A Place Beside the King, Page 3

  “Why do you listen to them? Why do you let them control you?”

  He avoided eye contact and briefly looked across the room at Bee. She stared back and quickly turned. In that brief second, I was able to understand exactly how he came to be here.

  I remember the conversation she and I had about the children she bore. She never explained what happened to them. But there, I knew. He, both black and white carried in him, the same features as her.

  Bee was his mother and one of those men was his father. He was birthed into that hell and I wasn’t sure if he even knew it.

  “Please don’t do this,” I begged.

  He paused a moment and pulled his hands from between my legs, and instead placed them onto my face and rubbed gently. I looked back at him. Something about his eyes struck me. Handsome like the hero I always dreamed of.

  He moved closer to me. His eyes, focused on mine. His lips puckered in the most seductive way. I closed my eyes. I could feel his breath slip across on my lips. I was ready for him.

  “Take me away from here,” I whispered.

  But he didn’t. Instead, he slid his hands over my mouth and he entered me with those soft hands. Along came the pain and wretched cries.

  His face changed, and his pretty blue eyes turned mystic black. And that welcoming smile that lay within a mouth of grace became a sneer coupled with salty words.

  Again came the darkness. In and out, like a flickering bulb. I tried to stop him with all my might. But his will was stronger than mine.

  There was this thing I did when I was sad or in some type of trouble. It usually helped lighten the mood for me when I was down. I imagined the world as my stage. The stars as the lights that gleamed upon only me, and God as the camera that chronicled my every move.

  There was no name to this story, but it ended the same way every time—in tragedy. Because the world slowly burned.

  There were a slew of characters. But they never really understood me from the beginning. And In every chapter, they told tales of my faults until they became legends, and they condemned me with distorted words from scripture, telling the world of how much different I was from them. So the world protested and exiled me to place that no man could ever return from.

  But alone, I became closer Him as they grew further away in their own self-righteousness. He kept me company and provided shelter to me in His own arms. So when the world ended, I had a place to hide.

  In the end, it was my difference that saved me from the oncoming fire. I thought about that story as he ravaged me. I just wasn’t sure why it wasn’t saving me then.

  Day Three

  The third day was more horrid that the two before. A demon was brewing inside of me. My stomach erupted once more. Throughout the night, I coughed up things from inside of me that I did not know was there.

  I was covered in my own waste, the smell as potent and harsh as one can imagine.

  Bee prayed. After all those years, she’d still kept her faith. I’m not sure if she’s still there now. Most likely she is. Either way, to believe when everything else says to falter, is in its own right, the word of God.

  Morning came, and door to the room opened like clockwork. This time it was all three. Their bodies were cloaked in camouflage. Early morning hunting left them bushed. But I had become a part of the routine.

  Toward my bed they came, slow. They noticed the stench and the chunky yellow residue that covered my mouth and chest.

  “She’s sick,” the young boy commented.

  “Yeah, we can see that,” one of the men said.

  They called a fourth person into the room. It was the same old man who stood on the porch when we first arrived at the house. They all seemed to gravitate toward him, like he was their leader.

  “What’s the problem?” he asked calmly.

  “Something’s wrong with her.”

  He walked past the men and stepped closer to my bed. “You alright, darling?”

  “She’s a fucking junkie is what it is,” one of the men added.

  “Where did you find her?” He turned back toward the other men.

  “Five Points.”

  “What the hell did I tell you about going there?”

  “Yeah, but the little bitch is hot, isn’t she?”

  The old man scoffed and turned back toward me. “Is there anything you wanna share with me? You got Ebola or something?”

  My body was weakened. My soul beaten to its last limb. I turned to him and replied only with truth. “I’m not sure what I have.”

  He slightly smirked and turned back toward the other men. “Get rid of her by morning. Make sure no one ever finds her.”

  The men affirmed with a simple nod. They all looked at the young boy.

  “You think you can handle this?” one asked.

  His face was scared and puzzled. He wasn’t made like them. No matter how hard he tried to be. Though the men urged him on until he relented.

  “That’s my boy.” One patted him on his shoulder.

  The men walked from the room, leaving the boy behind. He looked at me. And I at him. Again he looked over to Bee. Though her head was again turned, as it usually was. He stared for a moment.

  “Do you know who she is?” I asked.

  “What?” He turned back to me.

  “Do you know her…Bee?”

  He looked over to her again. She fidgeted under her blanket. She wasn’t sleep. She only pretended to be.

  He walked toward the door and paused at the seal. He looked back at me once more. “Get some rest and enjoy today, ‘cause tomorrow belongs to God.”

  The Morning

  The morning came, just like it did on the first three days. But that familiar twist of the knob came a long way before the sun rose.

  “Try not to cry,” Bee said. “There’s no point to it.”

  She was right. But I couldn’t stop them tears from crawling down my face. Soon there was a stream of them.

  “At least you leaving here before me,” she said.

  Her words did nothing to settle me. I turned to her, filled with grief and sorrow. Not understanding why she left so many things unsaid.

  “Why don’t you tell him, Bee?”

  “Tell who?”

  “Why don’t you tell that boy the truth…that the men he’s working for, kidnapped you and did this to you. Why don’t you tell him that he’s your son?”

  “Annie, there’s things you will never understand.”

  “Really? Explain them to me.”

  “There’s no time for that.”

  “There is. Why don’t you just tell him?”

  “I cannot.”

  “You can!”

  “I cannot!”

  “Why? He has a right to know!”

  “Because.”

  “Because what?!”

  “Because they— They are my family.”

  “Your wha—”

  The door flung open in this disgusting silence. It was time. The boy stood at the door, ominously holding a long piece of rope and a machete.

  He lunged toward me. He cut the rope on the bed then retied me with the new one, placing my hands behind my back and my legs together so I couldn’t move. On my mouth, he wrapped this silver colored tape until I could no longer move my lips.

  I lay still on that cold floor. Eyes closed, praying God would somehow manage to speak his words into him. I just wanted to hear Him say that I wasn’t worthless. I wanted to hear Him say that I was somebody. And that someone, somewhere out there, thought I was worth something. I had to know that before he killed me. I’m not sure why.

  He dragged me from that room, all the way outside through the mud like a lassoed boar. The surface of my skin cracked the second it rubbed on those charcoal-colored stones.

  He jammed me into the trunk of a car. I remember waiting quietly in the darkness as the car tumbled down this bumpy road for what seemed like a century, banging my head back and forth the entire drive.

  Eventually
there was light as the trunk opened. The spark of the moon cascaded across his beady eyes and for a moment I thought I saw horns protruding from the sides of his skull.

  He pulled me out and laid me next to what looked like my very own grave. He reached into the back seat of the car and pulled out that machete. I noticed dried, crusty blood on its tip. Probably from some poor soul who came before me.

  He grabbed my hair and placed my neck over the hole. He positioned the machete right underneath the line of my jaw. I remember him hesitating for a moment. I guess he’d never killed anyone before. He hands shook more than mine.

  “You know I have to do this,” he said. “You know I have to, right?” He was seeking something from me that I couldn’t give him, reasoning for his own horridness. I just looked away.

  He grabbed my head and erupted in a flurry of tears. “There’s no other way. I can’t just let you go! You know that!”

  Again, I paid him no mind. I refused to even look at him.

  He removed the duct tape from around my mouth. “Say something! Tell me you understand.” He placed his hand around my neck and choked me. “Say it! Say it now!”

  But I refused, tucking my bottom lip underneath the top.

  This prompted him to choke me harder and harder. “Say it, bitch! Say it now!”

  And there, under duress, with no place to run, I uttered the words he wanted. “I-I… I understa—”

  But there, before I could finish, my stomach erupted once more. From my mouth, I released everything inside of me once again. He jumped back as quickly as he could. The machete fumbled in his hands. He attempted to catch it before it fell, until he slipped and fell along with it, into the very grave he made for me.

  All I heard next was him choking as if he was drowning in his own blood. I imagined he had fallen on top of that machete, and there it pierced through him. He was gone. And I just sat there, bound and naked.

  The next few days were a blur, as time seemed to jump forward in a flash. I don’t remember how I even escaped the ropes. I don’t even remember passing out, or even if I actually passed out. All I know is that I woke up in a hospital bed just like this one.

  After the doctor came in, he told me news that created my child’s name. He said that I was pregnant. That little girl saved my life. It was her the whole time, guiding me back out of hell.

  “Did you go to the police?” asked Susan.

  “I did. But I don’t think they believed my story much, or even if they really cared. I guess a hooker gets what she deserves on the streets of Dallas. I don’t even think they looked for that boy’s body.”

  “I’m so sorry, Annie. I’m so sorry.”

  “Me too,” she said.

  Susan grabbed hold of Annalisa’s hand. “The fire has passed now,” she said.

  Annalisa shut her eyes and exhaled, quietly shaking her head in affirmation. “I hope so. I pray it has.”

  Together, they sat for the next few days, exchanging old stories of both good times and bad. Past triumphs and pain allowed them to bond there. For each tear brought them closer than the hour before as they understood that even though they were worlds apart, they were not much different.

  Chapter Four

  The sound of a telephone swung through the halls, bouncing from one room to the next. Annalisa hurried down the steps as fast as she could. She wasn’t as mobile as she once was. Two months had passed and her belly protruded even further from her shirt. Every day it seemed bigger than the next.

  She was expecting a call. She had spent the last few weeks looking for a job. Ever since, she became excited at every ring.

  She ran past Susan. “I got it! I got!”

  Susan smirked as she sat quietly on the sofa, reading the newspaper.

  Annalisa reached for the phone. “Hello?”

  The house became silent for moment. Susan watched from the other room. Annalisa’s giddy smile faded as quickly as it came.

  “Is everything alright?” asked Susan.

  Annalisa hung up the phone and just stood there. Susan rose from the couch and walked toward her. “Who was that on the phone?”

  “It was the state’s attorney.”

  “The state attorney? What did they want?”

  “It’s about Sweetz. His trial starts next month.”

  Susan opened her arms. “Oh honey… Come here.”

  Annalisa plunged into her chest, laying her teary eyes onto her shirt. “I don’t think I can do this. I can’t face him,” she said.

  “You can, sweetie. You can.”

  “But I can’t do it alone. I’ll break.”

  “You won’t have to,” replied Susan. “I’ll be right there with you. So will Thomas and so will God.”

  Officer McCoy walked through the front door. He had been dropping in from work throughout the day the past few weeks just to make sure things were okay. “What’s going on?”

  Susan explained everything.

  “It’ll be an open and shut case,” Thomas replied. “He’s going away for a very long time and he knows it.”

  “She doesn’t want to see him again. Does she really have to testify?”

  “Yes, she does. She was the only witness to this. Without her, we have nothing.”

  Susan helped Annalisa to the sofa, while calming her with dear words. Officer McCoy took a seat as well, across from her. And so does Susan.

  “You have to be strong,” said McCoy. “You’ve got to find the strength somehow.”

  “How can I? Have you ever lost a child, sir?” She uttered this with gross contempt, unknowing of their history.

  McCoy looked at Susan. She sat, her face staring at the photos beside her. McCoy turned to Annalisa with this glaring stare.

  “I know what you’re going through,” said McCoy. “Right now, you’re feeling sick to your stomach. There’s a great feeling like something is missing. You know what it is, but you never say it. You blame yourself and God. Maybe you could’ve done a little bit more. You wake up every day, praying that it’s one bad dream. But it ain’t! Your hands are rarely ever steady. You think bad thoughts throughout the day. And even the few happy moments you do have, are drowned out by the memories of him. I know exactly what you going through.”

  Annalisa noticed how photos of a young girl blanket the wall of their home just like photos of her son do in her home. “Oh my. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”

  “No—no,” said McCoy. “It’s okay. It’s okay. “

  Susan looked away in a quiet uproar. Her face, wet from tears.

  “What’s her name?”

  “Joy. Her name was Joy.”

  Annalisa rose from sofa and walked toward the fireplace. There, a large picture hung of the young girl that says, Live through us, my angel. Forever and ever

  “How did you manage to heal?”

  “We haven’t,” said McCoy. “And…I’m not sure we ever will.”

  Chapter Five

  The date was November 3, 2013. The prosecutor sat on the right side of the room, the defendant on the left. Annalisa, along with Susan and McCoy, were on the first bench behind the state’s attorney along with a few curious onlookers that sat on that side as well.

  But on the defendant’s side there was no one. It was just him, Sweetz, seemingly nervous, dressed in a dark blue suit that appeared to be two sizes too big and a young public defender who sat next to him by the name of Bobby Melotti. He seemed overwhelmed as he rummaged through a slush of papers.

  The judge instructed the jury of fairness and privacy. “No one shall talk about the intricacies of the case outside of the courtroom,” he said.

  The jury waited patiently. Nine women and three men, all white. The prosecutor told Annalisa days before that the makeup of the jury was in their favor.

  “These women, many of them mothers, will identify with your story,” he said. “No one can truly imagine what it’s like to lose a child. But there isn’t one mother alive that hasn’t feared it.”

  “Do
es the state care to make an opening statement at this time?” asked the judge.

  The prosecutor rose to his feet, buttoning his suit coat as he stood. “We would, your honor.”

  “You may proceed.”

  The prosecutor walked toward the jury, standing directly in front of them. “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen of the jury. We come here today under the most gravest of circumstances. The life of a child has been lost. Five-year-old Malcolm Deloney. I have his picture here, so you can see that describing his beautiful smile just doesn’t do him justice.”

  He showed an enlarged picture of the boy to the jury. His face, outshined by his big Kool-Aid grin. Behind the prosecutor’s chair, Annalisa covered her eyes, refusing to look at the photo.

  Simonsky continued. “On the night of August 3rd, this beautiful child, sat quietly watching cartoons on the living room floor just like any other day. Just like all children do—mine and yours. He was excited from news he heard days before. His first day of school was slowly approaching. He already had his uniform out even though school didn’t start for another three weeks. He tried his outfit on every day, asking his mother the same old questions. ‘How do I look?’ And she responded with the same old answer. ‘You look like a prince.’

  “But no one ever told Malcolm that he would never get to experience that day. No one ever told him he would have his head bashed into the walls of his own home. A place where he was supposed to be safe. And that the same man who helped give him life, helped take it away.”

  Simonsky turned in the direction of the defendant and points. “That man sits before you today. Darious Carter, AKA Sweetz, a two-time convicted felon and drug addict. A pimp and drug pusher, who uses heroin as a tool to trap young girls like Annalisa. Ladies and gentleman, do not be fooled by the defense attempts to make Mr. Carter seem less threatening. His vicious reputation precedes him.

  “As a matter of fact, over the last five years, he has repeatedly beaten and abused the mother of his child, Annalisa Deloney. Twenty-two times. That’s the number of times Annalisa has entered the hospital for injuries brought upon her at the hands of Mr. Carter. Twenty-two times, ladies and gentlemen. Twenty-two times.

  “Now, I won’t make this trial completely about Mr. Carter, because I truly don’t think he’s worthy of it. But what I will tell you is about a boy. A boy who did nothing but live. Who did nothing but be a child. Who did nothing but come to aid his own mother, while Mr. Carter viciously beat and raped her. And in the end, it cost him his life.