Chapter XVIII

ONLY GOD KNOWS

Peaches reached her hand out for the kitchen knife in my hand. She was face down with Mr. Henry on top of her fumbling, trying to hold her down, and pull her pants and panties down, all while trying to pull out his little fat stubby dick. I ignored Peaches out stretched hand and began to walk up behind Mr. Henry and raise the knife above my head. Peaches looked me right in my eyes, shaking her head violently, and screamed, “No!” Mr. Henry seemed to become more excited as she screamed thinking it was for him. Her scream startled me and made me stop. Mr. Henry still did not notice me standing there with the knife in my hand.

He was sloppy drunk and was enjoying his sexual assault on Peaches. He had managed to get one of her pants legs off and had ripped her panties to one side. He pushed her head down into the carpet and gave a hard thrust. Peaches screamed and tears were flowing down her face, as he began to thrust between her legs. Peaches began to slap her hand on the floor, opening and closing her hands rapidly beckoning for me to give her the knife. I placed it in her pleading hands and closed my eyes.

It was my fault. Mrs. Henry told me to never bring anybody into the house when she wasn’t home. I only wanted to show Peaches our nice home. I didn’t know Mr. Henry would come home drunk and attack her. I closed my eyes and pulled out the ice pick I carried. I could hear the sudden silence as Mr. Henry responded to the gashing wound in his neck then to his chest. Blood jumped as high as the ceiling when the weapon was pulled out of his neck. Mr. Henry fell over on his back and just laid there. His body jerked with each stab. The sudden lost of blood and probably the thinning of his blood from the liquor in his body help contribute to his inability to defend himself.

The stabs went from his neck to his chest to his groin. Mr. Henry made a feeble attempt to cover his private area but to no avail. The stabs were fast, accurate, and vicious. Each blow reflected the same anger and inhumane actions he directed towards Peaches. I didn’t hear the footsteps running up the steps behind me, but I heard the voice I loved and knew so well, “Oh My God!” It was Mrs. Henry.

Jesus! Jesus! Jesus! She screamed with both her hands holding her face. I just stood there frozen with the ice pick in my hand. She looked around the room continuing to ask “Jesus” to help her. The room was covered in blood; Peaches was sitting on the bed half naked covered in blood from her head to her toe with the kitchen knife in her hand. Her knees were pulled up to her face with a blank stare. Mr. Henry was lying on the floor in a puddle of blood with his pants down to his knees lying face up with his eyes open. I was also covered in blood.

Mrs. Henry surveyed the room and quickly put two and two together. She walked over to Peaches and took the knife out of her hand then took the ice pick from me. She looked at Peaches with tears in hers eyes and said “Baby! Please forgive me. I should have killed that no good motherfucker a long time ago.” “Don’t you worry I know what needs to be done, Mrs. Henry said.” She walked over and bent over Mr. Henry’s body and laid her head on his chest with both weapons in her hands. This is where she remained covered in blood until the police arrived.

One of the neighbors had heard Mr. Henry screaming and called the police. I sat on the floor with my back up against the wall while Peaches remained on the bed in the fetal position. I remember the police pointing their guns and screaming at Mrs. Henry. I was covered with a blanket and rushed out of the room. I looked with uncertainty as the police led Mrs. Henry and Peaches away in handcuffs with sheets also wrapped around them. One of them was a killer or were they? They looked at each other with a look of “Did you do it?” Then, they both turned and looked at me. Their look said what their lips didn’t, “Don’t say anything. We love you, and we will be alright.”

The police placed them in the back of two separate police cars. A battled weary looking white woman who identified herself as a social worker for the children’s division of the Detroit police department held my hand firmly. I guess this was to keep me from running to Mrs. Henry and Peaches. My thoughts were conflicted. I was glad that Mr. Henry was dead, but I was also sad that I would no longer have Mrs. Henry or Peaches in my life. Then it hit me, the one thing I feared the most was about to happen. The uncertainty of where I would end up next. I sat in the back seat of the police car wrapped in a blanket, more like a little criminal than a lost child. I turned to look out the back window of the car to see my two strongest protectors taken out of my life in handcuffs. The fear covered me like a heavy, wet, musty blanket. “What had I done? . What in the world had I done?” Only God knows!

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Words from the author

Thank you for taking time out of your busy schedule to journey with me through the life of a foster child growing up in Detroit during the 1960’s. I hope you enjoyed the first book and will continue to follow the series as he learns to navigates the means streets of Detroit and the foster care system. Please feel free to provide any feedback via Facebook https://www.facebook.com/earl.e.smith.12 or Twitter www.twitter.com @O_B_G14. I look forward to your comments.

About the Author:

Earl Smith is a former foster child who lived in three foster homes from the age of four until the age of seventeen. He joined the military right out of high school, culminating into a 20 year career rising to the rank of Master Chief Petty Officer (E-9) in the United States Navy. He is a re-tired teacher, counselor, and administrator. Earl is also a disabled veteran who found his voice to write after being diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD). Upon recommendation from his VA therapist he began to write as a means of therapy for his anger and severe pain. Earl is happily married to his wife (Marcia) of Little Rock AR.. He has one daughter (Shari) of Refugio, Texas, and his pride and joy is none other than his three grandchildren Journie (5), Sebastian (2) and Donovan (2 days old).

About the Editor:

Edwina Mosby is a certified National Writing Project teaching consultant, freelance writer, and author.