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However, three months after that gut wrenching incident, mom took a turn for the worse and ironically killed herself—she overdosed on a bad batch of heroin. I never forgot the dead stare on her blank face, and her sadistic pose as the fatal syringe hung out of her femoral artery. Momma’s untamed nappy shame was exposed and it looked like a greying wrecked raggedy pink pocket of pity. Her eroded humping hole was simply a pity party where people came to purchase a cheap thrill. I couldn’t help but to wonder who in their right mind would purchase a piece of that rotten pink cavity of carnage. Her skin was blistered and infected; scabs were scattered about her entire body.
It was a gut wrenching moment where the stench of reality burned my mind as much as it did my nostrils. When mom finally physically died, she left me all alone to struggle in the perilous streets. Although mom was gone, I couldn’t cry for her. She had successfully taught me how to not be emotional, not to hurt and not be humane. By supporting her true love child, smack, she demonstrated just how cheap life was and how easily human potential could be wasted, be corrupted, and lastly be destroyed.
What did I ever do to feel so unworthy? Where was I gonna go? I knew where I wasn’t going to go, to some foster home, to live with some total strangers. If my own mother treated me the way she did, imagine how a total stranger would treat me. If my own flesh and blood momma who sat up on a bed and pushed me out of her wild womb couldn’t love me, who could? No one but Grandma Betty could do that and she was long gone. I was alone, afraid, and anxious. But how could I profit from fear and anxiety? I had to scramble and figure out how to survive on my own.
My emotions were being double churned, the first churn was desperation and the second was determination. Within a matter of thought, my desire to live and to destroy simultaneously ignited. My dual thought process was twisted with both mom’s bitter rhetoric and Grandma Betty’s warm words of wisdom. Grandma Betty used to say, “You are more than a mere trick baby saved by the all mighty grace of God. No one who puts their faith in God will ever be shamed and none of their enemies shall prosper against them.”
I’ve often heard of this mighty being named God, but why did He leave me out to roam among the violent, drug-infested streets without adequate shelter or food? Why didn’t I have father to protect and provide for me? Why didn’t I have a mother to love me? Why didn’t I have any friends? Why did Grandma want me to believe in this invisible mighty being in the sky who just sat by and did nothing—yet, He was all powerful and loving?
As a matter of fact, mommy was the enemy, certainly she prospered against me. Why did He take my Grandma Betty? Didn’t He know that I needed her? In deeper thought, I reflected on mom’s hostile attitude and horrible lifestyle. What decent man would admit that they had fathered a child from the likes of her? Who would claim a trick-baby like me? I’d rather be some lifeless backseat semen stain than the pulse-possessing pile of misery that I am. On one hand, I despised myself and just wanted to disappear.
On the other hand, I wanted to beat the odds. I wanted to make it. I needed to overcome this travesty called life. I had to prove everyone wrong. I wanted to impose unrelenting tyranny of my retribution on anyone who has ever hurt me. I wanted to win in this world. After the long list of loss, how could I not want to?
Moments later after, mom had been carried off in a meat wagon; I stood there helplessly as the slumlord, which doubled as our neighbor, quickly tossed out our second hand furniture and rag-tag appliances. He and his flunkies didn’t even as much look at me. Why should they? What did they care? All he knew is that rent, by way of turning tricks with mom, would no longer be paid and thus I had to go. He was a married man and I knew his dark secret as he illustrated a pathetic public display of affection to his ill-built wife. I remember looking him dead in the face and just shaking my head in utter disgust. Then one of his ashy-elbowed flunkies dragged me by the back of my shirt and pulled me to the front door. I knew that my time was up; I walked out of that hellhole for the last time in my life.
To my dismay, there was a social worker awaiting me. I guess one of the police called and waited for Child Protective Services to arrive. The social worker was a round chubby, pinkish, pale, white woman with real rosy cheeks. I forgot her name, but I’ll never forget her unpleasant, exceptionally wide, fat face. Her hands were sweaty and she smelled like mothballs. “For the time being, you’re a ward of the state but we’ll find you a nice loving foster home to stay in,” she said in effort to comfort me as she placed her hand behind my back and proceeded to drag me away from what I knew as home.
Within three weeks, Miss wide face found me a nice foster home alright. My new foster mother, Mrs. Jenkins, was a fat, jet-black, chunky slice of no-neck hell. Her triple chins looked like they were shitting disguising dark black moles from the creases of her fat misshaped face. The only thing funny about her was her shape, not to mention that she had to turn her entire body to look at you; she couldn’t turn her neck because the big bitch didn’t have one. Mrs. Jenkins only cared about two things: receiving her monthly foster check and the food it bought.
She tossed my breakfast plate across the table. “Be grateful I gave that much,” she spat as she shoveled a heaping spoon of food in her big mouth. The bitch didn’t even chew her food; she just swallowed shit. Every time I seen her, her mouth was open—with something in it.
Sadly, I looked down at these meager portions of food ridiculed by this massive plate. Big ass plate with damn near nothing on it—it was an absolute insult. I ate slowly as possible to savor what little food I had. I soon learned that by drinking a tall glass of water with a teaspoon sugar pushed back the hunger pangs in my ever-growing body. Of course, I had to sneak that teaspoon of sugar from her coffee kit on the kitchen counter. However, not every meal was meager because Sunday was church day—be decent day. Six days of the week meant preaching biblical principles, but Sundays actually meant practicing biblical principles.
Since Mrs. Jenkins was a so-called Christian, she actually fed me a decent portion. God bless this buffalo. Even though Mrs. Jenkins was mean, it was different than the way mom treated me. She never called me motherfuckas and bastards like mom did, partially because she was too busy stuffing her mouth rather than running her mouth. This was odd to me because I was used to being called assholes by assholes that cussed. Cussing or not, Mrs. Jenkins treated me like shit and she was a rat piece of shit asshole.
On the contrary, there was Mr. Jenkins. He was physically and verbally a polar opposite to Mrs. Jenkins. Everything on his anatomy was extended and do mean everything. Even his gums and teeth seemed like they twice as long as everyone else’s. His torso seemed abnormally long, his legs were super long, his fingers were like wiry branches, and his stretched neck was armed with a protruding Adams’s apple. Mr. Jenkins was a foul-mouthed machine and he inducted me into an entire new form of man misery. He was one very sick white motherfucka. Mr. Jenkins came in late at night and always ended up in my room. He nibbled on my ears when I was sleeping and when I attempted to push him way, he’d get very angry.
“Boy, you eat up my all my food, and sleep in my house, use my toilet—and I can’t even get a little kiss. You want somebody to want you, don’t you?” He whispered.
I shook my head no and thought to myself, your wife eats up all your food.
Meanwhile, he took his hand to mash my face into the bed. How his skinny body produced so much strength surprised me. In fact, his enormous strength nearly suffocated me. I thought he was going to kill me until he let up just enough for me to catch my breath. Then he quickly unbuckled his belt and opened the gate to his alert lengthy erection and demanded, “You gone suck this long motherfucka—or I’m gone kill you. You can try to tell the social worker, but she doesn’t give a fuck about you. You’re just another poor pitiful nigger. Aren’t you glad someone wants you?”
I shook my head no and simply couldn’t understand why this man wanted to sexually feed on a little frail teenage boy like myself. Tears just flowed down my cheeks. I tried to fight him off and even scream but to no avail. His wiry frame was simply too powerful, too determined to break my manhood. He shoved my face into the pillow to muffle my cries while he rested his arm and his elbow on the back of my neck. Meanwhile, he managed to rip off my underwear and pry his manhood between my cheeks. I did every possible maneuver to break free but he must have been an expert at penning opponents because everything I tried was futile. The more I moved, the harder he pushed my face into the pillow, the harder my face went into the pillow, the less I could breath, the less I could breath, the less I could fight.
Mrs. Jenkins was right next-door, so I knew she heard the commotion because I heard her making a commotion with a bag of potato chips. But she wasn’t too busy to get up and do her Christian duty—close her bedroom door. I knew that she didn’t want to lose her monthly foster check, so I guess she just turned a blind eye as Mr. Jenkins made a woman out of me. I don’t know if I was lucky or not, but Mr. Jenkins’ hang up seemed to be more fixated on oral sex and not so much anal penetration, although he didn’t rule that option out without taking my bowel bag for a spin first. After having my lips busted, my eardrum shattered, and being face and butt fucked, I soon learned how to tune out the reality of what was happening to me routinely every night. I guess Mr. Jenkins didn’t have what it took to make his fat, no-neck having, holier than thou wife suck on his misshaped bell head, but I knew one thing for certain—I couldn’t continue to live like this.
After being a sexual midnight suction snack for several more days, I decided to strike out on my own. Emotionally I was deeply disturbed. I couldn’t hang with the guys and didn’t feel man enough to be around the girls. Life was defeating me from every angle, but I had to leave this foster home—in a hurry. I stood in the bathroom mirror night after night, rinsed my mouth out over and over, but the bitter taste of his semen was crippling my sanity. Not even tears could wash away the agony of being his sex object.
Suddenly, I thought about mom and the many men that had slipped in and out of her esophagus. Only a dark hearted animal could impose such injustice on another human being. Mommy must have been a truly tortured soul, forced to sleep with men that repulsed her merely to feed an unquenchable drug thirst. My mother was a junkie, a slave to her addiction. She was helpless; she was weak—just like me.
I remembered Grandma and what she told me about how she dealt with Grandpa; I knew that I couldn’t remain a victim. I knew that I had to flee because every time he touched me, more of me died and more of me struggled to hold on for a mere millisecond. I didn’t own anything—not even dignity. There was no way that I was going to call anyone from the Child Protective Services, the same system that put me in this hell hole. Fuck it, I would have to pick up and fend for myself. What did I have to lose?
However, Mrs. Jenkins didn’t buy anything that I could pack up and take with me. In fact, she kept all the food locked in her bedroom. Fat bitch! I only had the outfit that I had on and my good Sunday outfit that she kept locked in her room also. It was as if she knew that I’d run away. Maybe some other sad soul had been the Jenkins’ prey before and having food and clothes locked up was no coincidence. With or without food and clothes, I couldn’t wait around to plot and plan; I had to leave—tonight. I decided that I would rather experience the agony of the unknown rather than stay here to suffer the same fate another night.
