite patients was having a hard time with the new medication she had been given and she was throwing up everything all over the place. Between cleaning up behind her and attending to my other patients for 12 hours, I just wanted to welcome the sandman into my life and get some much needed rest.

  It was exceptionally quiet as I tried to drift off to sleep. It hadn’t been this quiet since Percy Atkins entered the building. Being that it was quiet, I figured Zenobia must not have been able to bail him out. Maybe she would come to her senses with a little time away from him.

  I would like to say I slept like a baby, but that was far from the truth. I tossed and turned most of the night. I had a nightmare. It had been awhile since that happened. I felt it before I realized what was happening to me…searing pain…eyes hurting and swollen…tears stinging and burning as they fell down my broken face…lip busted and bleeding – the taste of my own blood perverting my tongue…face taut like the skin had been pulled too tight; the swelling paining me to even think…head throbbing from unrelenting punches banging brain matter against fragile skull…my body so battered…rug burns, scrapes, nicks and tears, ribs cracked, muscles too weak to fight…aching from trying to fight anyway…

  I was back in my old life; the life I had before I was single. My now ex-husband was being his old self - a complete ass hole. He was just like so many other ignorant and abusive motherfuckers who found fault with everyone but themselves. Of course I didn’t come to that realization until after I was ready to leave his ass; after he beat me black and blue.

  I thought I was in love like so many naïve young girls who get into situations and relationships with men who are even more insecure than they are. At first our relationship was good, but that didn’t last long. Hearing the way Percy treated Zenobia brought all of my own skeletons back to the forefront.

  We had had a horrible fight. That’s what I called it back then - a fight - until I realized that was not at all what it was. Like Zenobia, that was the lie I would tell myself to make the situation not sound so bad. In reality, it wasn’t much of a fight considering Mac outweighed me by at least 75 pounds and was almost a foot taller than I was. Besides, he was a man and I was a woman. Could that really be considered a fight? Hell no!

  It had been a regular night up until the point he decided to be upset about something. The conversation quickly escalated into a confrontation. Mac didn’t like it when I thought for myself. He also didn't like it if I had anything to say to him regardless of how dumb some of the shit he would say sounded. I must have replied to him one too many times and before I knew it, he had smacked me across the face with an open hand. Damn that shit stung! It felt like I was feeling the pain again even in my sleep. I had gotten to a place where I didn’t take that hitting shit no more without trying to fight back – not with my fist, but with my mouth. I wasn’t completely stupid. I knew physically I didn’t stand a chance against him, but I had gotten to that place where I was just tired of the shit. The feeling of tiredness weighed down on me even as I tossed and turned trying to shake the nightmare loose.

  I have always been quick-witted and had a fiery tongue so when he hit me, I’m sure I fired some shit from my mouth that pissed him off even more. The outrage was evident in his eyes; penetrating my subconscious. He hit me again and again across my face; knocking my head from one side to the other. Now blood was spewing from my lips. Sssss, the sting…My head was spinning and the pain was immense; furniture being knocked around, glass breaking and rug burns from him dragging me across the carpet after he knocked me down. The venomous words spewed from his foul lips – berating me; making me feel even smaller. I was angry, scared and flustered all at the same time. But it came out as screams of agony as rivulets of hot tears streamed down my face. Seeing me in pain, bleeding and crying didn’t make Mac stop. It fueled him; made him feel like a big man. He was whooping my ass and I was trying to defend myself. He had been rough with me before, but this particular night, I thought he had lost his fucking mind. Mac was man handling me; hitting me in my face with a closed fist. He hit me so hard I fell to the ground. I was as much in shock as I was in pain. That son of bitch didn’t stop. He kicked me, not once but several times physically lifting my body off the floor with every swing of his size 13 foot. The pain of those kicks hit me in my sleep – waves of aches and bruising resurfacing – causing me to try and wake myself from the nightmare I was in. But I was trapped in my dream sequence just as I had been trapped in the brutality of the man I loved. I balled up in a fetal position trying to protect my head and torso. He continued to curse me and call me all kinds of no account bitches and hoes. The verbal assault wa
s just as brutal as the physical one.

  Just when I thought he was done, I felt his full weight on top of me. He obviously wasn’t finished with me. He straddled me; rolling me over so I was facing him. At this point I begged him to stop; screaming from the pain and still trying to protect myself when that motherfucker wrapped both his hands around my neck and started choking me. My words were caught in my throat. I couldn’t scream anymore. He was literally choking the life out of me; the brute force of his choke hold assaulting me in my sleep. I gagged and gasped, still trying to wake up. I tried to fight back. I swear I did. I flailed my arms trying to get his hands off my neck. At one point I caught him in the face; scratching him so deeply that he bears those scars to this day. But that just pissed him off even more. Despite my efforts, I couldn’t stop him. He became fuzzy and unfocused as the blood supply and oxygen to my brain was depleted.

  I regained consciousness only to find myself still lying in the middle of the living room floor where he left me - where that motherfucker probably left me for dead. That was the first time I knew that he would kill me; that he wouldn’t stop until I was dead. That was a hard realization to grasp, but that shit got real for me at that moment. I knew I had to get the fuck away from him. There were no more excuses, no more apologies to accept and no more forgiving his sadistic ass. If I valued my life, I had to be the one to save it.

  It wasn’t easy. I had to plan my escape. I tried that shit before half-heartedly, and of course it backfired. This time I was serious. I wasn’t thinking about hurting his feelings anymore or allowing myself to reminisce on the times the relationship was good. I wasn’t talking myself out of it this time. I had to fake like things were cool. He came at me with that same old sorry-ass apology; promising that he didn’t mean it and if I had only blah, blah, blah...I even had to endure that motherfucker sticking his sorry ass dick in me. All the while his stupid ass was breathing heavily - telling me how much he needed me and how much he couldn’t live without me - I was contemplating my next move. It was hard reliving the disgust of that in my dreams – wanting to throw my guts up. But it was cool. I knew it was only temporary and I wouldn’t have to fuck with his ass no more. And he fell for all of it - stupid motha fucker! He was so used to me taking his bullshit that he never knew what hit him when I finally made my move. He went out to drink with his buddies - his every night activity - and when he fell back in the house expecting to push up next to a warm body, my ass was gone. I didn’t tell nobody my plan – not even my own momma. I couldn’t afford to have nobody cave in and tell that son of a bitch what was going on. I had to lay low; go someplace where nobody knew where I was. The most dangerous time for a woman trying to leave a batterer is when she leaves. Trust me; I have seen the evidence of that more times than I care to remember. I knew once he realized I was gone for real, he would stop at nothing to find me. And if God forbid he did. That would be the end of my story. I couldn’t have that. I had too much to live for.

  He did just what I expected him to do - beg my family to tell him where I was, stake out all the places I used to frequent and harass folks at my old job seeing if any of them knew where I had gone. But like I said, I planned. I put in two weeks’ notice at my job. I didn’t tell them nothing either. Nobody could know what I was doing – NOBODY.

  I decided to lay low the night I left; staying in a hotel as far away from where we lived as I could. The next morning I got in my car and started driving; not exactly sure where I would end up, but knowing I could never go back to my old life. I planned as much as I could under the circumstances, and left the rest up to God. He took care of me. He really did.

  After a few months I was able to let my momma know where I was; making her promise me that no matter what she wouldn’t tell that bastard of a husband of mine where I was. During those two months I would call her, but I never let on where I was. I wasn’t far from her, but the more she knew the more of a chance I took in Mac finding me. I was broke as hell, but I was happy. The entire time I was driving around – taking back roads, doubling back on myself, trying to get away from Mac - I kept looking over my shoulder. I expected him to be behind me at any given moment. Even after I had gotten to a place where I thought I could be safe - where he wouldn’t look for me - I still looked over my shoulder thinking he would be around every turn. I was glad when that anxious and paranoid feeling started to go away. It took a while, but it finally did. I could breathe again. For the first time in seven years I didn’t have to walk on egg shells – watching everything I said and did, trying to keep him happy and everything on an even keel. I could be me. And I was okay with that for the first time. I could be just who I was supposed to be.

  I found some people who helped me. The women at the crisis intervention center really went out of their way for me. They didn’t know me from Eve, but they extended their hand to me and helped me get on my feet. It wasn’t easy. I had to humble myself and stay in a shelter for a little while. I hadn’t ever done no shit like that in my life, but if I wanted my life to be different I had to do things differently. I couldn’t let pride stand in my way. I had to admit that I was a victim of domestic violence to all the other women who were there. They bore the same physical and emotional scars I had. That was some foul ass shit to deal with for real. The stories those women told...oh my God! I thought I had it bad, but even as bad as Mac was, there were some other bastards out there that treated their women worse than Mac treated me. I had to catch myself, though. They called me out every time I tried to minimize what happened to me or make my situation better than theirs.

  I had to come to grips with some real shit living in that shelter with those women. I had to find out why I was so willing to accept the crap Mac had dished out. I had to figure out what made me think I deserved it. I even had to go back to some dark places in my childhood to help me understand why I didn’t feel good about myself. Those ladies were not playing with me. See, when I first went in, I thought my situation was so special; that I was so different from these other women. I wasn’t on welfare. I didn’t have a bunch of bastard kids. Hell, I was married, educated and came from a two-parent home. These women were not. I had this attitude like they were beneath me. I would go to the mandatory group meetings, but I wouldn’t fully participate. I would half-ass listen to these other women’s stories and privately point out all their flaws and how they fucked up – not really listening to the pain they were in. Even though I came to the shelter to get help - even after I plotted and planned to escape my abusive situation - I was still trapped in my mind. I wasn’t ready to face my own demons. I retreated to the classic defense of seeing the fuck ups in everybody else’s life so I didn’t have to deal with the fuck ups in mine. When I did “share”, it was superficial at best. I didn’t want to let these women into my life. I didn’t want to expose my pain to these strangers. I didn’t want to get open, honest and naked in front of these people. I was still on some major bullshit for real. I can laugh at my own stupidity now, but that shit sure as hell wasn’t funny then.

  Basically the group leader made me tell my story, and trust me, I did so reluctantly. I skirted over a bunch of details and shared just the basics. I figured this satisfied the requirements for sharing. I was satisfied, so hell, they should be, too. And they let me get away with that shit for like 2.2 seconds. They called my ass out on my shit real quick. I fought against what they were saying; even making excuses for Mac after everything he had put me through. That’s when the shit really hit the fan. I will never forget it.

  This woman named Earnestine layed into my ass like there was no tomorrow. She wouldn’t let me get away with the half-truths and glossy story I told. She pressed for details – not just about what he physically did to me, but how he made me feel. I didn’t want to hear that bullshit, and I for damn sure didn’t want to talk about it. And then she said something I will never forget as long as I live.
She told me that I was doing the same thing to them that Mac did to me. At first it didn’t make any sense to me. What the fuck was she talking about? I hadn’t hit these women. I hadn’t called them out of their names or treated them badly. I didn’t see the parallel and I resented the implication. And then she said, “You made us not matter…”

  Earnestine confronted me in such a way that I had to accept the ugly truth about Mac and myself. She didn’t hold her tongue in the least; calling me arrogant, stuck up and delusional as hell. The bitch called me delusional! I looked to the group leader to intervene, but she just let this woman lay into me.

  Even now, I have to pause and let that shit sink in. “You made us not matter…” It took me a while to really get it. I won’t lie and say that in that moment I remotely understood. In fact, I refused to get it when she first said it, but later that evening, lying on my bunk bed with everything still and quiet around me, I got it. I had been dismissive to these women like Mac had been dismissive to me. I was putting them down, finding their flaws, justifying their ass-kicking and refusing to see, hear or acknowledge who they really were. I was making it all about me – my feelings and needs - at the expense of everybody else. Damn! I was Mac to these women – re-victimizing them and treating them like shit. And for what? What would make me act the very way I say I despised? Like I said, that was some hard shit to deal with.

  Once I stopped being defensive and started to listen, I realized that I and these women had a hell of a lot more in common than we had differences. The assumptions I made about their backgrounds, upbringing and all those other things began to pale in comparison to the commonalities – how our significant others had isolated us from our families, how the abuse started verbally with name calling and demeaning comments with not a lick thrown and how we were so broken down mentally that by the time they physically hit us, we thought somehow we deserved it. We thought no matter how badly they had hurt us, we still were willing to take them back, to accept their pitiful ass apologies – if they even gave us one - and act like everything was just fine. Even though there were a lot of women in the shelter and in the group, every woman that shared their story had another thing in common – the shame; the shame and embarrassment of thinking they were the only one this was happening to and the shame that they were alone.

  Once I started to listen to what these women were saying for real, it was like hearing my story repeated in their lives almost verbatim. The way these men treated us was the same on so many levels, and the reasons why we stayed for so long making excuses and taking their bullshit was much the same, too. A lot of these women had reached out to family members, the system and the police. Nobody seemed willing or able to help. That made us feel even more dependent on the very men that beat the shit out of us. All that “I’m so different…I’m so much better than these women” bullshit went out the window. I didn’t have any choice but to face the ugly realities of my own fucked up situation. I had to come to grips with my own ugly – the lies I told myself and the excuses and exceptions I made for myself. I never cried so much in my life. As the physical bruises that Mac left on my body healed, some of the inner wounds began to heal, too. I’m still not all the way there yet. I am constantly on guard to keep my feelings in check. Just like an alcoholic trying to recover, I just take this shit one day at a time.

  I got to the place where I was comfortable enough with myself to strike out on my own. The ladies at the shelter helped me find my own place, get back in school to finish up my nursing degree and continue to get the help I needed to work on my issues. I’ve been in this apartment ever since.

  All that shit flashing back in my head, the fights with Mac and all the craziness I had to go through to get rid of his ass plagued my dreams that night. I woke up as tired as I was when I went to sleep. I blamed Percy for that nightmare. He and Zenobia reminded me so much of how Mac and I used to be. That kind of shit makes me sick to my stomach. I was one of the lucky ones and I know it. If something doesn’t change for Zenobia - if she doesn’t come to her senses real quick - she might not be so lucky…