Scars on My Black

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Ma [Kevin]

Man!

I have forgot how fucking hot it is here. I looked over at Petra who is sweating profusely beside me as we walk through my old neighborhood. Serves her right for wearing knee high boots in the Floridian man’s sun. She should of known better anyway! Don’t rich bitches like her be vacationing in places like bora-bora, Fiji or some other exotic place.

“Kevin are you alright?", Nikkei grilled for the fourth time since we have arrived in Florida, “You barely talked on the plane."

Jeremy swung his arm around my shoulders and gave a hearty laugh, “Kevin just pissed he got to see his mom again."

“Fuck off”, I replied but my voice lost its usual malice.

The corners Jeremy’s mouth fell for a blink. “Isn’t that Mr. Diaz’s sandwich shop.“, he smiled pointing toward the small corner building next to the Macy’s.

Wooden planks from shipping pallets mixed with sheet wood nailed together by Mr. Diaz’s own hands one hot summer day. I was barely five when he let me help paint the outer walls that rich red which has faded away to a dull hue. Iron burglar bars stripped of paint covered the windows and a door pulled to the side because Mr. Diaz was always too cheap to get it fix.

Finally paying attention I notice other landmarks of my past. The dried-up fountain near the pet pound where me and Jeremy would run around with our little made in Argentina toys. Ms. Maggie’s dog chasing me down the street every time I woke it up trying to steal her lemons. The fresh sea air when I sneak down to the beach on a Saturday morning every time I hear the gospel music playing.

My eyes sadly land on a place which brings me no fond memories. The only memories I feel sends spikes through my heart and down my back. Sends my bleeding-heart oozing ounces of black tarred sorrow to rake my burning throat terribly.

A small quaint home snuggled between two other homes stood out in the squeeze. From the barred windows and screen door. To the shaky porch steps waiting for its next victim.

My feet were cinderblocks with ever tug of my legs up. The creaking wood sound growing ever more threatening. I let out a short breath before giving a quick knock. Shuffling could be heard inside along with some chatter before the door opened with a creek.

“Why the hell you are banging on my door like it fucking drum.” My mom drawled and my brain tossed itself down the stairs.

She was not ugly by any means. How do you think I got my good looks? Permed black hair done up with a hair clamp on the top of her head. Almond skin marked with aged wrinkles by her mouth and eyes. Downturned chestnut eyes narrowed, and full lips pulled tight in a scowl.

“Hey Ma.“.

She scans me up and down before casting her eyes back at the fruit bowl shaped clock I knew that hung near the doorway.

“Your five minutes late.“, she boomed. A wily smile coming to her lips.

She cannot be real. I dragged my ass to your house and this how you want it to be.

“Ma you got to be fu-”

“Finish it. I dare your black ass to finish that sentence.” She promised.

My mouth shuts automatically like a safe. Jeremy decides it is a good time to jump in before the slipper starts coming off.

“Good evening Ms. Falcon.“, He smiled and I could hear Nikkei giggle softly in the background.

A soft gasp echoes from her mouth. She instantly fixed her yellow sunflower dress and a smile comes to her lips.

“Why hello Jeremiah I didn’t notice you there.” She swooned.

“It’s Jeremy ma’am ” Jeremy corrected.

“Whatever, please come in come in.” She rushed grabbing Jeremy by the hand dragging him through the door.

Nikkei was in the back bursting at the seams with laughter while Petra looked at him with a questioning look pulling him inside.

It was just how I remember it. The smell of some sort of fish attacks my nose. She always cooks fish in the most disgusting way possible. If it wasn’t fish, she wasn’t cooking shit until some holiday. She use to make me do all the cooking. Nuggets, microwave meals and spaghetti were the main courses of my life. I think that’s why I can’t stomach anymore nuggets.

“So Jeremiah, is this beautiful girl your girlfriend.” My mom questioned motioning between Jeremy and Petra - her ugly side eye looked me and Nikkei up and down.

Jeremy gave a nervous chuckle. “No Ms. Falcon, Petra is not my girlfriend, Nikkei is my boyfriend.“.

Lord in heaven I wish I had a Polaroid camera with me. So, I could take the picture of my jaw dropped mother and wave it in her face.

“Oh, I never knew you chose that lifestyle. It’s so unexpected of a person of your nature.” She tried.

“You mean Indian.” He countered.

“Why yes. Isn’t it banned?“.

Jeremy stiffened slightly but chuckled. “Ms. Falcon is it a bother that I have a boyfriend.“.

“No! No! No... just questioning.” She frizzled getting up from her floral covered armchair.

It was my turn to die from laughter in the background. The way I see the annoyed vein by her temple twitched as she moved across the room. He hard slippers clapping against the tiles as she shuffled away into the kitchen.

“The room upstairs are prepared, pick what you like except the one near the bathroom. That for Everest when she comes tomorrow.“.

Going up these stairs were like going up a hill in a thunderstorm. Everything dragging me back down and through the door. I knew it would be hard seeing her again but the way she acts like nothing changed it just stabbed me. She knows the main reason why I refuse come here yet she drags me down here. For what? I pass a hand down my neck at the never fading scar that traces down me. I want to scream just thinking back on it.

When we arrived at the room I instantly took my old room. In this whole house, my room was my safe space. The times I would rush up here to hide, to cry, are limitless. I’m lucky she didn’t touch anything. My dresser and walls lined with countless awards and recognitions. Most of them for my brother and sister. The only thing she allowed me to have on my walls. ‘To push me to do better’, she would say. More like taunt.

“Your mother seems colorful.” Petra said resting her suitcase on the bed.

“If colorful means a bitch I’m all for it.” I replied looking back through the old books underneath the bedside table. I knew I stored some of her weed in them.

“How do you know it’s not just your rotten attitude that causes her to be that way.“.

“It always my fault in this world isn’t it? I always deserve it.” My voice falling, clamping the third book closed.

“Maybe you do.“, she remarked, “Heading to the bathroom.“, she says leaving the room.

What does she know anyway? She knows nothing. Not a damn thing about me or my mother. If she knew , she would not be so brave to say, "It’s MY fucking fault!”. I slammed the book I was looking through onto the floor. Behold the glorious dime bag that spilled from its pages. As I snatched the bag from the floor my eyes catch something interesting.

It corners were tinged brown with age. There, on the paper, was an image of a man. A man that send anger to my mind and hatred in my soul. The wicked smirk that plays on his face as he looks down at a bundle of blankets. How dare he smile! How dare he try to look happy. To look satisfied with the outcome. With two children prior, the odds of a mistake is higher than ever. He should of known! Yet, looks innocent. I crumbled the paper with my disgust.

“Puta Madre.”

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