Surviving The Blues

39

*unedited*

I remember sitting in that quack of a psychiatrist's office as he fumbled over notes he had gotten from his psychologist colleague. He scratched his head as he tried to make sense of the bomb I had dropped on him a week prior before we stuck a pin in it. He muttered something about a 9/11 study where people who did not remember exactly where they were and what they were doing on 9/11 over ten years later. Then he prattled on about kids that believed they were assaulted but were not. He talked about reconstructed memories then began to blab about a personality disorder.

"I forgot I was dating someone for almost two years. How does that help me?" I interrupted him. The CT scans and multiple MRIs I had gotten did not show any brain damage. They declared that I was crazy. He tried prescribing another medication on top of the other ones I left the hospital with but my fervent, disapproving head nod stunted him.

The man sighed, before giving in and referring me to a psychologist. Suddenly, I started learning how to cope. I tucked away the guilt, shame and pain. Then Luke and my parents sent me into spiral. I could no longer pretend I had amnesia.

I had not seen Titus in a year when he pulled me away from the man pointing a gun in my direction. The gun fired off towards the two men who ran pass me. I stood frozen, shocked by the encounter. Being Trigger's daughter was always my protection, but it was not that day.

We ducked into the building, sliding down to the floor as the shots ricocheted in the evening air. "What the f***, Faye?" I blinked, snapping out of it.

My eyes were met with his disapproving, beautiful, brown eyes. We sat on the chipped tiled, apartment lobby floor that did not look like it had be mopped in a decade. He slide closer to me. His finger tips grazed my body and I instinctively jumped back."What are you doing?" I asked, shakily.

"Your father would kill me if you got shot." He mumbled, pulling me back towards him. He was close. His hand slid over my shoulder and his body pressed against mines. We were close; close enough for me to get a good whiff of his cologne.

Then his words hit me. "You only saved me because of my father?" I pushed his hands off of me, staring at him with disgust.

Sure, I knew he was always responsible for me as a child because of my father. The stitches on my left knee is a reminder of the time I knelt on glass as I begged my father to stop his boys from jumping a twelve year old Titus. I scrapped my knee on the floor, kneeling in his blood at one point before Darius realized that his commands and avoidance was not working on me. The blood gushing down my foot and the throbbing pain did not become noticeable until the car door shut close behind a passed out Titus. It was a punishment for not being there when the girls jumped me because of the task he was given to follow me around. He was one of best looking boy in the school and he was stuck with me. Still, him admitting that he had no choice rubbed me the wrong way.

He scoffed and peered out the glass before standing and reaching his hand out. I eyed his hand before accepting it. It was pointless to act tough and refuse it.

"I'll take you home." He muttered, the mood dampened because I questioned the obvious. Of course he was ingratiating himself with my father. He would joke that it was what he was born to do.

Of course, I knew that having to always look out for me was the nadir of his life. It was hard enough keeping himself alive in the street where black boys like him had a low life expectancy, but having to look out for me to was the worst. After all the big homey was my father. It was already hot being around a figure like Darius. It's as if he did not have a chance.

I walked slightly behind him, my hands secured on my bag straps as I watched his muscles contract and relax in the black tee. We were quiet. The slight breeze, our footsteps and the loud New York air competed for being the loudest contender.