by Sequaia
I hoped like hell Brittney was sleeping when I got home because I wasn’t in the mood to deal with her any further tonight.
14
Aúrea
I sat on the thin mattress of the bed made of metal in the women’s shelter I’d been in for two days. Never in a million years did I imagine myself sleeping in a place like this, but here I was. With my back against the wall, I looked around at all the women and children heading toward the cafeteria to eat. Luckily for me, I had already eaten and had enough money to feed myself whatever I wanted. I also had leftovers from the Chinese spot I stopped at before coming back in here. The two days I’d been here weren’t as horrible as I thought they would be. Oddly, I was okay with being here until I figured out my next move. Adrian wouldn’t think to look for me here, and if he did show up, he’d be arrested on the spot.
Saving Grace provided protection and shelter to women of domestic violence situations. They took their jobs seriously, and though they cared to help all women, they were only interested in housing women trying to get away from their violent men. The day I showed up here, they were ready to turn me away. I guess because my face wasn’t black and blue, I didn’t read “victim.” But when I presented the bruise Adrian left on my arm the day he grabbed me at the café and the bruise left on the left side of my back from one of his outbursts a little over a week ago, they proved I needed help. Then came his calling and threatening me via speakerphone, which I let the receptionist hear. That was the icing on the cake, and almost immediately, I was ushered inside and given a bed within thirty minutes of walking to the back.
That first day, I was impressed. The place was clean, there weren’t any funky smells, and despite there being a ton of beds in one room, it was spacious. They had a few individual rooms, the receptionist told me, which were reserved for women who had children under 1 year old. The area I was assigned to had four rows of beds, about ten in each row. The first two rows were all twin-sized metal bunk beds, and the last two rows were single twin beds. Everybody had a thin mattress and a dark green comforter with the Saving Grace logo, a simple S&G. Though the mattresses were thin enough to feel the bars coming through, the blankets were nice and thick. The far right of my bed area was the security window. It was huge and allowed a full view of the room, where two people were at all times keeping an eye on things.
When I found this place on Google, I didn’t expect any of this, not that the reviews were terrible or anything. It was the simple fact that I never expected to be in a shelter—period. When I got off work from the café, going home to Adrian and our apartment was the last thing on my mind because I knew there would be hell to pay. He was embarrassed when he left Ms. Jackie’s place. I disrespected him in front of a room full of people. Adrian was probably going to kick my ass within an inch of my life the moment I stepped through our front door, so I didn’t go there. I took my ass to a hotel. When I didn’t show up at the house within an hour of clocking out, he blew up my phone because he knew my schedule like the back of his hand.
Nijah told me he showed up at her house looking for me. His going to her place was the nail in the coffin for me. So I found myself asking Siri to search for things a woman could do to escape an abusive relationship. The things that were coming up during my search didn’t really fit me. Or I was too embarrassed to admit that they all fit me. Denial almost convinced me I could take one more ass whopping. Then, I thought about him sending me back to the club, and that did it. When my fingers scrolled upon Saving Grace, I knew it was a sign from God. So here I was.
As I observed the women in line, my eyes widened at the sight of Anna. She was beautiful and had been one of the girls I met through Adrian. It had been awhile since I’d seen her, and even though she was underweight, had matted hair, and a bruised cheek, she still looked the same. I didn’t plan to make myself known to her. We wouldn’t be playing catch up in this place because although I wasn’t sure what my next move was, I knew I wouldn’t be staying here long.
My phone chimed in my hand, alerting me I had a DM. Because Adrian’s petty ass shut my phone off, I could only connect through Wi-Fi and social media. I opened the IG app and read the message from Nijah, who was making sure I was okay. She didn’t know where I was because I didn’t want her to let it slip to anyone, especially Adrian if he continued to harass her. I doubted she would, but just in case. It was better to be safe than sorry. I replied, letting her know I was okay and promised to see her soon. She whined through the message. I know I couldn’t hear her, but I read the message in her voice, and it sounded like whining to me. Right now, at least.
After checking the rest of IG, I logged into my fake Facebook account. It had been a minute since I logged in. I was honestly surprised that I hadn’t forgotten the password. It was a page I made about a year after moving to L.A. I still had my personal page but was afraid of all the “Come home” and “Where are you?” messages I was sure to have, so I avoided logging into it. This page was because I was homesick. Well, Prentice sick, to be more specific, and the only way I could catch up with him was via social media.
I also added my foster mother and a couple of friends to be nosy. Well, I wanted to see if my foster mother, Patricia, cared that I was gone. And whether she even looked for me. Clarise Monroe was my fake name. Funny. It was also the name I claimed as my alter ego. The name I vowed to see in bright lights one day. No one knew the name, not even Prentice, so it worked perfectly. Anyway, I found an artsy photo from a webpage, and they all fell for it, accepting my request like it was nothing. Prentice barely logged on, and when I noticed he waited months on end to check his page or post, I stopped caring to login. Besides, the friends I thought I had stopped caring about me after the first year. Even Patricia, so I just forgot the page.
Until now.
I could only use my current situation as the reason I cared so much to check up on the people who had probably forgotten all about me. I’d been gone for five years. Surely, I was a distant memory.
I went to Prentice’s profile first, and my heart thumped heavily. He made a post a few days ago that simply said, “Blessed.” He hadn’t updated his profile picture in a while. I wondered why he was so blessed. What happened to him recently for him to post something after so long? My mind raced. The thought of a baby or a girlfriend entered my mind, and jealousy washed over me.
“Damn,” I mumbled. Selfishly, I hoped neither was the case as I went to check his relationship status. “Single.” I know it was probably fucked up, but the smile stretched across my face had my cheeks hurting. I knew relationships weren’t supposed to be solidified via a post, but unfortunately, we were living in a time where it was. It was working in my favor at the moment, so I was gonna ride the bandwagon . . . this one time. If I happened to check later and the status was changed, I would hop right off the wagon. I went through the few pictures he had up and admired the handsome man he’d become. Prentice was always fine, but now, he was very handsome. Moments like now, looking at his pictures made me miss him. I guess I never stopped. There were moments when I’d miss him to the point of it hurting.
I know I did the right thing leaving him, but it didn’t mean it felt good . . . especially for me to end up with someone like Adrian. The shit he’s done and does to me, Prentice would never do. I got too caught up in old feelings and started to feel like it was best to log off. Yet, something told me to check Patricia’s page.
Sorry for your loss. Reading the words, I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me as I read the many messages of condolences.
“Who the hell died?” I whispered while scrolling. My heart began to race again, and my palms started to sweat. I was a ball of nerves, and my eyes began to sting. I was getting emotional, and I didn’t even know who died yet.
Shutting my eyes tightly, I was trying to tell myself that it didn’t matter. I should leave well enough alone.
I just couldn’t.
I opened my eyes, and my ass went right back to scrolling. I final
ly found what I was looking for.
Patricia, my condolences to you and your family. I know it’s been a rough year, you being diagnosed and all, and now, Von. I pray you find strength and healing in your time of need.
I read the message. My foster mother had been diagnosed. And Von? What happened to Von? I opened the post to read the comments.
What happened? someone named Stephanie asked. Von was killed. It’s been all over the news. Just pray for Patricia.
Patrice wrote. She was Patricia’s sister, who hardly came around. Far as I knew, they barely got along. In the years I lived there, I could count on one hand the number of times I’d seen or interacted with Patrice.
Immediately, I logged out of the page. I hadn’t noticed I was crying until my tears made a puddle on my phone screen. I shook them off and wiped my eyes with the back of my hands. But they just kept falling. And there were a lot of them. They just wouldn’t stop. With my phone in my hand and my purse, I hurried to the bathroom. I rushed into the stall, sat down, pulled the bottom of my shirt up to gag my mouth as much as possible, and cried hard. The sounds were muffled because of my shirt, yet still discernible. If anyone came in or stood near the door, they would definitely hear me . . . and with my luck, the door opened.
I kept trying to pull myself together.
Kept trying to stop crying.
I just . . . couldn’t.
“Hey, are you okay in there? It’s Rebecca, the counselor,” she announced herself.
Rebecca was a nice woman. Right now, I was too embarrassed to face her. I’m sure she’d dealt with worse situations, but to tell her my emotions were on ten because the man who raped me consistently for years was killed just sounded crazy even to me.
“Aúrea, I know it’s you in there, sweetie. Please come out and talk to me.” Her tone was soft and inviting.
I nodded my head as if she could see me while sniffling. Slowly, I moved, unlocking the stall door, and when I came out, she placed her arm over my shoulder, leading me out of the bathroom and into her office.
“Are you afraid for your life?” she asked as soon as we were both seated.
I guess I was because it was more than likely lights out for me if Adrian got a hold of my ass. I couldn’t say yes because I didn’t want her to think that was why I was crying. So I shook my head.
“Okay, well, I had to ask in case I needed to make arrangements for your safety and all of our guests. Now that I know that, whenever you’re ready to talk, I’m right here.”
I wiped my eyes and took deep breaths to pull myself together. “Today, I found out my foster father died.”
“I’m sorry, Aúrea,” she said, and I saw the sincerity in her eyes.
“No,” I stopped her quickly. Von didn’t deserve her compassion, just like he didn’t deserve my tears.
My statement caught her off guard. Her facial expression showed it.
“I lived with him and his wife for five years, and as soon as I got comfortable, he started raping me. I had been there for about five months when it started.”
“I’m sorry, Aúrea.”
“It’s okay. I mean, it’s not, but I could’ve said something—told my caseworker, the authorities, or someone. They were the first family I felt comfortable with and were nice to me. Not the greatest, but compared to the places I lived prior, it was like I finally had a family. I knew if I said something, I would be moved and probably placed somewhere worse. So I kept my mouth shut. It wasn’t until the year before my eighteenth birthday that I told my boyfriend at the time. Then right before my birthday, I left and ended up here in L.A.”
I know she didn’t ask me all of that, but I swear, it felt good, amazing, even, to get all of that off my chest.
“You know what he did wasn’t your fault, right?”
“I do. And then again, I don’t. My not speaking up kept it going. I know I can’t control anyone but myself. So how isn’t it my fault if I didn’t take control to stop him?” Saying that out loud stung. I felt like I took a needle to the heart and started crying again. Well, my tears never stopped flowing, really, but the sobs had. They were back now.
“Aúrea, you can’t blame yourself. And if I have to remind you, repeatedly, it wasn’t your fault until you get it, I got all night.” She smiled. Not the most pleasant-looking smile because my tears distorted my vision. Still, it warmed my heart. “You being here isn’t your fault either.”
I nodded fast, trying to assure her and myself that she was right.
“Can I ask what knowing he’s dead is doing to you emotionally? Like, if you could put it into words, how would you describe what you’re feeling?”
I wiped my tears and gathered myself. I forced my shoulders to stop shaking and finally found my voice through the sobbing.
“Angry.”
“Understandable. Anything else?”
“I’m upset. I didn’t get to take my power back from him by beating his ass. I’m so sick of men taking advantage of me. Tired of being treated as an object.”
“You still have your power, Aúrea. And the parts you feel that you lost, you can get back.”
“How?” It was a serious question. I really wanted the answer. I needed the answer.
“Well, for one, you’re here. You got out of the abusive relationship you were in when you decided to step foot into this building. Has your foster father been buried already?”
“I don’t think so. No. I highly doubt it. The way I found out seems as if the news just spread. Why do you ask?”
“Because you can go back to your hometown to face him.”
“He’s dead, Rebecca, and I don’t want to go there.” I scrunched my face at her as if I could taste the bullshit she just fed me.
“You don’t want to go back, or are you afraid? If you’re afraid, you allow him to keep power over you. He doesn’t have to be alive for you to go give him a piece of your mind.”
“I-I . . .” My shoulders slouched in defeat because I didn’t know what to say. There wasn’t a comeback I could think of. Maybe she was right. Shit, she was right.
“Think about it. That may be the closure you need. In most cases, we don’t recommend women face their abusers, but yours is gone, and he can’t hurt you anymore unless you let him.”
“You’re right. I’m going to think about it. Thank you.” I stood, leaving her office with a lot on my mind. I was already homeless here. I’d absolutely be going back to nothing there. Here, I had nothing but clothes on my back that I purchased from the thrift store. Luckily for me, I left my most valuable items at Nijah’s house when I moved in with Adrian. So if I decided to go back for Von’s funeral, my valuables would be the least of my worries. Money and my clothes were few, so I would have to think of a way to sneak into Adrian’s apartment before leaving. I had every excuse why I couldn’t go when the reality was . . . Rebecca was right. I needed to go.
15
Prentice
It had only been a few days since the news spread about Von’s murder. The case opened and closed as quickly as the news spread. That wasn’t a surprise to me, though. Detectives weren’t getting any awards to solve cases of murdered Black men. For all they knew, Von died from a drug deal gone wrong. That’s usually how they noted the shit. Someone found him in a dumpster near one of the city’s known drug- and murder-infested areas. When his wife’s sister spoke on their family’s behalf on the news, she tried to make him sound like a good dude who took care of his home and wife. She claimed he never did drugs, but you know, if it looks like a duck . . . Seeing her on TV speaking that nigga’s praises made me laugh, then pissed me off all over again. If he were such a good man, how could he rape the same girl he was supposed to take care of for five years?
If Von were a good man, I’d take my chances with a fucked-up nigga any day. At least his wrongdoings would be expected. I whipped the corner in my Tesla, putting Von’s bitch ass out of my mind. Long as they had no suspects, I had no reason to dwell. I pulled into my mother’s d
riveway, cut off the engine, and sat there staring at the door. I wasn’t in the mood to be over here, but it had been a minute since I stopped by, and I felt terrible about it. More so because of my little sister Prima. She was only 3 years old, and she and I had a bond tighter than a mothafucka. When my mom told me she was pregnant with her, I was pissed.
I felt she was too old to be having another baby and shit, plus, I was already grown. Selfishly, I kept thinking if something happened to my mom, I’d be stuck raising a baby ’cause the daddy for sure wasn’t going to do it. Not that she purposely chose a deadbeat—’cause her ass did. Still, even if dude weren’t a deadbeat, my sibling would be coming with me—period. Luckily, though, Moms was doing her thing, and little sis was my world. I couldn’t imagine life without her.
I exited my car and strolled to the front door like I owned the block. I was lightweight feeling myself today. Dressed in dark blue Gucci jeans, a white, red, and gold Gucci tee, and a fresh pair of black-and-white Ones by the man Jordan, of course. Issey Miyake cologne, one four-carat diamond earring in my right ear, and my chain around my neck . . . All simple shit, but I was expensive and fresh. Not to mention the fresh cut I got yesterday. My waves were on swim.
I rang my mom’s doorbell, even though I had a key. She fussed at me, telling me it made no sense that I refused to use it, but it was a form of respect. Yes, this was my mom’s place. I even helped pay for it. I didn’t live with her anymore, and since I didn’t want her or anyone else just walking into my shit, I tried to give the same respect, not to sound messed up, because my mom had a key to my spot as well. I preferred her announcing herself before showing up unless it was an emergency. It only took one time for her to walk in on me having sex with some girl to establish that rule.
