Call A Spade A Spade

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The feeling of being esoteric and the understanding of being in this place come over my body in waves so strong. The reminder of that awful, unrelenting moment speeds past my eyes in the most vivid way. I stay in the upright position for quite sometime, but a force, so unwavering and immutable, begins to weigh down on me. An urge to cry, to scream looks above me, and simultaneously grabs hold of my heart, yanks, and doesn’t let go.


“It doesn’t have to be like this.” He said to me. I didn’t listen. However, I pivoted on my heels and left. Without so much as one look back.


That day, that awful calamitous day still rests in my mind to date. Fresh, real, I think I can touch it. But when I reach out, nothing is there. Therefore I fall, and into oblivion I plummet until there is nothing left of me. A monster is what I have become. Not a misconstrued young woman, not a confused human with nowhere left to turn. No. I am what I am, and what I am is a monster. An abomination to this world. My mother told me so.


“Call a spade a spade, honey, and you’ll be much more comfortable with the truth. Trust me.”


But I’m not anymore reassured than I was before. Mother, you were wrong.


I was told not to listen to her. I was told not to believe a word that came out of her mouth. But I did; she’s my mom, why wouldn’t I? Who can answer that? With clenched fist, I can still smell the metallic tang of pure blood. Spilled everywhere. And there is no rewinding what I did. The news wasn’t as shocking as I thought it would be.



“We did all we could. The wounds bled out much too fast. The cuts were too deep. I’m sorry.”

But doctor, you’re not sorry. I imbibed that information even though I knew it long before hand. To hear it was something different. His mouth seemed to move in slow motion as he spoke to me. I couldn’t hear him, yet I nodded as though I understood. And for the most part, I did. I think I did.

Who can crawl inside my head, sort things out and then answer my questions? The supposedly pivotal curiosity bounced around in my head, and at the same time I wanted to ignore it. I wish ignorance instead of knowledge. It feels much better that way.

“You don’t want to do this, honey. I’m your mother. You don’t want to do this.”

But I did want to do it. And I did do what I wanted to do. So why don’t I feel any better? Why does it continue to scratch my eyelids to the point where I don’t even want to close my eyes? The feeling of disfiguring myself mentally and physically lets me know that I really shouldn’t have done such a deed. A crime like so is punishable by death. But what about the collateral damage she gave right before she died? Who can account for the harm she has bestowed upon my life from my very birth to this very moment?

“Call a spade a spade, honey. And you, my dear, is nothing, will never be anything, and by God you will be nothing for the rest of your life. Trust me.”

Maybe I should have listened when he told me that I would be sorry. Maybe I should have taken his words in stride when he said that the remorse would be horrific. Maybe I could have saved myself the trouble, the pain and not had to learn the hard way.

It’s a little too late for should of, could of, would of’s now, don’t you think?





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