Little Black Girl Runaway

Some years after my mother’s divorce she found a new friend. His name was Luther. He came in like a knight in shining armor, somewhat, since all we had to go off was a father who had a constant disappearing act. Luther had several children of his own, I never really knew how many. His daughter in the beginning was all that my sister and I wanted in an older sibling. She was fun and interesting. She always talked to us and allowed us to eat ice cream in her bed. She was beautiful, red bone they called it at the time. Light skinned with beautiful eyes. I wanted to be like her. She seemed strong to me and appeared to live well. Her dad, my mom’s boyfriend always ran a tight ship. Everything seemed to be in order. Nearly militant they responded with yes sir, no sir commands. We had never experienced that in our childhood accept with the crazy baby sitter we had name Big Momma. She always wore a night gown that was safety pinned together. I found out later she was Luther’s relative and the one responsible for them getting together. My mom was different with him, a lot more docile and controlled. He was always very controlling of everything in his environment, and when he couldn’t control it he brought it into captivity. He had to know her every move. The first time he hit her was no surprise. It became a regular occurrence, even though she thought she hid it well from us we knew. My mother was very protective of us to the point of obsession but not enough to save herself from the heart ache, pain and abuse. Desperate for love she fell for the first man who showed an interest even though his reputation proceeded him. He had a reputation for captivating the naive and innocent then consuming their life with his own agenda. He had many women biding for his affection. Women that had the worst intentions for my mother including one of her friends. Life with him was full of extreme ups and downs, then just spiraling down into an abyss. He gained much ground when he started sleeping at our house. She was at his beckon call. Her every moved was watched. This caused her to be more and more harsh with us. She seemed to show us less and less affection. There was nowhere to go and feel safe. My father had chosen his new family over us and world war three began. Mom had fits of rage that would rival any crazy person, bouts of crying and seclusion into her bedroom. She put a locks on her door to make sure we couldn’t enter, of course after some time learned to pick all her locks. I remember going into her room and it was like another world, candles burning and statues of the saints all about her dresser. I saw her as strange and unusual and emotionally unstable. Not sure what her candles are for but they aren’t helping, I told myself. Nightly walking the floor praying in strange tongue, none of which changed our life or circumstances. It was her who needed Saving. We simply needed rescuing from the abuse streaming from the broken heart she carried. As time went on the abuse became more intense, it was no longer just physical, it became verbal and emotional. Especially toward my sister and I. We were each others safety net. We use to sit across from one another after beatings at times and examine each others marks. My other used all types of devices to inflict punishment. From belts to extension cords, which hurt the worse. I remember getting beat s badly one time that I was left bleeding from my arms and thighs. Despite the beatings I still managed to find love for her. I think I felt sorry for her in a way because I knew it was her heart that was causing the problems. I tried my best to be the best at everything I did. It only caused me to become more and more angry, at times taking it out on my younger brother because she treated him differently than us all. He was the chosen one, the one she chose to pour all her love into. I hated him at times because he was spared from all the abuse. He was son birthed from her abusive relationship with Luther. Yes he managed to impregnate her with a seed, trapping her in his grasp. This child could do no wrong. This forced my sister to leave our childhood behind, we were forced to change diapers at the tender ages of 4 and 6. As time went by I planned multiple ways of escape. Initially I just wanted to kill her, and yes, I plotted time and time again to no avail. On one occasion, I remember having a friend over on those rare occasions when she allowed it. At that time I had only one friend, her name was Stephanie, she lived around the block from me in a similar family environment. I loved her dearly, her and her entire family and they loved me. I didn’t notice til years later that her environment was not any better than mine. I was in another world when I visited her at home, even though it was just a block over. I could eat all I wanted and run around like a normal child. We were even allowed outside unsupervised, it was heaven compared to home. I was never allowed outside, my sister and I had to watch kids playing and having fun from the windows. I realize now that my mother had no idea and was always afraid and lived constantly in fear of the worst-case scenarios. That way of living was so damaging to my psyche. Anyway that day in particular Stephanie was visiting me and we made the mistake of playing indoors and she fell on my mothers glass table and shattered, well I knew I was dead. So I came up with a diabolical plan to set a trap for my mother that would end in her death and my ultimate freedom. Of course at that age premeditation means nothing in the span of your thinking. I started calculating what she was going to do to me step by step, from the time she entered the house. I planted weapons in several places around the house because I knew I was going to be running for my life. The final blow would take place in my bedroom where most beatings ended because I was a professional runner, I laugh no thinking of times when I literally ran for my life. At the end of this plot was a butchers knife that would use to kill her. My sister watched in disbelief of what I was doing, but she never once tried to stop me. I think secretly she wanted me to kill her, since she took the brunt of mental and emotional abuse from our mother. I always spoke up and out while she had no voice. My sister was very quiet at that time in our lives, a storm brewing. That night when my mother returned home from work I was waiting and ready. I even put on clothes that would help me move better. As she entered the house in her usual manner no one spoke of what had happened until she took her purse of and shoes. I then got into position and spilled the beans, but the most amazing thing happened. She told me to get in the car and when drove around the block to Stephanie’s house and she knocked frantically on the door. “is she ok?”, my mother asked. Shock and awe came over me. She did react the way I imagined at all. She was caring and genuine. We stayed and talked with them for a bit then we went home and my mother proceeded to her room as usual and locked the door. We never spoke of the incident, I unhid my trap and life proceeded on as normal, at least our version of normal.