Dysfunctional (The Root of Betrayal) Read online

  Dysfunctional (the root of betrayal)

  Dysfunctional (The root of betrayal)

  Tameka Hicks

  Tameka Hicks Copyright © Tameka Hicks

  Second Edition

  ISBN-13-978-1467936408

  ISBN-10-1467936408

  FROM THE DIARY OF TAMARA BROWN

  07/30/90

  Diary Entry

  Today, I turned fourteen-years old and instead of having a pool party with my peers, I had the luxury of having cake and ice cream with my family members like I was a kid again. You have got to be kidding me? First of all, how many people throw parties on a Monday? Jeanette (my biological mother) figured why go through all the trouble of waiting until the weekend; I only have two real friends—talk about a slap to the face. Who would dare tell their child such a thing? You guessed it: Jeanette.

  The family came over and half of them could have stayed home when you considered the gifts they brought. That kiddy party was a damn disaster from start to finish. That’s why I sat in the corner the entire time by myself. I didn’t blow out my candles, nor did I smile for the photos—for what? How could they have honestly expected me to be happy?

  When I opened the gifts, I frowned at what they had purchased. I kindly tossed those dollar store items back into their gift bags and retreated into my little corner. You should have seen the looks on their faces when I asked if anyone had brought the receipts with them.

  A few of my family members appeared angry, but not as frustrated as I was about this sorry excuse of a party. My grandmother was so mad at me, she had steam coming off her head, and I was furious too, so I guess we were even. She sat next to me, pinching me for my out-of-control behavior. I can honestly say that I have marks that will last a lifetime, especially when I dropped a bag of ceramic puppies my little cousin bought me.

  Oops, did I do that? It totally slipped out of my hands. I didn’t want that mess! I received a hard pinch for making her cry. Well, get over it already, she will be okay. What the hell can I do with ceramic puppies? Sit them on top of my dresser with my burnt dolls? I’m fourteen years old, not nine! And to add insult to injury; I requested barbecue ribs and did I get them? Hell no. I had to settle for boiled hot dogs, which I did not eat because my appetite was destroyed. There’s a big damn difference between the two.

  It was pretty safe to say that everyone left the party pissed at me. Well, I really don’t care what others think about me because they should have known better. If they were going to do something for me, do it right! Otherwise, don’t waste your time. As the old saying goes, come correct or don’t come at all.

  My grandma really knows me because she gave me money and you can never go wrong with monetary gifts. My Uncle Charles gave me a nice gift too—a bracelet—a real diamond bracelet. The “word” was that he had stolen it from someone—oh well, it’s mine now. Jeanette obviously went to the dollar store with the rest of the family because she purchased three diaries and wasted precious time wrapping them in a beautiful gift box. Did my entire family plan a trip to the dollar store to fetch my birthday gifts? It’s really funny when I reflect back on it.

  My initial reaction was to throw those damn books, hitting her upside the head, but she was too far, and grandma already had pinched my skin off my left arm and leg. Grandma convinced me that having a diary would be a good thing. She told me instead of always being angry and fighting people, to write my feelings down. “It can help relieve some steam, and might keep you from getting into so much trouble,” she said. I could really use these diaries then, because my ass is constantly in trouble. Majority of the time, it is totally not my fault. It’s the stupid people who pick with me and think they will get away with it. She also said that I should consider keeping track of the good times in the book, that way I could come back and read about it. (How often do I have good times? I can answer that quickly for you—never.) She advised me to hide it because Jeanette was surely going to read it. And assuming with the type of stuff that I’m going to write in here, I’d better hide it. Oh yes, it will definitely be hid very well.

  Oh diary, allow me to introduce myself; my name is Tamara Lasha Brown and I turned 14 years old today. I had previously lived with my grandma until I was twelve years old. Then my mother, Jeanette, fussed and complained until my grandma gave in, and I was forced to move in with her. And so to Jeanette’s house I (sadly) went.

  The only thing that probably saves me from killing someone is my love for music. It really helps me to escape most of my problems. I love music, especially Michael Jackson and Prince. I don’t like to socialize with people much because they can be as phony as a three-dollar bill. They pretend to care about you, and once you turn your back—STAB! Therefore, I don’t give them the opportunity to get at me.

  Yeah I might curse a lot, but that’s the only way I know how to get my point across. You will get used to it, trust me. I’ve been cursing like a sailor since I was seven months old (I’ve heard), so there’s no hope of rehabilitation right now. My first word was not mama or daddy, but “Hoe.” Well, that’s what I was told; I don’t believe them but who knows.

  Now, it’s time for me to find a good hiding spot and take a bath. I’m long overdue for some good music. The Best of George Benson is in order to relieve me from this stressful day. I will never allow them fools to throw me another party—never again—NEVER EVER AGAIN!!!

  Nia (my supposed to be friend) called me an ungrateful demon child, but she gets pool parties and nice gifts every year. She always has something to say about what I do.

  First Impressions

  Tamara stood five feet, seven inches tall. She weighed one hundred and twenty three pounds; light complexioned, with a slender face. She owned the prettiest set of hazel-green eyes that anyone could possess, with a cute, pointy nose and a stacked body, or so the boys at school remarked. She wasn’t built like most fourteen-year-old girls, no sir. Men often confused her for being at least eighteen years old. She was a very beautiful young lady on the outside; however, it was a little different on the inside because she was filled with so much animosity. She made The Scrooge appear to be a saint.

  The young men at school were intimidated by her looks and the rumors surrounding her. Few of them ever spoke because of her evil reputation and that was fine with her. She even preferred it that way. In the fifth grade, Jordan Johnson was dared to hit her on the butt after recess—big mistake. She chased him home, beating him up in front of his parents. After that incident, she didn’t have too many problems with the boys in her school.

  The girls however, didn’t take heed because they tested her patience by spreading rumors that she liked Jason McNeal, the boy who ate his boogers. She retaliated by sneaking into their lockers as they showered after gym class. She had stolen everyone’s clothes, placed them into a duffle bag, and hid it in the abandoned janitor’s closet.

  She quickly dressed and went back to homeroom class while the locker room got turned upside down with screaming girls and panicked teachers. They questioned why she was the only student whose clothes were still in the locker. She laughed teary-eyed in the office chair.

  “Whoever it was knew not to bother my damn clothes.” She sat there with her arms folded as the teacher fussed for another ten minutes.

  She whispered, “You know they say that I’m crazy? That’s not true though, besides, anyone could have done this because they constantly pick with each other. It’s such a shame that someone did that to those poor girls,” she shook her head. “But it wasn’t me, I swear to you. Cross my heart, hope to die, stick a needle in my eye,” she smirked. “Can I go back to class now?”

  “Yes, go ahead.”

  The Sc
hool Officials were unable to find the culprit responsible for the act, even though everyone had their suspicious. After that, no one messed with the crazy girl again, nor did they ever find their clothes. And that was three years ago.

  It’s the summer, and school is finally out and she planned on doing her usual, boring, yet fulfilling activities: watch movies, listen to the radio, stuff her face all day and clean up behind the nastiest people on Earth. You could not tell when she was present in the home because she would be in her room as quiet as a deaf mute in a library.

  Present

  07-31-1990 (Tuesday)

  Dear Diary,

  Every day after school I have to clean up behind these two grown people. I know I’m a teenager, and I have chores to do but damn! Am I supposed to be the only one doing stuff around here? Come on give me a break! I don’t think that’s how it works, but hey, what else can I do but raise hell? And it still doesn’t help. It’s the summertime, so I wake up to Jeanette giving me instructions on what to do before she heads off to work at five a.m.

  “Wash the dishes; mop the floors; clean the stove; clean out the fridge” and the list goes on.

  She cuts into my sleep every damn morning to tell me the same shit that I already know. Um, I did that yesterday, and the day before that right? Gosh, I received the memo.

  Damarcus (her boyfriend) doesn’t lift a finger to pick up anything, yet will use all ten of them to make the mess. He works my last nerve. Today, when I cleaned up the bathroom, I didn’t have enough cleaning supplies to do my chores and that pissed me off, but not as much as hearing him laugh at me. He found my outburst and throwing of the empty cans very funny.

  Fuck you, and that dirty horse that you rode in on! When I see Jeanette’s stupid ass, I’m going to curse her like it’s going out of style. I had to spend some of my birthday money for Ajax, so not only do I have to clean, but I have to buy the stuff. That’s just great! So if it’s not done by the time she gets home today, and I have to listen to her complain, I’m going to jail tonight. If she stops tagging behind old dust mop, then maybe she could get some work done around here.

  The broad (Jeanette) works two jobs while this bum sits around here scratching his dusty nuts. I’d rather live outside with grandma’s dog than with these fools. She doesn’t love me. She only wanted me here so I could take care of this house, and cook food for them. I’m her full-time, personal slave, but I’m becoming more than a maid to her boyfriend. I can personally say that I understand how Cinderella must’ve felt.

  He sits in “his” recliner (the one that my aunt bought) dogging out the television set and requesting beer-after-beer like I’m his waitress with the remote control in one hand and a body part of mine in the other. Being in this home really tests my patience. I have got to go and cook now—thanks for the release valve, diary. Quote for the day: “What doesn’t kill you will only make you stronger.” I don’t know who makes this shit up, but someone is going to get hurt around here before I get eighteen.

  Damarcus stood five feet nine, two hundred and thirty five pounds of solid muscle. He was dark complexioned with a goatee and a shiny bald, bumpy crystal-ball head. He took pride in his muscle bound frame, and he showed off his biceps every chance that he had. He wore shirts that were two sizes too small for him. It looked like the upper half of his body was going to explode. He always would find reasons to take his funny looking behind outside (especially when women were around) just to show off! He carried a bottle of baby oil in his back pocket; rubbing his arms before he would go outside was a sign that he was loony, not to mention self-centered.

  He was compulsively concerned with his outer image, but neglected his personal hygiene. When women were pointing and whispering, he thought they were compliments, but it was just the opposite. A little bit of soap and water never killed anyone. Old Spice and funk is a horrible combination.

  Tamara despised when his loud, obnoxious, dirty thug friends came over to the house to gamble. His friends messed with her because he did, and that made her irate. She became a hostage in her own home because of them. They found reasons to knock on her door: Hey, I need some tissue…

  Where’s the soap? They would not know how to correctly use soap, if you’d wet the towel with it and gave it to them, she thought. They will do anything to get me out of my room. Idiots.

  Last month, their fun and games came crashing down when Calvin, the alcoholic out of the bunch, hemmed Tamara against the wall, grabbing her crotch. His nuts and her left knee became acquainted that night. Immediately afterwards, his right shoulder was introduced to a dinner fork. She had tucked it away for a time like this in her back pocket. She knew she would have the chance to get one of them. She zoomed past the gang, heading to her bedroom for safety. She locked the door as she anxiously dialed her grandmother’s number.

  Calvin came from the hallway jumping up and down like a kangaroo.

  “Pull it out!”

  “Pull what out?” Brian asked.

  He turned around. “This damn fork! Now do you see it?”

  The men frowned. “Dayuum!” they said in unison.

  “I bet that killed your buzz?” Brain added, falling down with laughter. He asked, “What happened?”

  “Get it out!”

  They pulled on it, but could not remove the deeply lodged fork because he kept moving and screaming like a girl.

  “Man, you gone have to take your dumb ass to the doctor. I told you not to mess with that crazy ass girl,” Damarcus said in tears. “You never listen to me.”

  He thought to himself that this was the funniest sight that he had seen in a while, which didn’t last long before her grandma and uncles came through the back door turning the party out.

  Punches were thrown, eyes were blackened, lumps were formed and egos were bruised. The fighting ceased when the distant sound of police sirens was heard. Everyone began to scatter the way bugs did after the lights were turned on. Some fled through the front door while the others ran out the nearest door or window. A few people even hopped over the fence, causing Rocky, the neighbor’s Chihuahua, to chase after them.

  Diary Entry

  08-06-1990

  Today is Monday, and I hate that I had to come back to this house, but I didn’t have a choice in the matter. At first, I could stay at my grandma’s house for the whole summer vacation, but I heard Damarcus tell Jeanette that I was her child, and if she wanted me home that was her decision. What the hell ever, he needs to mind his own damn business.

  Today was like all the other days; cook, clean, and get harassed. I literally felt sick once I caught a glimpse on how messy the house was. What the heck were they doing in here? I was only gone for three days, and it looks like a tornado passed through here twice! I could slam Damarcus and Jeanette’s heads together, popping them off their damn bodies. NASTY!

  As I cleaned up today, he followed me around the house tugging on my clothes until the phone rang. He then gave his undivided attention to the mystery female caller, who called the house every morning around 10:30 a.m. I informed Jeanette about his suspicious ninety minute giggling and whispering phone session with this tramp, but she believed him over me. He told her some lame ass story saying that it was his cousin. Okay, you like it, I have to love it. She is blind to his flaws, so I promised myself that I was going to have to stop him alone.

  He had one of his girl cousins call and vouch for his lie, and like I said before, whatever—I can’t take it any longer. What are my plans for him? I have no idea, but I’m sure I will figure something out soon. But it will have to be our little secret. Write in you later.

  TODAY!

  Tamara shifted through the house cleaning up as fast as having only two arms allowed. Nia had taken the chance to let Tamara borrow her father’s favorite movie Godfather 3 on VHS before he returned home from work.

  “Please, have this back before three.”

  “I know.”

  Damarcus had shortened his conversation with the mystery c
ousin so he could continue pestering her.

  “Come here,” he said, drawing her closer to him. “Don’t push away from me.”

  “Move,” she yelled, as she pushed harder.

  She quickly washed out the iron skillet, placing it on the stove. She poured the vegetable oil into it. She snatched away from him and retrieved the purple lighter from the drawer.

  “Stop it, damn it!”

  With the tap being low (that it was barely lit), she seasoned the chicken. He smacked her across the rear end as she bent over to get a pot.

  “Don’t do that shit, stupid!” She tagged him in the back with the pot. She paused. “Did Jeanette just pull up? I think I just heard the car, listen.”

  “Nah, don’t even try it,” he pulled her closer to him. “Come here, baby.”

  What in the heck am I going to do? She contemplated on what to do so hard that she felt an instant migraine. If my heart beats any faster and harder, it’s going to explode, she figured.

  He whispered in her ear, but she wasn’t concentrating on his words because her nose burned from the God-awful smell of his breath. He didn’t need nose clippers and she knew why.

  She mustered all the strength available to get through this ordeal.

  Kill me now lord, she thought.

  He kissed and sucked on her neck (like a vampire) intensely, as she rolled her eyes to the ceiling wishing it to be over. Now what am I going to do? She wondered inside.

  “Are you going to force me to have sex with you again?”

  “Don’t try and bat those eyes at me,” he explained. “You know you want this again,” he laughed.

  She dry heaved at the thought. Relax, and don’t throw up girl. Play his little game with him, she concluded. She started kissing him back, as she unfastened the buttons on his shirt.