Dysfunctional (The Root of Betrayal) Read online

  “Don’t peek,” she whispered. She didn’t know if she wanted to run to her room, out of the door, or jump out of the window.

  “I’m going to undress for you, keep them closed,” she nervously looked around.

  He smiled. “Undress for daddy.”

  The grease on the stove started to pop lightly. She continued to talk to him, but was still confused on what to do next. She yelled from within, I got it!

  She screamed. “Open your eyes now!”

  As his eyes opened, she tossed the skillet with the hot grease in it directly on him. Running up the stairs like a bolt of lightning hit under her feet, she bumped into the living room chair, causing her to lose speed. He had expected some hot, slippery sex, and to his surprise, he met a full skillet of hot, slippery grease. Both were hot and wet, but I couldn’t fathom he would have liked the latter one instead.

  From afar, she heard the skillet as it hit the floor, and he yelled out in agony. His eyes had popped out of their sockets, at least that’s what the glimpse that she caught looked like before she disappeared. He screamed this high, eerie cry (that probably contacted a few aliens in another galaxy) as the grease soaked through his skin.

  Muscles can be penetrated too. She told herself as she chuckled.

  He charged after her like she was a football player; with a minute to go, his team was down by four points with five yards to go, and he had possession of the ball, and she was the end zone. Fumble! Tamara wins.

  “You fucking bitch,” he yelled. “I’m going to kill you!”

  She made it to her room within arm’s reach of him. The closer she made it to her room, the further it seemed to be. He missed her by a nanosecond. He regretted that he ran after her once the pain kicked in.

  “Oh my God!” he yelled. He looked down at his muscular arms yelling through the hallway. “My skin is blistering up!” He kicked the door.

  “Open up the door. I’m not mad at you baby,” he said in a guileful manner.

  She lay across her bed laughing hysterically at him, as he yelled on the other side of her door.

  “Get off of my door boy,” she cackled.

  She thought back to the way he looked as she kissed him, as opposed to the way he looked as she tossed the grease. What a difference?

  “Woo, that was a close call,” she said playfully, holding onto her stomach crying from laughter of course.

  “Damarcus, are you okay? Are you hot for me, daddy? Do you have some new tricks to show me, huh?”

  Damarcus kicked the door hard, as an attempt to get into the room. He uncontrollably pulled on the door handle looking like The Incredible Hulk, but instead of being green, he was pink and brown from the burns.

  Okay, enough with the jokes, she thought. “Before he kicks my damn door down,” she mumbled, as she picked up the phone to call her grandmother to come rescue her.

  “Hello, put grandma on the phone.”

  GOT’CHA

  Damarcus’ legs felt like they weighed a thousand pounds as he walked downstairs.

  “I’m going to kill that little tramp!”

  He carefully rolled up his sleeves and inspected his arms because they were stinging terribly. He noticed blood and pus seeping through his shirt.

  “What the fuck?”

  He stopped at the bottom of the staircase and took stock of the damage that was done to his burned body.

  “Look at my chest?” he mumbled. He looked surprised as he examined the rest of his body. “Aw man, look at my chest!”

  He wondered. What am I going to tell Jeanette once she gets home? Most importantly, will my chest look the same after I heal?

  He stood in the middle of the floor shocked at how quickly the events unfolded. He always knew that she was unstable, but he never imagined her going to this extreme. He took baby steps towards the sofa, as he attempted to sit down, but not realizing that the pain was going to be too much to bear.

  “Fuck!” he yelled out.

  “Funny, how things change? I recall a certain someone was laughing at me earlier.”

  The street was filled with smoke from William and Jay burning rubber like fools en route to Jeanette’s house. All you heard was the sound of William’s car backfiring from time to time as they rode down Dickerson Street in complete silence. The ride to the house was a brief, but humid trip because his car windows could not roll down. Uncle William claimed that it was because the fuse had blown. If that’s the problem, Tamara wondered, then why not just replace it? I know the real answer—it’s just raggedy.

  They were mad, and now uncontrollably miserable from the summer heat, making matters worse. They boiled on the inside as well as the outside. Barbara sat hunched down in the seat counting the trees as he drove past. She tried to relax and keep her mind off the heat and Damarcus, but it didn’t work. Once they arrived around the corner from the house, Barbara hopped out of the car before William had a chance to park it.

  “Will you hide that bat please?” William asked. “You can’t walk down the street with that thing out in the open like that Barb!” he laughed.

  She guiltily glanced up and down the block to make sure that no one had seen her going into the trunk to retrieve William’s leather jacket.

  What is she doing? Jay wondered, as he watched his sister tuck the bat underneath the jacket.

  “Come on, let’s go,” she commanded. “We are wasting time.” Barbara made them aware of this fact as they walked down the street looking like a group of Wild West Outlaws. All they needed were matching cowboy hats, boots, and guns.

  Barbara was mildly surprised to discover that no one was outside, and that was a good sign, however unusual for a summer night. “Where is everyone at?”

  Barbara stood five foot-two (the shortest in the pack) with long silky, jet-black hair (that currently was in a ponytail) with a round, apple shaped face. Nothing about her vibe made you feel threatened, but baby—she turned into a beast when you messed with her children. She said it was something that lurked deep within her, but came out when there was a need. Being the oldest sibling of ten, you almost had to develop that protective trait. You simply had to.

  Damarcus made a conscious effort not to let his legs rub because it sent chills up his spine. He carefully removed his pinkish, pus and bloodstained shirt tossing it onto the floor. He pressed his lips together to avoid making wimpy sounds. He didn’t know what to do because even though he didn’t feel like standing, he was sure as hell not going to sit down. His body felt like it had been burned alive, which it actually had with grease so he decided to clean the wounds to see how bad they really were.

  He walked with his legs spread apart looking like the boogeyman and headed to the bathroom cabinet. He took hold of the pile of Tamara’s favorite towels from the cabinet and the jar of Vaseline, which his mother swore was the cure-all for any type of wound…gunshots, stab wounds, you name it…use Vaseline.

  I fell off my bike, and there’s a big hole in my arm, clean it and use Vaseline. I smashed my hand in the car, and I think it’s broken—get some ice, and bring the Vaseline. Sure enough, he picked up the phone, and asked his mother what was good for burns, and you guessed it, she said butter and Vaseline.

  “Just making sure ma,” he giggled a little.

  “Who’s hurt Marcus?

  “Brian burned his hand while cooking chicken,” he lied.

  “Oh yeah,” she said matter-of-factly. “Tell him to run cold water on his hand, spread the butter on the burn first, and then put the Vaseline on it. What was he doing trying to cook?”

  “I don’t know, ma. I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

  “I love you son,” she said to him.

  He forced a smile and replied, “Same here ma.”

  The longer he stared into the mirror, the more he became upset. He pictured his boys teasing him for what he had allowed Tamara to do to him. It wasn’t that long ago that he stood in his kitchen laughing at Calvin with the fork stuck into his shoulder. Calvin would h
ave pissed his pants from laughter if he had known Damarcus’ current predicament.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I now would like to bring to the stage our very own, ‘Third-Degree-Burn-Victim!’” The crowd goes wild. “Here’s Damarcus!”

  He cautiously cleaned the burns with a cold towel, as many as he could handle without literally crying. Forty percent of his left side, from his head to his feet, had been burned and was now full of blisters.

  ‘You better go to the doctor,’ he envisioned his friend Donald laughing at him saying. ‘I can’t believe you and Calvin let that little bitch do that to y’all.’

  He said, “You got my friends laughing at me.” Damarcus imagined going upstairs, breaking down her door and strangling her until her hazel eyes bulged out of their sockets. He heard the front door open, and he thought, ‘There’s Jeanette, what am I going to tell her? I’ll figure something out.’

  The door slammed. He said, as he walked toward the living room, “Hey, guess what Tamara did? Baby, she—”

  William asked, “No baby, what did she do?” He swung the bat, knocking him unconscious.

  “What’s going on?” he asked after he had regained consciousness. “What happened?”

  His head throbbed, his vision was blurred, and his wrists were hurting because the rope was tied extra tight behind the chair. Barbara awakened him by splashing ice-cold water from the fridge on him.

  “Get yo ass up!” Charles yelled, smacking him in the face. His girlfriend’s family stood in a circle like a cult, taking turns smashing his already sore, burned body.

  08/10/90 Friday

  Dear Diary,

  I feel so retarded writing underneath the covers with a flashlight like my door doesn’t lock. Wait a minute, while I get up and lock it. I’m back at my grandmother’s house where I want to be. The ride from my house to grandma’s house required five point six extended miles and thirty extra minutes. I tossed the keys down from my bedroom’s window so they could come and get me, but they were more interested in getting Damarcus. My grandmother wanted me to go out to my uncle’s car and wait until they were done, but I wasn’t going to miss out on a two-year plan as it unfolded. I’ll explain it to you.

  I never liked Damarcus from the moment that I laid eyes on him; once he moved in, the plotting began. I told Jeanette about him touching on me (I was lying at the time, but he soon did start) and like always she believed him. I knew with a little inspiration (me wearing booty shorts and tight baby doll shirts), he would have fallen victim. Sleeping with him was the worst thing that I had to endure for revenge, so I would either give in, or he probably would have taken it. I purposely left behind condom packages in her dresser so she could see them. He would say, “It wasn’t me, ask Tamara. Maybe she was in here with someone.” I went as far as leaving my panties underneath her side of the bed for her to notice, and nothing was said from her. “He’s raping me, I would say to her," and she replied. “Why are you trying so hard to break us up?” I could break her in half. Maybe, he wasn’t raping me but he sure was knocking boots with me from time and time.

  Anyway, I peeped around the corner as they (Lexis, Lynette, Grandma, and her three brothers) “literally” beat the crap out of him. They tied him to our dining room chair as they questioned him, striking him with every stupid response. He made the mistake of trying to fight back as he attempted to ram his head into Uncle Charles’ stomach, but Charles dodged his attempt and Burn Victim’s head was introduced to the thick glass table. Damarcus slumped to the floor.

  “Oh, this dumb ass ni**a den killed himself,” Charles laughed.

  Everyone stood there looking crazy because they had no plans of discarding a dead body. Barbara checked for a pulse, and there wasn’t one. “Oh shit,” she thought and replied. They cleaned up the house so they wouldn’t leave any evidence behind. Without being seen, they removed his body from the house. Jay wrapped his body up in carpet and plastic, drove the truck to the door and (Will and Charles) carried him out, playing it off like they had installed carpet in the house. Good thing he owned a carpet business because the truck came in handy. Their actions didn’t look too suspicious.

  It took over three hours to get everything situated before they took him to his final resting place. They made us (Lynette, Alexis, and I) wear our shirts over our faces so we couldn’t see where they were taking him, not knowing that I could see right through my T-shirt. I just wanted to be nosey and see where they were taking him and we ended up at Northeastern High School.

  The school had burned some years back, and so they carried him in, and left him there to rot. It was a deserted part of the city; no homes were in the area (it was the perfect place.) I could tell that my grandmother didn’t feel good about what had happened, but my uncles could care less. They didn’t like him from the way he beat on Jeanette some years back. I knew that my grandma would come and get me from that hell hole. I know that I will probably have to go back with Jeanette, but at least he won’t be here. If my daddy isn’t there with me, no man will be living in the house with us. I’m “father-less” so she will be “man-less” until I’m grown. She wants me here so she must deal with my atrocious ways. This was retaliation because she didn’t believe me; she didn’t put her blood first. I thought that blood was thicker than water, but I guess Jeanette didn’t get that memo. Let’s see how she’s going to act since her beloved king is gone.

  Diary Entry 3

  08/12/90 (Sunday)

  Dear Diary,

  This entry today will cover a lot of information that I’ve learned over the time spent at my grandmother’s house. You know when you were little and when older people started talking about juicy stuff. You either have to go outside and play, or go into another part of the house that was far, far away from them. Grown folks' business is what they call it. I’ve heard some horror stories of what happened to kids who didn’t move when they said so. Those caught lingering around with their ears pinned back got tobacco spat into their faces, or pinched until the white meat on their arms showed—abuse, I call it. After we got to my grandmother’s house from dropping Damarcus off that night, we sat at the table talking. Not about what had happened because we made a vow to never discuss what happened EVER again to ANYONE, not even amongst each other. This was the first time that I could sit in on “The Grown Folks Session,” I felt like a member of a secret society. Now, I must admit, I would have probably received tobacco in my face, and my arms might’ve been permanently white because eavesdropping should have been my middle name. I know a lot of what’s going on around here but there’s a lot that I didn’t know either, and that day, I learned so much more. Black History Month came early for me this year. I never understood who picked February, the shortest month of the year—what a slap in the face. I was getting my lesson, and I wasn’t learning about the same old people; Martin Luther King, Rosa Parks, Sojourner Truth and Malcolm X—not bashing them in anyway, but in class, it was a repeat of the same people. I knew each of their lives probably better than their children. I always did research on different people for my projects. The purpose of this month was to learn new, exciting things about Black People. I would have my teacher’s undivided attention in History class. As I would recite my essays, she would tell me, “That was very interesting. I never knew Charles Drew invented that!”

  “I guess not, because you didn't care. I know that I write so many different things to you from time to time.” I hope that I have explained myself well enough so that you don’t get lost, and I know it can be confusing. I have so many weird family members and we, as a family, go through a lot of challenging issues, and I’m not to blame for all of them (well, maybe a few.) And if I can take this time to explain a little about some of them, you won’t be so lost later. This would be like a history lesson of my family. You can look back to this page, as a reference guide if you don’t know whom it is that I’m referring to. Breaking news bits about my family are as frequent as tornadoes in Kansas. It might be boring like class, but li
ke I have learned, everything, even those that might be dreadful to listen to, may have a purpose. Here goes nothing.

  Barbara Ann Jones, my grandmother, raised me from birth to twelve years of age. She’s sweet as pie, but like pies, they are appealing to the eye, and can be nice and tasty to some. But if kept in the oven, they can get nasty if you make them, and I love her dearly.

  Rumor has it that she was a piece of work when raising her children, along with my grandfather, William Earl Brown. They created four children out of this twenty-five year marriage: my mother Jeanette; my Aunt Diane who’s the family’s bookworm and activist of everything; my Aunt Alexis (my sworn enemy, whom I believe was born to be a thorn in my side); and finally Auntie Nette who acts like a baby (she plays games all day and never does what she is told. She never takes anything seriously, everything is humorous, and I could knock her big head off).

  My grandfather died two years ago from a heart attack, and that sent a shockwave throughout the entire family. My grandfather had eight siblings, and they each had at least five children. We need two Belle Isle sized parks for them alone. I don’t even know half of their names, so I can’t write about something that I don’t know. Sorry. My grandmother has eight siblings, but I know this side all too well: Jason, the second oldest died when he was thirty from a car accident and left behind his two children Javon and Gavin for grandma to care for. The boys’ mother died from an overdose. Charles was the third oldest, and con-artist of the century.

  Next there’s William, (granddaddy’s twin) who attempts to be on the straight and narrow, but gets drawn into bullshit because of his family. Jay, the ghetto businessman who loves to boast on his job and his many dames (who thinks that because his name is on the side of a truck, and that he has professional looking business cards, that he can get any woman to just drop their panties. He’s “The Man.” Oh please! He sells and installs carpets for a living, for crying out loud). Her sisters are: Ann, who has five kids of her own—too many to name, Louise, the Wicked Witch of the East, (no explanation necessary) with four of the most horrendous acting kids that ever walked this earth; Max (who’s never around the family, she does her own thing); and baby sister Sandy, who teaches at Ferry Elementary School.