Total pages in book: 159
Estimated words: 149301 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 747(@200wpm)___ 597(@250wpm)___ 498(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 149301 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 747(@200wpm)___ 597(@250wpm)___ 498(@300wpm)
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Wedding Vows and Daddy Issues
Cyrus stood in his bedroom, dressed in a brick red and black silk damask vest, and black pants. Skip James’, ‘Devil Got My Woman’ played through the speakers. He leaned forward, snatched his cigarette from the gold ashtray that sat on his dresser, took a hard inhale, and placed it back down. Swirls of smoke twirled from the left side of his mouth. He looked himself over, and figured it was a decent day for a wedding. That of an associate of his son. Marty and Janine. Two lovebirds who more than likely had no true idea of what they were embarking upon, or signing up for. The fella was marrying some sexy redhead siren that was on the ten o’clock news. She wasn’t the only one up late.
He’d had a horrible night. Nothing but nightmares. The past came to him dressed in crushed bone and torn limbs. It gnawed on the frayed fringes of his heart, or at least, what was left of it. He stood there putting on his tie, his hands slightly trembling as he replayed the dark back-to-back dreams in his mind. He’d stopped breathing at one point—woke up in a cold sweat, and drowning in sheer terror. He began even speaking quietly to himself. Talking aloud. A calming technique he’d used since he was little. He always talked to himself during times of stress. When the red hot demons were nipping at his heels.
He looked at himself in the full length mirror as he spoke a bit louder, treating himself as a second person in the room. Someone to talk to, to lay his dark burdens down on. He could trust no one completely, except for himself, anyway. So, he spoke to his twin. The man in the mirror. Sometimes, he didn’t recognize his own face. Other times, he just wished he didn’t.
“I couldn’t understand it,” he mumbled as he worked the tie into shape, ensuring it was on just right. “My mama said that she loved my daddy after he’d beaten her into a bloody pulp. She said it with her whole heart. Her eyes shined like new pennies when she said it—like she needed the whole world to believe it, too. My dream showed that one time I had the most… I hate that dream, ’cause it’s true. It was the time that Mama was in her bed, holding onto her cross.
The crucifix covered in the blood of Jesus. Blood on her jewelry. Blood on her shaking hands. On the run down, old bed that sagged in the middle. Her white dress that she wore several times a week was now a polka dot print, spotted and speckled with her own essence. Her long dark hair hung in blood-soaked ropes all down the front of her body. Like dreadlocks dipped in thick wine. Daddy had beat her head into the wall. Blood dripped out of her ear. Then he smeared her face and hair in it. It hadn’t been the first time he’d attacked her, but it was one of the worst times, for certain.”
He sighed, then sat on the edge of the bed, still looking into the mirror. His back hunched down, making him look and feel smaller than he actually was. The Dead South’s, ‘In Hell I’ll Be In Good Company’ played now. He glanced at the jet black articles of clothing on the bed, and the Perry Belgian men’s Loafers set neatly on the wooden floor, partially covered by a large dark bearskin rug. He clasped his hands together as the memories and his dreams merged, creating a new reality.
He felt himself spinning, then falling on something soft but strong enough to hold him—like a woman’s warm embrace, shielding him from evil. Mama couldn’t protect me… Is that you, God? He struggled while lying on his side. His limbs seized up and his mind seemed to go into warp speed as he slid slowly down memory lane. Everything was bruised and beaten. The grays of reminiscences became scorched and charred with the blazing kiss from hell. He gnashed his teeth and tears filled his eyes. He clawed at imaginary demons and tried to get away and find his way back! I’m havin’ a gotdamn panic attack… haven’t had one in years!
In the mirror, he saw himself standing there, as if he were still putting on his tie, like some sort of out of body experience. He was talking, too, while listening in, and trying to hear his words over his thumping heartbeat.
“…See, Daddy accused her of talking back that particular day, if my memory serves me correctly. I watched my father tear my mama to shreds. Tore her soul clean from her body. He jumped on her and flung her around as if she were some toy, a thing to play with, something small and weak to punish. Mama was about five foot eight or so, but such a skinny thing. She was naturally small through no fault of her own. Bones, really. She couldn’t fight off that six foot, big, bulky Irish man. Five generations in Texas. My father was wide and muscular. Built like a lumberjack. When he’d get mad, it was like a tornado from hell tearin’ through the house. Small things could set him off, depending on his mood. It could be an unwashed dish in the sink. A baby cryin’ too loud. A poor mark on a report card. The new puppy pissin’ in a room. Or just the sight of one of our dirty little faces.