The Darkest Gray

THE DARKEST GRAY

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

V Lyric Parker began her writing career as a performance poet and rapper in the 90s. She appeared at various venues and on local radio stations in her native Atlanta, GA, immediately becoming an audience favorite. In 2001, she self-published an earlier version of The Darkest Gray under the title Who Has Lived My Life. She hopes to serve as an inspiration to others battling depression and to those who’ve survived childhood sexual abuse. The eldest of three siblings born to a single mother, the thirty-something author still resides in her hometown with son, Torrey, and daughter, Ciara. To learn more about the author, visit http://vlyricparker.com

THE DARKEST GRAY

V LYRIC PARKER

BELLETRISTIC PRESS

New York

Belletristic Press, LLC

31-64 21st Street, Suite 190

Long Island City, New York 11106

www.belletristicpress.com

PUBLISHER’S NOTE

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2009 by V Lyric Parker

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. Without limiting the rights of the copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book; except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Belletristic Press colophon and design

are trademarks of Belletristic Press, LLC

First BELLETRISTIC PRESS Trade Paper Edition 2009

Printed in the United States of America

Library of Congress Control Number: 2009922378

ISBN 978-0-9796594-6-1

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

cover design by Saience

DEDICATION

This book is dedicated to the loves of my life: my soldier, Torrey, and my princess, Ciara. Mommy has endured the struggles so that you two may struggle less.

In loving memory of Aunt Ninnie

ACKNOWLEDGMENT

Special thanks and gratitude to God for giving me life and the gift of creativity, my mom for bringing me into this world, my grandmother for remaining unbiased and rooted in the word of God, and Cliff for delivering God’s message.

Much appreciation to Octavia Robinson, Janice, The Hapeville Post Office, Katrina Green, the staff at Anderson Park Elementary, Val Wright-King, Taronda, Ebony, and Melindie Parker, Melinda and Celeste at Dendera, Cassandra Dawson, Sandra and Shirley Parker, Linda Parker, Deborah Mamon, Sylvia Pitts, Natasha Acosta, Edward Griffin, Connie Pope, Gloria Mitchell, Elizabeth White, Ann Driver, Sue Cho, Johnny Mapp, Larry and Ken at McNealey Printing, my doctors: Williams, Gardner, and Messler, and all my supporters at Frederick Douglass High School in Atlanta. Many of you gave me the inspiration I needed to get started. Although most of you are no longer around, I miss you and I am forever grateful for your support.

To the person who first encouraged me to use utilize my talents, Kevin Archie; to my dear friends: Christopher Davis, you were my inspiration, and to Sai Roberts, you kept me motivated. Thanks to John Wilkerson and Gayle Dannel for always having my back. Special thanks goes out to each of you for staying strong in your love and support of me in making my dream a reality, and making the realities of everyday life a little easier. You were definitely my support system.

I would like to acknowledge Candi Cross for originally editing my work, so I could submit it and make this all possible through my wonderful publisher Belletristic Press. Special thanks to Kelley Robinson for posing for my book cover. If I forgot anyone, please charge it to my head and not my heart.

Thanks to friends who inspired me to succeed—and foes who gave me the reason that I must succeed. Last, but certainly not least, to the person who now owns a copy of this book, thank you, thank you, thank you for your support!

1

It took years of denial and emotional suppression to understand why I could not get along with my mother. After all, little girls always want to be like their moms. Utopias of elegant style and class are visions of little princesses worldwide, but not mine. Even as I lined pretend utensils on cold, hard ivory tiles that held up her two-inch Candies pumps, I was actually a mature version of myself; the eldest child of a single parent with two kids no one else claimed. We already depended on other family members to help with school clothes and Christmas and now, another baby wiggled into the picture. My brother was just plum delighted, but he was only four and thought Mom had a doll. Finally, he’ll be big brother. I, on the other hand, three years his senior, looked at this little wrinkled bald-headed baby everyone said was a girl, as a threat. With yet another mouth to feed, Christmas Day looked incredibly somber.

We spent three days at our aunt’s. Because she was blind and didn’t work, she volunteered to take care of us. My mom spoke with us on the phone and said we had a sister. Until she walked through the door with the small bundle, I didn’t realize she was serious. I ran to the door like a lovesick puppy to greet its provider, its master. See, up until then, I still worshiped my mother.

Hey, she whispered. Shh, she motioned to my brother with her index finger to her lips. He was even more excited than me. You’ll scare the baby.

Hey, I greeted the tall dark man behind her. I had met my sister’s daddy, and knew this man was not him.

Hi, he answered warmly. I’m your momma’s friend, Nate.

We gathered at the kitchen table while my aunt questioned my mom about her ordeal during childbirth. She even felt the baby; tried to get an idea of what she looked like.

Ooh! She is bald-headed, she gasped, giggling as she felt my little sister squirm from her foreign touches.

My brother pulled a chair alongside my mother, and sat close enough to smell the formula on the baby’s breath.

Sit back some, Chris. You can’t breathe on huh. She’ll git sick, Mom cautioned.

I rolled my eyes, not enthused by the special attention she already received. Mom didn’t seem the least bit interested in knowing how things went these past few days with Play Momma. (That’s what everyone called my aunt because she had no kids of her own). She didn’t even seem interested in knowing how much I missed her.

I walked into the living room pouting while the fiesta carried on in the kitchen. Occasionally, I glimpsed out the corner of my eye to see what the baby did whenever she made a strange noise. Once I looked over and caught my mother’s boyfriend’s attention. He noticed I was more than a little crabby.

He smiled and quickly said, I’m thirsty. Anyone want a drink?

In the South, a drink meant a soda. My mom and aunt declined in harmony, but my brother and I accepted. Since Play Momma seldom let us drink soda because she was convinced it would mess up our kidneys, we were more than willing to take him up on the offer.

Squirt, why don’t you go and get Nate a drink? Mom suggested.

My mother’s boyfriend at the time had named me Squirt when I was just a few days old. He said I was short and round like a squirt or a drop of water.

Great! I thought, now I can get out of here and away from all this madness.

I wanna grape! shouted my brother, who startled the new baby enough to make her cry.

Shh! Mom said angrily. I told you to be quiet.

Well, what kind of drink you want, Squirt? Nate asked, singing my nickname as if to tease me.

I don’t know. What kind you want?

I asked you first, he replied.

I asked you second, I smirked.

We both laughed, and I was thrilled to see the attention on me; even if it came from a complete stranger.

I’ll have whatever you have, then, he said with a settled grin, as if he won the game.

We decided on Sprite. I turned up my nose, taking the change from him. He turned up his nose to mock me. I could only laugh, then, as I walked to the door stirring the four shiny quarters in my hand like marbles.

When I reached the door, forgetting what Mom said about silence, I screamed, Ima git a earnge!

Nate further patronized my childishness, without regard to my mom’s caution, by screaming back, I wanna orange, too.

I let out a big laugh, and skipped down the hill to the corner store.

We took the baby home and Mom reminded my brother over and over that night that her name was Denise and not baby. But you can call her Dillie, she added.

I don’t remember much about what went on in the house around me. Everything seemed fine. Weeks went by, I had a new friend.

I got the attention I wanted, and felt I deserved. After all, I was mainly the one who took care of my little brother. My mom busied herself with men and work; having another child stopped her from neither. She began working again soon after she returned home from the hospital. But as always, she had trouble finding a babysitter. It wasn’t hard getting someone to keep little Dillie. Her father’s side of the family delighted in keeping her overnight. My brother and I were not family to them, and either they never offered or Mom never asked. I guess Nate must have been a real loser because he never worked or left our house even. So he agreed to babysit us day after day.

Wanna play old maid? I asked. Nate never turned me down.

We played old maid for about an hour while my brother played with his garage and car set. Eventually, we both grew tired of the card game, and I went in my room to find other things to play with. I searched my toy box for a coloring book. I had only five crayons, but felt that would be enough to make some pretty pictures.

How ‘bout we play something else? Nate asked standing in the doorway. I was startled to see him in my room. He had never come to my room, or any grown-ups for that matter.

All right, what? I asked timidly.

House, he said.

I looked over at Chris asleep on the floor. We had always played house together. I would pretend to have plates and cups and, lining them up on the floor, I’d pretend to prepare Chris’ dinner. He would come home from work, and I would be dressed in my mother’s robe with a towel on my head to make like I had long hair. We would have a baby, which was my Holly Hobbie or the Baby Alive doll I held most the time. We would then eat and talk and he would leave for work again.

It ain’t a lot of fun, I grimaced.

It is—my way, Nate said. I’ll show you.

House started just as it did when Chris and I played it. It became boring as usual then Nate suggested he take over, directing the rest of the script. He said that he wanted to show me how to play Momma and Daddy, but I had to go in my mother’s bedroom with him. I really wanted to learn a new game. The games my brother and I played had grown monotonous a long time ago. School, Grocery Store, we even owned our own business from time to time. Chris was no fun because he had to be told everything: where to sit, what to do, and even what to say. Nate was different. He was a grown-up. He could teach me some things I didn’t know, some new games.

Why we hafta go in my momma’s room? I asked.

Because that’s what mommas and daddies do, don’t they? Nate said.

When I thought about it, he was right. Almost every man who entered our house eventually ended up in Mother’s room. And so I followed him there.

Once inside the bedroom, Nate closed the door. I was a little scared because I didn’t feel comfortable closed up and alone with him. My heart pounded from both fear and excitement, as I was eager to find out what my momma did with the men she brought in her bedroom.

My brother might wake up, I said, attempting to get out of doing something that didn’t feel right. I have never done this, I thought, went inside a room with an adult and closed the door. Even when only Mom was home, I’d close the door only when I changed clothes. My mom would burst through any closed door when I played with my brother or friends. She said we were up to something if we were being secretive. Mostly, she was right.

Sometimes, Chris and I would close the door to jump on the bed like acrobats. Once she even caught my brother playing with matches behind closed doors. For some reason, I didn’t think this grown man wanted to jump up and down on the bed with me. And I knew an adult wouldn’t encourage me to play with matches, at least that’s what we were taught in school. Still, I did what I was told. Not just because he was old enough to be my father, but mostly because I didn’t want to disappoint my new friend. I’d never met an adult who even wanted to be my friend and play with me.

He won’t wake up, Nate assured me.

He started his game with smooth talking and gentle touches. He whispered how pretty I was, brushing his fingertips along my arm. The touches felt nice and I relaxed. He said he liked me from the first time he saw me. You remember when your mom came home from the hospital?

Yes, I answered with a smile, remembering how only he paid attention to me.

He kept saying nice things to me, things I never heard another human being say. Suddenly, Nate pulled up my shirt. I caught his hand.

I, I don’t know, I started again. But he put a finger over my mouth.

Am I hurting you? he asked.

I shook my head.

Well, trust me, he said, You’ll like this game. I promise I won’t hurt cha. It’ll feel good.

So, I trusted him … my friend.

He laid me on the bed and kissed me like the grown-ups I’d seen on television. Then he took off my pants and underclothes, then his own. I remember feeling and hearing my heart beat with such force I thought it would explode.

How old are you? he asked.

Seven. I had to think about my age because I just had my seventh birthday.

He said I had a big pussy. That felt wrong. He flicked my hand away each time I tried to stop him. I felt afraid of what he might do if I didn’t follow through. So I lay there trembling. He kept saying, Trust me. When he mounted me, he said, I love you. No one had ever said those words to me.

He loves me? I thought. I kept saying to myself, calm down, don’t be scared, he loves you and he’ll never hurt you. I closed my eyes and tried to be a brave little girl for him because I believed he loved me. What came next would change the course of my life.

He opened my legs and, as his body weighed heavily on mine, I felt a pain between my thighs that I never felt in my life. I gasped and screamed in sheer agony. I pushed him with such force, he jumped up and looked at me shocked. I sobbed uncontrollably.

I’m sorry, he said nervously.

Even after he jumped up, I never looked at his penis. I once overheard some of the older kids in my building talking about penises. I wanted to see a real one. It would be something if I could tell them I’d seen a real penis. But what happened in my momma’s room that day wasn’t worth bragging about. I was ashamed—and afraid—to even look him in his face. I feared seeing a monster rather than my friend.

I din mean to hurt you, Squirt, he said, reaching out for me. In an instant, I snatched away from his grasp.

That was no Momma and Daddy, I thought. That hurt. And if men were hurting my mother like that, then why did she take so many to her bedroom? That was not House. He hurt me! And as I pulled on my clothes and wept, I thought of how much I now hated him. Nate could no longer be my friend because he lied and he hurt me.

My sobbing and Nate’s apologizing must have disturbed my brother’s sleep because he now knocked on the door and called my name. I walked to open the door, knowing Nate wouldn’t dare show me more of his twisted games in my little brother’s presence. I needed Chris’ protection at that point.

Nate jumped to the door before I did and said in a desperate, frightened voice, Listen! You can’t tell nobody what happened tonight. Don’t tell nobody we played house.

Why not? I asked, regaining some sense of control. Despite Nate insisting that he hadn’t done anything wrong to me, his eyes, big and stunned beneath his sweaty forehead, told a different tale.

Because, he stammered, you’ll get in trouble. And if your momma finds out, she won’t love you no more, you understand? He sounded certain of this.

I didn’t need anyone to tell me what happened was bad. But to hear him say that my mom, who I felt barely loved me in the first place, would love me even less if she found out, was enough to make me dry my tears and agree to never breathe a word about that night to another living soul. I nodded and reached for the doorknob.

After that horrible experience, my childhood ended. The place that Nate touched felt funny now. He never again offered to watch us while Mom worked. Occasionally, he’d stop by, and I avoided him like cold spinach.

Mom noticed the big changes in me. For instance, I didn’t want to play with my friends anymore. In fact, I never left the house except for school. I isolated myself in my room, and kept the door closed. I had a secret now, and I felt the more people saw me, the greater the chances of someone uncovering my secret.

A babysitter named Sheila watched us. She was nineteen, and my mom had some problems with her in the past. Sheila said Mom owed her money, but Mom didn’t seem to think so. After her plans to have Nate house-sit fell through, she paid Sheila the extra money and once again, I was somewhat safe, though I was never safe from myself.

Sleepwalking and nightmares shadowed nearly every night now. Soon, my behavior revealed more about that night. We visited my Aunt Nannie. She informed my mom that I appeared to be walking funny. Suddenly, I was off to the free clinic.

I don’t know what Mom told the doctor, but he said he was just giving me an examination. For some reason, I was positive they wouldn’t find out what happened to me. They’ll never guess, I thought. They’re too stupid, but how I wished they would.

I lay on the table naked, covered only by a cloth gown with the Berenstein Bears printed on it, as the doctor examined me. I realized they must have known something, for I couldn’t recall an exam quite like that.

After the exam, I was certain they would learn my secret. The doctor left then reappeared minutes later and asked Mom to step out the room with him. I lay there looking up at the white ceiling, heart pounding like it was about to burst right out my chest.

When my mom returned, her eyes were watery and anxiety masked her face. She knew for sure. I stared in her face for some sign of anger, but saw none. I was relieved but, at the same time, disheartened. It seemed she was not angry at all, just upset. Her eyes did not meet mine. Just then, someone tapped on the door. Before anyone could answer, a stout, dark-skinned lady with gray and black hair entered. She held a few items in her latex glove-covered hands. She wore a frown that seemed stuck on her face with cheap fuchsia makeup. Even as she talked, her expression stayed the same. She looked like a mean clown.

Okay, sweetie, I’m going to have to give you some medicine in this needle.

A shot? I asked, looking at the syringe in her hand then at Mom.

Be good now, Squirt. It’ll be over in a second, Mom whispered.

She choked up between words and tears flowed from her eyes, but she never looked in my face. I lay over the table like the lady with the frown asked me, and she stuck the needle in my butt cheek. It hurt, but I did not cry out loud; yet I couldn’t control my teardrops.

I didn’t understand why I had to get a shot for playing house with a grown man. I thought that was my punishment for being bad. I told my brother when I got home that I got a shot. When Mom overheard me tell him, she became angry.

Don’t chu ever tell anyone else that again. You could have died! she screamed. Do you understand?

I nodded like I understood but, really, I understood little about what happened to me—or whose fault it was. All I knew was what happened to me greatly upset the one person I wanted to love and accept me. Keeping her pain in mind, I made it a point to never mention it ever again.

2

A couple times after my initial examination, I returned to the clinic. I talked to a lady name Mrs. Barnswell. I remember her name because she told me to just think of a barn with horses and cows and I would remember her name. Mom and Auntie Nell laughed out loud. I only smiled as the lady tried desperately at every turn to get me to tell her things. She told me stories of her brothers bursting in the bathroom while she took a bath, and asked me if anyone had ever done that to me. She was so animated, acting out scenes and holding her arms up to her chest with shock on her face. In the movies, she would have won an Academy Award but with me, she couldn’t even get an honorable mention.

I repeated no over and over.

It wasn’t long before she asked me who touched my pocketbook. (She explained that pocketbook meant vagina). Then I wondered why she didn’t just say vagina. It was obvious she thought of me as a stupid kid who didn’t know how to express herself. But I did, and I was forced to endure an entire session of questions about Nate.

Yes, I told her Nate had hurt me. I just wouldn’t tell anyone how. Among other things, I was embarrassed; and wished I hadn’t found out what mommies and daddies do. Now I was supposed to talk about that disgusting stuff?

Did Nate put his hands in your pocketbook?

Did Nate put his mouth on your pocketbook?

Did Nate put his fingers or hand in your pocketbook?

Did Nate put his lollipop in your pocketbook?

No. No. No. No, I repeated.

I lied because among all her stupid questions, and despite her attempts to turn my ordeal into a Walt Disney movie, no one ever told me it wasn’t my fault. I assumed I was in