Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 109178 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 546(@200wpm)___ 437(@250wpm)___ 364(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109178 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 546(@200wpm)___ 437(@250wpm)___ 364(@300wpm)
“Nelson was an oops baby.” Nadia smiled sadly. “At least that is what he calls himself. He acts fine about it, you know, and Nelson’s life is good, but I think deep down it disturbs him that he doesn’t know who his father is. Mama tried to fill in the gap. All she said was that his father went away and she couldn’t find him. We both believed her. I imagine she’d let him if he wanted to be active in his life.”
“Baby, I believe yo’ mama, too. JoAnn is many things, but she never lied a lot. Everyone tells a tale now and again, but I can’t say my child was big on makin’ up stories. Nelson may have been an oops baby, but she loves him just the same.” Nana blinked slowly and sipped her coffee, her gaze fixed on that tree.
So that’s how JoAnn became JoAnn… She moved in silence. Her feelings stayed close to her heart, after it was broken. First, by a father who was using her existence to enslave a whole living soul: Nana. That’s the curse. Souls trapped by pain. And rain.
That’s the kiss of spiritual death. It’s not the fists that land on your gut. The open hand that cracks you across the face. It’s not the curse words, and damnations. It’s not the emotional and psychological abuse within itself that tears you completely down. It’s not the retraction of love. It’s the fear of becoming a victim once again, of losing yourself. Fear of trusting someone who then turns around and stomps on your innocence. Perhaps it was a grinning delivery man who offered you a cherry lollipop in the hallway of your apartment building, then slipped his dirty, calloused hand up your skirt and made you promise not to tell? Maybe it was the father who never wrapped his arms around you, unless it was to subdue you for a spanking that was more for his own needs than yours?
The family curse is a venomous beverage. It’s a jinx drink, a dark spell punch, a strong, bright red brew spiked from the juices of foul fruit and fermenting fear. Many are forced to drink it, and it burns on the way down. It’s served like communion, with a death wish and a half-hearted prayer representing the body of Christ.
The curse falls upon those that are not watered in the garden, their dry roots twisting around them, strangling who they were truly meant to be, and who God intended them to become. The curse blocks blessings. The curse is knowing that you’re in pain, but pretending you are not. The curse is pride and prejudice. The curse is staying in a bad situation because it’s all you’ve known, or you’re afraid to be alone, with your angels and your demons. The curse is saying yes, when the correct answer is no. The curse is getting in bed with old scars, picking at them to make them bleed all over you once again, and bathing in the blood of the past. Never allowing yourself to move on, grow, and heal for the future. The curse is covering emotional ache with acts of physical violence.
It’s lashing out at an invisible demon that won’t turn you loose. The curse is hiding behind toned, glitter-covered limbs and painted mouths under the electrifying glare of seductive, spinning lights, obscured behind a fortress of lust, so that the saving grace of love won’t find you…
The curse is a liar and a thief, masquerading as a truth-teller and a giver to the world. The curse is created from our own unjustified hatred of ourselves and others who resemble our suffering and failures. The curse thrives on torment and anguish. The curse is not the blood that flows from between a woman’s legs, but that which flows from that woman’s heart. Because the heart is open and free, until the first trauma erupts. It’s a venomous vine that pushes out of thick concrete and destroys all hope in its wake. It creates desperation and a skewed reality, and yet, it is protected by its victims at all costs, even while we watch it sink all of our hopes and dreams like quicksand…
The curse is a disease of the soul. Shame of it all, is that we don’t even know that deep inside of us, we’ve always had the cure…
Perhaps the bird in the tree wouldn’t mind your malodorous fungus, dented sides, and putrid, sweet flesh as you rot from the inside out, filling the air? Maybe she’d serve worms from your decaying soil to her babies after all, and then you dying within won’t be in vain? Or maybe you’ll sip orange juice at night with your Nana, or coffee in the morning time, and smile inside and out because you’ve looked the curse in the eye, refused to drink another drop of that fucking Kool-Aid it serves and finally stood up to it and said, “WE ARE DONE. NO MORE. I WON’T DRINK FROM YOU, EAT FROM YOU, TAKE FROM YOU, OR GIVE TO YOU. I AM TAKING MY LIFE BACK…YOU ARE DISMISSED!”