Excerpt from: The jagged edge of a broken, cheap wine bottle forged a ravine across the torso of my cousin's girlfriend. Blood engulfed her fist and seeped through the cracks between her fingers. The white-meat beneath her dark skin was rapidly washed by crimson tidal waves that percolated until hematic gobs seemed to dive from the wound onto the hardened, sun-scorched dirt that was her stage. A stage she stood upon and cursed from like Moms Mabley at The Apollo - oblivious to the pain she was inflicting on herself - no doubt being tormented by the sadistic howls of the ill-tempered imp of schizophrenia. "Somebody git dat baby!" Screamed my older babysitter, who wanted to spare me from seeing this act of self-mutilation. Until her voice broke the trance, my three year-old mind was mesmerized by Dena's suicide attempt. I cried while being toted into our hot project unit. Momma had to work, so there was none of the comforting and moral support recommended by child psychologists. I had to deal with what I saw, it's that simple. Dena failed at her attempt at killing herself that day, but she never gave up. Therefore, her death become a reality soon afterwards. She wanted to die, because she felt like love and peace existed on another plane. Although I've felt the same hopelessness, I never seriously considered death as a solution. If I was older I would have told Dena she'd find that peace and love if she didn't give up. |
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