#SWITCH

17 | Identity

I AM SO stupid.

That should've been the first thing I thought of, from the beginning. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath in and out in an attempt to rein in my self-inflicted anger.

"You okay?" Kimberly asked.
"Yes." I say clipped.
"Are you sure you're okay?" She says, knowing fully well I'm not.
"I said I'm fine." I retort back, leaving no room for further comments.

Once she puts the car in reverse and shuts the engine down, I open the door and head to the house without another word.

"Hi Imi. How was -" Sina begins, but I cut her off.
"Not today, Sina."

Kimberly tries to follow after me but is stopped by a worried-looking Yessina, gesturing for her to leave me alone. She lifts her hand up in surrender. Even though I gave her the cold shoulder, she knew what I would've wanted. Maybe Mom did send her to me for a reason.

Mom. I wished she was here with me now, but she isn't, and I would do my dammn best to make sure whoever orchestrated her murder is put behind bars.

I started pacing around my room.

Logically, I should go to the police and tell them my thoughts, but they would never believe me.

I'm a child, I'm a girl, and I'm black. If I'm lucky, they'll listen to me, like they care, giving themselves a pat on the back for doing their jobs, and it would turn out to be the next joke in their next meeting.

Don't trust the police. They don't know you, and they certainly don't care if your skin is black. 

1. Keep your hands visible at all times
2. Be respectful
3. Don't make any sudden moves
4. Don't argue
5. Know your rights
6. Stay calm
7. Don't run

Those rules were drilled into me from the moment I was 6. I don't begrudge people of making a career around the police if they have good intentions. There are some good ones, but it's hard to sift through.

However, Mom didn't raise a slack-off.

Guffaw Gorge, as the local towners declared it, was an underground tunnel that connects Sainteva Haven, so it's bound to have some sort of camera. Whether it's facing the position I want is a different thing.

My head is mixed with a bunch of different ideas, I know I'm going to forget, so I open up a Word document to collate them.

"Who is it?"
"Yessina."
"Door's open."

She comes around and sits next to me. I close my MacBook firmly and push it to the side. She doesn't need to know.

"I know what you're about to say, but I'm not in the mood."
"I can see that, but I can see that whatever it's, it's weighing you down. I see a multitude of emotions, and you're holding everything in. That's not healthy."

I decided to remain silent. Having a therapist for a stepmom isn't something I would recommend.

"Staying silent isn't going to help you. It's like shaking a fizzy drink and leaving it, but when you open it, it comes cascading out because it can't stay it. I don't want that happening to you."

"It won't."

"Says everyone else."

"I'm fine, Sina. There's nothing for you to worry about."

"I do have to worry. That statement you just said proves it. Nobody that says they're fine is."

"But I am."

"It's up to you to believe what you want, but don't wait for it to be too late until you ask for help. If I could guess, it's because you're not grieving. No one can tell not to take time to remember the woman who gave birth to them. If they do, tell them to fuck off. If you need me, you know where to find me."