Drayton's Gazette discusses social and political issues happening around the globe through the eyes of the African American, minority and disaffected communities.

A Hunting:From The Periphery by V.Lyn

Death come to me

Release me from this heavy burden that entombs me

This treacherous thing called life

By V. Lyn

Shhhhh…There are predators among us; they dance like ghost at the periphery of our view, drifting quietly in constant watchfulness. Shh… Can you see them? Do you feel their silken caress? Do you feel their eyes as they linger upon you with an insatiable hunger? They stand there waiting, watching, and whispering amongst their selves! Don’t you see them? Hear them? Are you deaf to the truth of them, blind to their reality? I put my hands to my ears to shut them out, but still I hear them, their sly whispering voices echoing through the corridors of what is left of my soul; I hear them as they wait for just the right moment, the perfect opportunity, “Boo I see you but you don’t see me” they chuckle in the depth of the vileness that is their obsession; giggling at the border of insanity and a perverse craftiness as so many of us go about ignorant of their presence.

Here is my advice to you…move quickly and boldly … hurry past, keep your head up, shoulders back, be large  or maybe keep your head down and hurry by, make yourself small, inconsequential. Look them boldly in the eye as they flicker like the gossamer silk weave of a spiders web in the corner of your mind’s eye or maybe maybe it is more prudent to not be so bold, yes look away, look away pretend they don’t exist. Oh god I don’t know what you should do but at least I have warned you with the last breath that is still me.

There are predators among us and they dance like ghost at the periphery of our existence and they know we are here.

1964

Tremont Ave in Bronx, New York was mostly the home to black families. The sounds of our music could be heard drifting from open windows, yes back then there was black music, and white music, and seldom did blacks listen to the music of whites…Beatles included. Blacks lived here, laughed and cried here, went to school, struggled, survived and thrived here and went about the process of living in a world that was on the precipice of change. The stores were owned and run by whites and white men cruised the neighborhood and small black children sometimes went missing. Black parents wailed and searched for them with little help from the authorities. Sometimes these children were replaced by ghost children with vacant eyes, we knew better than to play with these replacement children, these children who had crossed over to another realm and then brought back after all we heard the whispers from the adults, they did everything but cross themselves. We knew something was wrong, different about these children who were nothing but specters of their previous selves even if we did not know what but we kept our distance none the less.

His lips were cold and wet, nuzzling ever so gently at the back of my neck. He has pulled down the edge of my collar leaving the back of my neck exposed one of my thick pigtails juts out in quiet acquiescence. I shrug uncomfortably at the tickle of his breathe and the wetness of his kiss to my neck. Sensations so unusual but disquietingly familiar, reminiscent of another not so distant memory. I am positioned so that he can see me from the small circular wall mounted mirror that hovered just below the ceiling. A giant eye glaring down on us…it is a mirror to his shame and my degradation. I licked furiously at my lolli- pop my dress pushed high up on my thighs, my panties slid slightly to the side so the lips of my vagina were softly exposed,  the head of his penis large and pink jutted between my soft 6 year old black thighs, and still I licked my lolli- pop. “Cross your legs tight” he whispered thickly from behind.  “You like horsey rides? I ‘m going give you a horsey ride” he said his words thick and full of promise. I did as I was told squeezing as tightly as possible, ankles crossed. I think he groaned with satisfaction but that maybe just a false memory…but does it matter does it matter, the rest is not false the rest is not false. He slid me up and down his penis sliding between the lips of my vagina. “Squeeze tighter!” he panted and I did. From just outside I hear the frantic pounding and even more frantic voice of my sister calling to me. I feel sorry for her; she is perhaps not quite 10.  I hear the tears at the edge of her voice bubbling over like the water at the mouth of a rivers fall. She is loving; she is a born caretaker for those like me who are born prey, the sheep dog to my sheep. But she is a child herself at a tender age when we believed that ghost, monsters and predators do not exist except those who lined the pages of comics and hardcover books… and we pretended that Ozzie and Harriet was everyone’s next door neighbor. When “Once upon time”, Prince Charming, and the fairy tales of white picnic fences truly existed.

*********************************************************

He pumped even more vigorously, perhaps excited by the prospect of being caught. “Rub your lolli pop on it” He told me and I did “Ahhhh Suck it” he said and I put it back between my lips my eyes fixed forward. I did not cry, I did not groan, I did not sob, I was not sad, I was not afraid, I do not remember feeling anything not resignation or frustration fear or anger, I remember that I merely sucked my lolli pop: watched us in the mirror and listened to laments of my sister. We had gone to the corner store to get candy the chocolate ones that looked like quarters wrapped in golden foil. Paying for the first, I went back in to get more as my sister waited for me outside, unknown to her I had wrapped the foil together into its original shape thinking now that I had money for more candy. “You’re stealing!” he accused me crumpling the gold foil in his hands. The man at the register considered my action theft, and seeing the opportunity, used the vulnerability of a child’s desire for candy.

I could hear my poor frightened sister saying to an unfamiliar voice on the other side of the universe “My sister’s in there.” and then the locked door rattled as they tried uselessly to open it.

“Shh.” He cautioned.  “You like candy don’t you I’ll give you as much as you want, anytime you want let me show you.” he said as he unseated me from his laps, covering the exposed lips between my thighs with the deftness of a magician’s sleight of hand. Holding hands he took me to the back room where boxes and boxes lined the walls and I imagined candy of all types within. There would be juju beans and old henry, bubble gum and jaw breakers.and and and… On the other wall there was a bed on the other. He sat me down laying me gently back and I stared at the ceiling mouth locked tightly around the stick. He kneeled between my legs “You can come here any time he whispered as he slide my panties aside. His fingers traced the plumpness of my child’s vagina and I heard his breath catch and the faint sigh of what I would years later understand was desire. His mouth wet lowered and sucked, licking feverishly as feverishly as I had licked the lolli pop. From outside I could hear frantic voices and the door rattles.  “Don’t say anything.” he told me his voice cajolingly “I’m giving a party there will be lots of candy and cake and ice cream and balloons don’t tell anyone where you come by yourself and I’ll have a special present for you.  I don’t know what he said to them about my being in there so long with the door locked, perhaps he told them I had tried to steal and he was giving me a thorough scolding. I know I only told my sister years later about what had happened in the smallness of that store years later when we spoke she had later suspected as much and perhaps in the depth of her innocent soul she had even suspect as much then. I did try to go to that party alone which held the promise of candy, cake and ice cream but my sister and cousins saw me and trotted behind me to the party. That turned out to be in an abandoned tenement with no candy, balloons, ice cream and cake, or man bearing a special surprise meant just for me.

Do you think some people are just born to be hunted? Their purpose little more than that of the rabbit – to fall victim to the fox or the coyote, to be the natural prey for the natural born hunter? Do they, the prey, emit a subtle scent that drifts upon the wind for the hunter to identify, like pheromones wafting on an unseen breeze? Do you think we give off subtle cues, imperceptible to the untrained eye…as if we are saying “look look it’s me I’m needy, I’m alone, I am scared, I am bold, I am weak, I am strong, I am, I am, I am?” Do you? Do you? DO YOU?! Do you think that we seek his or her attention out like the quiver of a rabbits fur as she huddles eking timidly, too frightened to move or like the deer prances through the wilderness unmindful of what lurks behind a corpse of trees, tail held high look at me I am beautiful I am alive, I am, I am… just as the hunters bow pieces her heart and her spirit is snuffed out. Do you think we seek them out as much as we seek them out knowing what our purpose is the role designed for us by some unknowable and unkind all powerful entity? Well do you? Do you think we asked for it, really who would ask for it WHO? Did I? did I did I did I did I…

Oh don’t get me wrong I am not a victim anymore…no I am equally as selfish and apathetic in my own way.  Some say cruel, calculating and cold others say emotional, impulsive and hot which is it what is why do people think they know you when all they see is what YOU let them see. Why don’t they believe you when you tell them I am all those things? What I am not is a victim any longer…I am not scared… I’m not! No matter what someone may say, I have accepted what happened to me both those thing IN and OUT of my control. I remember everything! All the things done to me… and BY ME! I remember all the words spoken to me and by me; words harsh and cruel as well as words of genuine love and kindness.  And I forgive little… even myself… I just am! Hate and anger doesn’t fester in me …it doesn’t it doesn’t really. It is something infinitely worse, a void of pitch blackness, an emptiness as dark as tar.  Cut them. Cut them is my motto…cut them until they bleed a city of blood and I will watch it spread, jubilant for all those who like myself are the walking dead.

Now I am THE HUNTER and creating suffering is my tool. I will feed them agony and pain so much so that they will beg me for the bliss of a death that cannot come a moment too soon and I will deny them even that solace for I am the bringer of pain. And it shall reign down on them endlessly, ad infinitum, without end, forever and ever!!

Have you heard the news? That a covenant of monsters has been caught.  Seventy two.  Seventy two vile beasts. They are deviant creatures whose pleasures are derived from their perversities. They have been on the prowl hunting in the light. And now it is my turn and I will hunt them as well.

***********

Ooooohhhhh, do you think that special surprise that that tenement held for me was a picture of my face on a poster fluttering yellowed an creased on a traffic signal pole… overlooked or occasional noticed with a sad distracted shake of a passerbys head…do you think I asked you do you think? Would my picture, a picture of a pigtailed (thick braids jutting out in three directions from my head) gapped tooth brown girl, whose lost gaze stares slightly past and above the photographers shoulder as if she sees something knowone else does, stand forlorn besides an array of other childrens faces with names like Joshua, Michaerl, Jose, Mimi, Nora, Brian and Susan? Would I have been there, buried beneath dust and dirt and rat droppings leaking pipes and the stench of what would have once been life… Forgotten by the city, the community and the world, after all what is the lose of another black or brown child…what would she have had to offer to the world except babies born to an unwed mother drug and alchol abuse food stamps and welfare for life…of course not the potential for being or doing great…of course not that….

Shhhhhhh… I hear predators among us… and they dance at the periphery of my vision, turn quick, yes yes behind you there there do you see, a flicker, a knowing look, a slow smile, hold your breathe hold your BREATHE and maybe maybe you will go on seen, may there be mercy on you if you are not.

Advertisements

12 responses

  1. V… I read this post early this morning and just did not know what to say. Now, after thinking about this all day… I still do not know what to say. And that’s rather unusual for me. I’ll try though… first of all, your writing is no less than phenomenal. When words are able to create a visual image in my mind (I often have difficulties with words, so this is not as easy for me as it is with others) in addition to emotions, nothing else surpasses that level and skill. But even more importantly, I am horrified that you had to endure such a vile creature – especially at such a young age (like they’re not vile during any age of a woman when violated in such a manner?) I know so many other women who have been through something similar and the scars never disappear. I, myself, have been very fortunate and I just cannot fathom how that has affected you. I do not like the idea of thanking your for sharing simply because it would be, in a sense, thanking you for having to live through this. But I hope you know what I mean when I do thank you for opening up. You are a beautiful person and I see it flow from your words. Thank you for being you.

    January 19, 2012 at 1:50 am

    • Thank you for your support and the kind words. As for your writing skills, well they are no less than phenomenal, and I often wish I had the skill set to write like you.

      January 19, 2012 at 2:13 am

  2. Pingback: A Hunting: From The Periphery by V.Lyn « Motley News

  3. V, I wanted to pass on The Versatile Blogger Award to you. You are certainly most deserving both in your writing, and by the bravery you show by sharing this story with us.
    http://motleynews.net/2012/02/05/a-hunting-from-the-periphery-by-v-lyn/

    February 6, 2012 at 2:17 am

    • Thank you Michelle…but the truth is Everyone has a story..and some far more painful and tragic than mine…case in point the Powell boys whose loss to this world is incalculable. While there were many tragic aspects of my life there were also MANY amazingly good ones as well…I had and have agreat family loving and successful. Despite growing up in the projects we all, all my sisters and cousins and all our children have graduated with bachelors from college. Most of my family and we are forty large, have Masters and a few Phd’s. In my opinion our past may set a course for us but it does not have to determine how we travel it nor even where that journey will ultimately take us. It took me along time to learn that and an even longer time to learn to live.
      Check out my father’s story and you will see I could do little else than strive….

      February 6, 2012 at 2:31 am

      • You are most certainly right. There are so many different stories, some more traumatic than others, some more inspiring, and so on. What I find so amazing about your story is the way you tell it. I literally can close me eyes and see what you saw and feel what you felt. But I also have the benefit of seeing who you are now, and you truly are an amazing woman who has not let this “thing” destroy you.

        February 6, 2012 at 2:42 am

      • Thanks Michelle,coming from you with all you had to endure and are coping with now I am honored by your comment. Here’s a toast to all those who endure, strive and florish around the globe

        February 6, 2012 at 3:11 am

      • Here, here! A toast! And let the good times start rolling!

        February 6, 2012 at 3:14 am

      • Bravo…and may this an every subsequent year be better than the last

        February 6, 2012 at 3:25 am

    • Hi Michelle I though you meant figuratively passing on the versatile Blogger Award…I did not know you had meant it literally. Thank you…so much….But what am I supposed to do with it now 🙂

      February 6, 2012 at 7:11 pm

  4. Rose

    V… it is difficult to find words which describe how I feel upon reading this, but I’d like to say as one who understands that I have yet to read a more eloquent accounting of predators and prey, and the affects upon a survivor.

    February 6, 2012 at 3:41 pm

    • Thank you Rose…when I wrote this I wanted to make this into a series of stories on how I dealt with the molestation,. How sometimes those who endured the abuse begin an endless cycle of abuse…it becomes their “norm”… For me it became something I expected and accepted…it was what I was supposed to be not a victim but an object…it was how I allowed others to define me until I realized I had the POWER and the OBLIGATION to define myself…
      Again thank you for your support…

      February 6, 2012 at 5:58 pm

Leave a Reply

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s