Hello, my name is Jenna. I’m a 38 year old mother of two. I have been widowed for about five years now. I made the mistake of getting pregnant when I was 19 years old. Don’t get me wrong…I love my children. As a matter of fact, I would stand in front of a crazed rhino if it meant saving them. But 19 is a little too young to be a mother in my humble opinion. Heck, I was just a child myself.
As I said, I have been widowed for about five years. My husband was an abusive asshole. He could be very gentle and kind, but when he was drinking or on pills he could be a monster. Unfortunately for me, he stayed drunk or high for the better part of the last three years before he finally overdosed. Unfortunately for my family, the bastard drank away…or inhaled…our savings and his retirement. All he left me to support a 14 year old son and and an 11 year old daughter was a life insurance policy that had just enough to bury his sorry ass. I don’t miss him. I certainly don’t miss the beatings. I left him several times over those last three years, but I always came back. He had a very smooth tongue, and he always promised to get help. I fell for his bs hook, line and sinker. I was too dumb to know any better. Now I have to work two jobs to support our little family. I’ll do whatever it takes to keep our heads above water. New Orleans can be a cruel place in our current economy. I have to do what I can. I’m a legal secretary by day, and an adult dancer by night. I do pretty well between those two jobs. Work and parenting has consumed my life. I haven't been on a date in the five years since my husband died. I haven't had time for such frivolities.
My kids are both wonderful people. Especially my daughter. She doesn’t miss her father at all. She is smart enough to realize what a jerk he could be. She is now a beautiful 16 year old girl. As a mother, I don’t worry about her one bit. For one thing, she had been taking Judo since her father died…and she excels at it. For another thing, she won’t take any crap off the boys who try to woo her. If they so much as raise their voice to her, she will walk away. She did this to one hotshot baseball player, and since his pride was hurt he decided to get rough with her. He went to the hospital with two broken ribs, a dislocated shoulder and a broken collar bone. The boys are now VERY cordial to her. Plus she is showing lesbian tendencies. I leave her alone about this. Men are assholes anyway….perhaps women will treat her better. My son, on the other hand, has had a very hard time dealing with his father’s death. He was 14 at the time, and he idolized his father. Even though the jerk beat him worse than he did his sister or me. For the last five years, my son has blamed me for his father’s death. And now I’m watching him slip down the same road as his father. It breaks my heart.
Although the trouble started when his father passed away, the worst part began about two years ago after my son, his name is Patrick, was arrested on his first possession charge. Since then he has been in and out of jail several times. He has been in court ordered rehab twice, and he steals from me occasionally. I have had the police remove him from our home twice, but I always let him come back. He reminds me so much of his father that it’s scary. Plus he’s my son. I can’t just throw him to the wolves. Even with his transgressions, a mother can’t stop loving her only son. Patrick has never hit me. But he has acted like he was going to a couple times. Once my daughter, her name is Denise, had to step between us. Pat won’t mess with his sister. He learned from experience not to.
Well, the years have crept by and I’m still working two jobs to support my family. Early one Sunday morning I crept out of bed early and dressed for my morning run. 38 years old is a rather advanced age for a pole dancer, so I have to keep in shape anyway I can. Early morning is the only time I can fit in a workout. Plus the light humidity on sultry mornings helps clear my head in preparation for whatever the day might bring. I slip on a sports bra and a pair of cotton running shorts. I pull on my heavy socks and running shoes and prepare to go. I walk down the hall and I stop outside Pat’s door when I hear the bed creaking and a girl giggling. “He’s brought home another of his druggie girlfriends,” I think to myself. I hope Denise doesn’t hear them…if she does it could be a long morning for whoever the poor girl is. I walk outside, stretch, and then start my run.
About an hour and a half later, I return home and do my final stretches. I already feel better that when I left. Hopefully Pat’s friend will be gone and we’ll be able to enjoy a nice breakfast before I have to prepare for work. I walk into the house and straight into a nightmare. I stop in mid stride with my mouth partially open. Right on my couch…in MY living room is Pat’s friend. She’s lying naked on the couch with her legs spread wide. Pat is on his knees in front of her doing something no mother should ever see her son do! “What the Hell! Pat!!!” I stammer. “What are you doing?” He stops after a few moments, then turns to look at me. I can see why he decided to do this on my couch! He is totally out of his head!
Anger quickly replaces my shock and I order both of them to get dressed and get out of my house! I have had enough. I say, “Pat, what if your sister had walked in on this?” His reply makes my anger turn to a white hot fury! “What if she did? That snooty little bitch coulda joined us.” He laughs at his own perceived humor.
Now his girlfriend is pretty good at taking orders. She gathers up her belongings and heads for the door. Pat watches her in a stupor for a second the screams at her, “Where you going bitch?!!” He lunges at her, grabs her arm and throws her to the floor. The poor girl cries, “I want to go home, Pat!”
“Fuck that, bitch! You’ll stay right here.” Then he slaps her in the face.
The poor girl curls up and starts crying and I see a white hot fury building behind my eyes. Before I can think, I run over to the girl, shove Pat out of the way, and cover her to protect her from him. “It’s ok, sweetie,” I say as I try to soothe the crying girl, “I’ll see to it that you get home.” Just as I say these words, I am struck just behind the right ear by what feels like a hammer blow. I crash into the crying girl and we fall into a heap on the floor.
In absolute shock, I look back to see what hit me and look into the cold, empty eyes of my own son! He looks so much like his father that it is truly frightening! In a voice filled with rage he starts berating me and blaming me for his father’s death. He even says he intends to send me to Hell so his father can finish what he started. I try to stand up but a hard boot toe hits me on my side and I collapse back onto the crying girl.
Soon, my worst fears are realized when Denise comes out of her bedroom to investigate the ruckus. She rushes toward me when she sees me on the floor. Pat, knowing that this will soon be over if Denise gets involved, takes her out of the equation pretty quickly. I see it coming, but the pain in my side is too intense to scream at her. All I manage is a squeaking “Look..” before Pat smashes a lamp into the back of Denise’s head. She collapses forward into a chair and spill onto the floor unconscious…or I pray she’s just unconscious.
By this time Pat’s girlfriend has scrambled to her feet and is making another break for the door. He stops her by hitting her with what remains of the smashed lamp. She too crumples to the floor in a heap. Now I’m past angry. But I’m also very scared. This is like being in a waking nightmare. I slowly get to my feet and face my own crazed son. The look in his eyes, however, tell me that this creature is no longer my son. He is a demon straight out of Hell. And the demon has come to destroy me.
For a 38 year old woman, I am in great shape. I’m 5’6 and weigh around 130 lbs. The men at the club all think I’m in my mid-20s. I still wear my natural blonde hair long...although this morning I have it in a ponytail. But I am nowhere near a physical match for my son. He’s built just like his father….6’0” 190 lbs of hard muscle. And the drugs coursing through his system have made him mean…just like his father.
My back is to the front door, and I could easily run for help, but I have no desire to leave Denise and this other poor girl alone with this monster. I must find a way to disable him. But how? I can see nothing I can use. Maybe I need to start keeping a pump shotgun in the foyer…this is New Orleans, no one would think twice about it. But right now there is no shotgun. Nor is there even a cowboy popgun. All I have are my bare hands and my wits. I pray this is enough.
The monster starts advancing towards me. He is literally frothing at the mouth and rambling something about me killing his dad. As an after though, he stops at the phone table, picks up the phone and dock and rips the cord from the wall. Then he throws the phone at me. His message is loud and clear…I’m alone.
Think! I have to think! Ten feet….think! Five feet….think! Two feet…..a fist in the stomach. I didn’t think fast enough. I feel his hands grab my hair and yank my doubled up body fully erect. With one hand in my hair, he slaps me so hard across my cheek with his palm then his backhand that I taste blood. This will be over very quickly if I don’t think of something fast! So I do what women the world over are trained to do when confronted by a much larger attacker…I kick him in the crotch as hard as I can. I even picture a football punter as I do it. Oddly enough the thought that goes through my mind is, Well, there goes my hopes for grandchildren.”
Pat lets out a groaning yell as he releases my hair allowing me to crumple to the floor. I quickly scramble away and go in search of my cell phone. I make it about halfway across the living room when a strong hand grabs the back of my sports bra and yanks me backwards. He thrusts his forearm forward at the same time as he yanks me backwards and we make contact at full momentum. The blow knocks the wind from me. I feel his hands again, this time lifting me by my sports bra and my running shorts. He pitches me like I’m nothing against the living room wall and I land in a fichus plant. I also hurt like hell. I look up and see Pat advancing toward me with a victorious look in his eyes. He is still muttering to himself, and I want to curl up and cry at the sight of my son gone bad. I want to weep for his lost soul. I want to tell him that mommy will always love him no matter what he does. But it hurts to look at this creature and see my son. I have to think of him as a monster. If I think of him as my son, he’ll kill me and the two girls in the house. As he approaches, I kick out with my foot and feel it strike home right on top of his kneecap. He lets out a howling yell and falls backwards onto his butt clutching at his knee. I achingly get to my feet, then kick him as hard as I can under the chin. I feel bone crunch under my foot when the kick lands, and I follow it up with another kick to the side of his head.
As he collapses to the floor, I look toward where my daughter is and I’m relieved to see that she is awake and being attended to by Pat’s girlfriend. I yell at them to get up and run to the neighbors to call the police. It takes a minute for them to comprehend, but they eventually get up and scramble out of the house. I look back down at my son, and I see the sad little boy who lost his father lying on the floor. He is even weeping. He looks up at me with teary eyes and manages to say, “Momma…I’m sorry” through his broken jaw. I do the only thing a mother can do…I drop to my knees beside him and cradle his head. I stroke his hair and tell him that I’ll always love him no matter what. I tell him that we’ll get through this together. I tell him I won’t abandon him.
As I stroke his hair and cradle his broken face, his hands reach up and wrap deep into the hair on the back of my head. He pushes forward and drives my face flush into his forehead.
My world collapses in on itself. It is now a swirl of flashing lights, squawking voices, chains rattling, monsters from the darkest depths of my imagination. I scream, “Don’t hurt my babies! Please don’t hurt my babies! Please…..don’t…..hurt…my….babies! God please….don’t hurt my babies.” Then nothing.
My world is filled with pain. Physical pain from my injuries and emotional pain from not knowing where my children are. I drift on soft clouds as voices I don’t understand emanate from people I can’t see.
“How is she?” A masculine voice.
“Resting.” A feminine voice.
“She deserves it. She’s been through a lot.
“Yes. Yes she has. She’s a strong woman.”
“A remarkable woman. What’s the extent of her injuries?”
“The worst is a punctured lung and two broken ribs. A broken nose and a cracked cheek bone.”
“How’s her daughter?”
“She has a pretty bad concussion. Although it would have been worse if you guys hadn’t gotten there so quickly.”
“I know. Too bad we had to shoot that kid. But we couldn’t let him kill her.”
Shoot him? Kill her? What were they talking? “Where are my kids?” I must have said it aloud because I hear several sharp intakes and I feel more painkillers running through my arm and throughout my body. Soon the darkness overtakes me…..
A week later I’m sitting up in a hospital bed. A boring soap is on the tv and I stare at it without actually see it. I say a prayer for my lost baby whom I had lost forever. The door opens and in walks a large black city policeman. I look at him for a few moments without really registering his presence. He has a sad but kindly look on his face, and after I don’t respond to him after a couple minutes he lowers his head and starts to leave the room. I mouth the words and I didn’t think I actually said them aloud….”Are you the one who….”
He stops and slowly reenters the room and says, “No ma’am, I wasn’t. I rode with you in the ambulance. I…I…just wanted to see how you are doing.”
“You’ve been here before, haven’t you?”
“Yes ma’am. I come by at least twice per shift.”
“Why?”
“I really don’t know.”
With that he leaves the room.
A couple months later, Denise and I are slowly moving on with our lives. Denise has some awful nightmares about the morning her brother died, but they all revolve around him trying to stab her with a gardening trowel after she returned from calling 911. The police arrived just as he was preparing to stab her in the throat with the awful object. They had to shoot him to keep him from killing her. She has made her peace with his death, but the nightmares are about how she couldn’t protect me. Pat’s girlfriend suffered quite a bit that morning as well. She had a couple of broken ribs just like me, and she had several gashes on her head. She has started the healing process along with us…currently she is in a drug abuse program. She and Denise have started a sort of relationship. We moved after the attack. I couldn’t bear to spend another night in that house of horrors.
Later that month I was working in the flower garden in front of my new home. I stand up when I hear a car stop at the curb and hear a door open and shut. I turn around and see the big black police officer from the hospital walking up the driveway. He smiles and says, “Good morning.”
“Good morning, officer.”
“Uh…uh…my name is Thomas.”
I smile and say, “Good morning, Officer Thomas.”
“Uh…uh…no ma’am…Thomas is my first name. Smith is my last.” He embarrassedly says.
“Well, what can I do for you, Thomas?”
“Uh…uh….Ma’am? I was wondering…..I was wondering…if…..,” he stutters.
“Yes, Thomas?”
“Ma’am, I was….uh…wondering if….uh….if…you would….uh….like to have dinner with me sometime?
“Really?” I smile.
“Uh…yes ma’am. But I’d understand if you said no. I know the interracial thing makes some people uncomfortable…it’s just that….just that….uh….you’re a….you’re a strong….uh…remarkable…woman.”
I look at him for a moment, completely floored. What a strange request!
“Ma’am, I’m out of line. I….uh…I better go.” He lowers his eyes and turns toward his car.
“Thomas?”
He stops and turns back toward me.
“I’d be honored to have dinner with you.”
Author's Note:
This story is a request from another member. This member did not want their name mentioned. This was a tough story for me to write given my current situation, and I hope I didn't fall flat on my face with it. The request was an interesting...for lack of a better word...concept. I reworked this story three times before posting. Each previous draft was decidedly different from this one.
It is very different from what I'm used to. I had to draw on a lot of my experience writing back porch romance stories for this. I really hope everyone enjoys it!
Jonica
xoxo
