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Overview
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781467072717 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | AuthorHouse |
| Publication date: | 04/17/2012 |
| Pages: | 208 |
| Product dimensions: | 6.00(w) x 9.00(h) x 0.48(d) |
Read an Excerpt
BROKEN PATH TO PURPLE RAINBOWS
By Curtis Pritchett
AuthorHouse
Copyright © 2012 Curtis PritchettAll right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4670-7271-7
Chapter One
Sitting dumb in the dark clearly isn't going to bring forth the answers needed to heal my wounds. The quiet calmness of it all is actually shining light on what caused the pain. The scars on my arms are unraveling themselves, initiating a tear that's ripping through to seams that hold together my scabs, leaving the pink of my flesh that lies underneath to concede to the burn of salt that I have allowed others to sprinkle onto my existence.The echo left behind, along with the tirade of hatred that my father held towards me, is beginning to ring loud in my head as a true complement to all of the bullshit I've convinced myself I deserve to receive.
"I doubt that you will ever be able to provide me with balance;" That reply sits deep within my stomach to remind me of who to avoid. The words were placed on my plate in an attempt to spoon feed me an excuse for the wrongdoings of many. Each one of my past relationships seemed to come equipped with one. While sitting here, I've tried to find the one mistake responsible for the cross legged position I now hold on my living room floor. There isn't one, at least not one reason alone.
My life has always had its share of complications. There's no doubt that it all started with my childhood. Maybe my first baby steps were taken to the left when they should have been to the right. It's even possible that having a father that resented me is partly to blame. After giving the matter much thought, I've come to the conclusion that it goes further back than any of that. Back to a time when my great grandmother, Bell, laid on her back to endure the insensitive thrust of men unfamiliar to her, and far from the type she normally made her own.
Bell Jennings was not a lady that you would ever want to place alongside those whom showed signs of weakness. It's true that she fell easily to the need of a drink, but she was more than capable of standing up against the shrapnel of her time. Liquor in one hand, blunt object in the other, when Bell showed up she showed out. There was never a reason for the hell she raised, but the discharge of her vehement ways on others definitely became her prescribed method to release the anger she held within.
My great grandfather died many years ago for reasons that to this day seem unclear. Some say Bell killed him while defending herself during one of their fights over his feeling of her unfaithfulness. Others say Dump, one of her love interests, killed him while protecting her during that fight. Either way, I doubt Dump had any idea of what was in store for him after finally having her to himself.
Since Bell's husband was no longer around for her to battle, fights between she and Dump started off where those that took place in her marriage ended. The only responsive action Dump provided as a means to protect himself was what he gave verbally to calm Bell down. That weakness, as Bell saw it, pushed her to pay him back with dues owed to the one before him. As a result, whenever Dump questioned Bell's antics, she grabbed the closest object within her reach and tried her best to part his skull with it.
"Shut the hell up!"
"Now go tell that to the judge, Bell would say."
That saying was one of her favorite rebuttals. It was her way of bringing closure to the disruption she caused.
"Stop Bell! Why do you do me like this?" Dump would ask.
Before being able to get the last of his sentence out, Bell would swing down hard, pitching another blow to his head. Dazed, Dump would restrain himself from reacting as she wanted him to. After a moment's pause, he would wipe away what blood he could, fearing that wiping too much would only tempt her to sketch out another mark above his cheekbone, adding to the portfolio of bruises that she had already placed on his face.
Many would have let that nightmare of a relationship go a long time ago, but Dump did the opposite. Taking all that Bell chose to dish out, Dump stayed with her and bent over as she used her rod of fury to brand her frustrations on his rear. He really must have loved her, because it's only when in love that our tolerances extend out, enabling us to take on the nonsense that our commonsense would normally filter out.
Needless to say, Dump's reasoning was in no way going to change the fact that Bell really didn't give a damn. Choosing to be with her, meant that he was going to have to physically feel what she felt emotionally.
I use to sit back and wonder why we so often treat people the way that others have mistreated us. I'll tell you why, "It's because we're still holding on to the fictitious bond once used as power to control us." You'd be surprised at how quickly ignored bruises from past relationships resurface, when the pursuit of a new one takes its stand. The soreness from that bump will churn itself into anger, and then work overtime to abet in the destruction of every person you grow to love after its receipt.
Many nights have passed with thought of how I could break free of that process. Finding a way to do so may help me find myself. The abduction of who I was has awakened my inheritance and left me to be more like my great grandmother than she could have ever intended me to be. I've come to rest in the very same fury she once festered in alone. Just as Bell, I too have ways to release it. Rage mixed with a cocktail of sadness and life's traumatic disappointments flow so deep through my veins that not even Gods limits can compare to how I feel. My inability to let go of the grudge I hold has left my mind working overtime for answers it'll probably never receive.
Does loving someone mean that you have to endure the pain of their afflictions? If so, am I of right to impose the wrath of my afflictions on those that I love?
When I cry will my tears pierce their soul with pain so that they may understand what I feel?
When I employ my acquired fashion of exuding what sits on my heart, will they look beyond my faults and still love me?
I wonder if Bell ever thought of any of that. The only way she knew to love was to be violent. Any gentle part of her was kept locked up, and she had swallowed the key needed to unlock it years ago. Bell had gotten so good with the delivery of her hostility that she'd gone long without ever suffering a single repercussion from it. It's crazy as hell, but the speed bumps that lie ahead for me, are just revealing the seeded contingencies to her game of foolishness.
Regardless of whatever higher power you choose to call on for guidance, it's normally that source that calls back to grab your attention in the midst of your transgressions. I've ignored that truth for a long time. There have even been times when I thought that I was smart enough to manipulate the one implementing the action. It's hard to continue with such ignorance when the shadow attached to your repeated mistakes is now working in cahoots with that higher power to teach you the lesson.
This handout of crap that I'm now trying to hand back, wouldn't be so difficult to turn loose if my parents would have successfully guided me to listen without unfastening my lips to leave go of what I thought was the answer. Not even Bell had been taught that. Failing to figure it out on her own, she just as I, had to be head butted dead on in order to get the knowledge. She just never chose to adhere to the teachings.
"Bell put that liquor down."
"Don't tell me what the hell to do!"
"You're spillin' it all over the place! Won't you just wait 'til we get somewhere still!"
Bell's interest in what she was putting in her mouth verses what was coming out of Dumps had allowed his first remark to slide by without catching hook, but from the moment his second grouping of words rolled off his tongue, he immediately felt regret for ever letting his tongue do the talking.
Using the hammer she held by her hip, Bell swung down, meeting Dumps neck halfway on a connection to his head. The tap dance of iron onto Dumps thoughts had come so fast that he'd thought he'd been shot. Dump raised his hands in defense forgetting that he was driving the car. After clearing the curb, the car flipped twice, and came to rest on its side.
You would think that maybe, just maybe, Bell would have loved herself enough to be more careful. That wasn't her way, nor would it become a part of her thinking in the future.
Shaken, but aware of their surroundings, they managed to pull themselves out of the car. Shortly after the police arrived, it appeared to Bell that something was wrong. Not that they could go to jail for drunk driving while fighting under the influence, but that her head didn't have the coverage it had prior to the wreck.
"Where's my got-damn hair?"
"What do you mean ma'am," the policeman asked.
"Don't ask me what the hell I mean! Where's my damn hair?"
"Ma'am, it's braided down on your head."
"Not that hair dumb-ass! Where's my other hair?" Bell asked.
The policeman was puzzled. She must be delusional he thought to himself.
"I'm going to need you to come over here so that these men can get this mess cleaned up."
"I ain't going no got-damn where!"
"Bell, here it is," Dump said.
"That's not my hair!"
"It is," Dump replied.
Confused, the policeman remained quiet as he tried to grasp why this disheveled man was working to convince the disturbed woman that the road kill in his hand was her hair. Looking at Bells head, it was clear to him that her hair was still rooted to her scalp.
After a few shakes to remove the debris from the disheveled wig, Dump held it up again. Bell snatched the wig and placed it back on her head.
Actions such as those happened so frequently that any existence outside of it, to Bell, appeared abnormal.
Is it possible to be so openly blind of our own destructive ways, so unconscious of defaced portraits we've painted—then presented to ourselves—that we refuse to see what we dispel on others? If it is, what must it take to open our eyes? What has to happen to force us to see and face the hurt we deploy?
Whether it's Bell's rage or the passion for it that I've created and consumed within myself, it's no less powerful now in me than of what it was in her years ago.
The hardwood floor beneath my bottom is starting to remind me of my own reality. Reaching out for the glass I'd earlier placed by my side may not erase my memories, but it'll damn sure blurry my eyes long enough to keep me from seeing the images tide to them. After knocking it over, it's become evident to me, that I'm going to have to find another solution to remove the defected strand of events I've woven within the deceptive misunderstandings in my head.
Chapter Two
Jack Daniels is performing in my head. The play of Russian roulette with my feelings has left me with a shot womb that I can't stitch up. It's like there's a bullet submerged deep within, waiting for me to pull it out.How is it that I'm flat on the floor, and still in fear of falling?
Why is it that all attempts to bring myself comfort end in vain?
The separation of my fingers, when waved in my faceis beginning to 3D my emotions. I can't get up. Five minutes ago I tried, and having the coffee table catch the bone of my chin when my knees decided to bring me back down, was all I needed to confirm that I'm better off face down in my vomit.
The repetition of mistake feels as if it's condensing itself onto the right side of my brain. I'm beginning to wonder if this constant is merely the DNA of my makeup. At least the belief in that internally makes me feel better about the way my life looks to everyone else.
The acceptance of my current status has worked for those before me it seems. Hell, with all of the chaos that Bell created from day to day, it would appear only natural for her descendants to be inspired to live their lives just as she did. Though that may have been the case for some, one of the six of her children found a way to begin her story a little different.
Virginia's skin glowed with shades of amber and gold, a complexion like that found within combs of honey. Her wavy black locks surpassed the arch of her back, accenting the hour glass frame she carried below it. Though I and her other grandchildren carry the footprints of her beauty, it's in no way comparable to hers: then nor now.
Amidst all of the hell that surrounded her, Virginia had come to establish an undeniable relationship with God. She would walk to church in her worn high-heeled shoes with each step as confidant as the last. It was difficult, but she remained focused, and never allowed her mother's ways to deviate her from her purpose of gaining the respect she deserved.
All that Virginia had come to expect of love was what she had seen expressed between her parents, and that wasn't the type of love she wanted. To avoid mimicking their relationship, she made sure to steer away from the possibilities of every having one.
The small town of Axton was nothing you would ever notice on a map. Even when highlighted, it was a sure bet that its location would be overlooked. Still, those that lived there made the best of what the rural community had to offer. Most of the young followed the life that their parents left behind, and that left little room for change. The format had been put into practice for so long that the idea of doing something different never came to mind.
None of that made a difference to Virginia. As far as she was concerned, her days in that town were soon coming to an end. Ready to hop aboard the first chance of escaping the burdens handed down to her, she sat waiting for her opportunity to get out.
There is always a moment that occurs in our lives where we become faced head on with having to take Jump Street or Train Wreck Avenue. Riding one leads you to your dreams, while the other keeps you from them. Normally the random selection of the one that appears to offer a path closest to the things you want out of life will suffice, but there are times when people intervene and make that choice for you. You'll be miles down without ever realizing that you've grabbed hold of the hand that got you there. Whether or not Virginia knew it, Lawrence Martin was about to extend that hand to her. He, just like many other men, found grandma's ability to avoid corruption, to be a virtue they wanted physically to connect to.
Lawrence hadn't ever expressed his infatuation towards Virginia directly, but it was during a weekend at the county fair that he one day was given his opportunity to take a stab at it.
"Bell, come here girl."
"Bell? Your tangles with my mama have you confused," Virginia responded.
Offended, but liking the attention Lawrence continued, "Well, looking at you is like looking at ya'mama."
Six-foot, two-inches tall, firm build with fair yellow skin, Lawrence was quite easy on the eyes. The mere parting of his lips to form a word had women pulling their panties off. He couldn't tell you what the cover of a bible looked like, but he had the creativity needed to recite and quote his own story of Christ. That was all he needed to capture Virginia's attention. His rendition, though full of errors, soon forged the ingredients needed to explore what became a shitted relationship.
On most occasions, going on a typical date with Lawrence, meant that Virginia would be picked up, and then dropped off at his mother's house. Once there, he would insist that she stay to assist his mother with his siblings. He would then leave and stay out for days before returning. His obtuse actions should have foreshadowed what was to come should she chose a life with him, but the longing for an escape kept Virginia from seeing his flaws.
It wasn't long before Lawrence's sweet words talked Virginia into giving him her hand in marriage. As soon as he had her hand, he had her pregnant. They lived with his parents for some time, but after the birth of their first child, it became evident that they had to find a place of their own.
Lawrence's older brother, Big Boy, had a home with his wife deep in the soul of Axton. That house was hidden so far down in the bush of that town, that one would have needed a guide to find it. There was an older house beside theirs that sat empty for some time. Its long driveway draped the bottom of huge trees, ending its run parallel to a small creek. After seeing the land that came along with it, Lawrence wasted no time scooping it up.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from BROKEN PATH TO PURPLE RAINBOWS by Curtis Pritchett Copyright © 2012 by Curtis Pritchett. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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