Facts to a Story tells of a fictional novel through the lonely and fearful eyes of the character "Daliah" out of the guts of Watts, California. Puzzling through her journey to obtain success despite her many trials and shortcomings; become astound how she blames insecurities of life through her defiant love triangles. Her fierce behavior of guilt, ongoing pain, suffered childhood, and means to use drugs to support her, versus the lost of morals with adultery, treacherous sex acts, and life threatening ordeals. The amazing ways she enters a identity process of redeemption as she mentors the mistress and meets the wife. Watch the fancinating dialogue as she reach back to her roots to endure the struggle. Daliah introduces a warm, loving, strong black woman when she regains stability to appreciate life and the finale of her haunted past love strikes again!
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Facts to a Story
By Kimberly Jordan
AuthorHouseCopyright © 2011 Kimberly Jordan
All right reserved.
Chapter OneFirst I have to start from where I believe my character has stemmed from.
I was the youngest of seven and never could I remember a father figure because my father was absent from the home. Most of my youth memories were shared with my brother John. I experienced a tremendous amount of pain, crime, fights, arguments, and child molestation just to name a few. Dealing with these different trials as a youth was difficult and disturbing. It was thought that cooking big meals, partying, drinking, and having family celebrations would be therapeutic to the many family tragedies we were faced with on a daily. Who could ever know and feel how deep the pain was driven in our souls, and how severely our hearts were suffering? The lack of love and family unity drove us further and further apart.
I moved around a lot. We lived in many different cities throughout the Los Angeles County, from four families in one black owned home, to living in the housing projects, where life and priorities could easily be placed in their wrong perspectives.
At the age of three I witnessed a man cutting my Mom with a razorblade under her chin from ear to ear. My brother John and I were there, a scary and horrifying time for us. I can remember it like it was yesterday; blood pouring through her hands and in between her fingers as she held her chin. The night was cold, the whisper of its wind appearing when you talked. When the police car pulled up to the scene the commotion became more intense, the police lights ricocheting off the walls of the apartment. I cried tears of "rescue me" as the policemen escorted my brother and I away from everything, secluding us from the awful environment. We looked back at our Mom in pity, but it was too late because we were already traumatized.
Because we were so young, we had no idea what led to this shocking crisis, but later on, when I got older I found out the story. My Mom was dating this man, and he was very jealous. On that particular night she did not want to go out with him, but he was obsessed with her and thought out a way to be at her front door once she returned home from the club. He told her she still owed him some money for some drugs he had sold her, even though she had already made plans to pay him, plans that he was well aware of. He used his malicious thinking to provoke his anger, and before my Mom could answer the question "where's my money?" he pulled out the razor and sliced her under the chin from ear to ear over a twenty-dollar debt. He fled from the door immediately with the razor and they never found him or the weapon. It was a senseless and dangerous thing for all of us to overcome.
As the years passed, my Mom married a man named Frank. Maybe if her choices in men were different then my own relationship choices would have led to success and longevity, instead of the poor relationship decisions I have put myself through over the years. Her husband was definitely a mentally sick, persuasive, abusive, and controlling man. My mom said he had everything planned out; what he wanted, he accomplished it. It was his destiny to molest me and bribe me with money. I was only six years old, my innocent body touched by his disgusting and despicable hands. Him molesting me caused the distant relationship my mother and I have today. Since the time of the molestation until I was about 27 years of age, I felt my Mom did not love me because I was under the impression that she never filed any legal action against Frank. He never went to jail, and there was never any justice served and he was free to molest again. After about 20 years I found out my Mom did in fact go to the police, only for them to respond that there was not enough evidence for them to pick him up for the accusations. In my thoughts I replay the same questions till this day; "So, how can you question one taking the law into their own hands? How is the victim supposed to feel? What about me?"
It still hurts today, yesterday, then and in the future it never ends. He consciously fondled with my genital parts and watched my body squirm. If I knew any better, I probably would have barfed. But, as a kid I was taught to be obedient to my elders, and low and behold, I trusted him to physically rape me with his hands and his dirty mind. The way he looked at me with those disturbing eyes of guilt, but also eyes of comfort as his hands began to touch my private parts and rub me vigorously. As I saw the rise to his dick, and the more vigorously he rubbed me, and when I let out an annoying holler, he covered my mouth with his other hand and continued with a firm look on his face signaling me to be quiet. I obeyed his intense and disgraceful stare.
Imagine a grown ass man letting your daughter feel what she don't know is part of a man's penis and a man's sperm.
Well he placed it in my mouth and wiggled it inside as far as it could go or maybe I'm just a sick and abused little girl and being an adult telling the story, I have subconsciously forgot the details, so let me pause a moment ...
He laid me alongside him and pretended to talk to me with innocence. He told me not to tell and in return he would give me money. It happened, I'm sure, many times, but my disrupted memory only allows me to remember about four of them. I knew this had to be wrong, but I guess I thought it would stop and things would get better; that maybe I would not have to feel weird because I would be intimidated to keep a secret that battled my honesty within. I became numb and managed to block out what happened. Even at that young age, my subconscious prepared to help me protect myself by covering over things or imagining that they never happened. So, my subconscious has delivered me from blame or guilt and I was temporarily free to feel that this hateful time had never happened. Although at the moment, I think its over, from within I can see myself as my own enemy because the emotions I felt were real, and will always be there to hurt and haunt me in the long run.
Thank God my conscience spoke louder than the secrecy and the fear. So I built up the confidence and courage to confide in John. I remembered the words of my grandmother; "always tell the truth, because the truth will set you free." My grandmother was a very special person in all of our lives. A portion of her soul in some way is carried within her children and grandchildren. She was recognized as the neighborhood Mom. When new people were introduced to her she said, "Hello, I'm Momma." I love that lady so much and I miss her something terrible, R.I.P. A lot of her I see in me.
Come to think of it, it's crazy that the son of a bitch offered me a dollar not to tell anyone what he had done! So, as a kid when you get money and your other siblings have none you go and tease them about what you got.
So of course my brother said, "Who gave you that dollar I want one too." As I began to tell him the story his eyes got big as he hollered "Ohhh! Ohhh! I'm telling Momma!" And here I am standing wondering why I would be in trouble with momma when my stepfather was the one who told me not to tell! So now I'm crying because I'm scared I'm going to get a whooping by my Mom and my stepfather. I cried a cry that let everyone in the house know something was wrong.
So immediately when our stepfather heard me he came running saying, "What is wrong with her?"
"Ummmm, Thomas hit her." My brother lied, knowing he couldn't let Frank know that he was aware of what Frank had done to me. Frank decided to remove me from the room as if he was the one who could protect me better, and there I was thinking "this is the muthafucker I'm scared of the most." Soon after,John managed to get the information to my Mom. She was at work trying to keep food on the table while her no good ass husband was at home molesting her daughter.
Upon my Mom knowing what her so-called husband had done to her precious daughter she was in turmoil and hurt but did not have money to get back to California. However, she was not confused about getting me to safety, it was a must. She called to California to many friends and family to get money to get back home. She knew she had to play it safe because Frank was not only a molester, but also a woman beater. He would always fight my Mom something terrible. My Mom made arrangements to get on the Greyhound bus leaving two of my brothers behind to get me away from this sick man. She jeopardized the safety of the other two kids because she only had enough money for the two of us and she would send for them once she got back to California, thinking to herself "I'm sure he won't molest boys." But I was so young then, and wasn't sure of all the details. I blamed my mother from that day forward because I thought she stayed with Frank, even after she found out what he had done to me.
* * *
I never got to know my biological father while I was a child but I dreamed of being a Daddy's Girl. In my mind I needed him at this break of my life to protect me and beat Frank ass.
Anyway, after my Mom swindled the child molester out of her life she became very religious as a Jehovah's Witness. She never brought another man under her roof to live or spend the night after what Frank had done, and from then on I never remember seeing another man seriously in her life.
Prior to the Frank incident, my mother associated herself deeply with the 70s lifestyle where "pill popping" and selling drugs was the thing to do. I could remember Mom fighting with her boyfriends over drugs, and how her own drug usage altered her behavior as a parent. We were in and out of foster homes as a result. My Dad's life was no better. He was a heroine addict so even if he was around, he wouldn't have been no help. My sister Dee and I shared the same father and mother, but I was always envious of her because my grandmother took responsibility to raise her due to the life my mom was living. Periodically my other sisters and brothers would also reside with my grandmother, but not John and me. We were the "step-kids."
My father also stayed in and out of prison. By the time my siblings and I built a relationship with him we were grown and he had been diagnosed as HIV positive. About ten years later he died from complications due to pneumonia. Before that tragedy he had the chance to see all of his kids meet one another, despite that fact that most of us had different moms. He always expressed so much concern about his kids. He wanted us to share in each others lives, and despite our differences we carry that legacy on to this day. We spent immeasurable, priceless moments with him before HIV controlled his health. I got to know his love of music and his fascinating character, a side of him that I myself have.
In his last days at St. Francis hospital, we all spent time with him. I cleaned him when he pooped.
I remembered him saying with the weakest voice I've ever heard,
"Baby I feel so embarrassed that you have to clean me."
The tears that filled my eyes couldn't even fall because I was so elated by the feeling of helping him when he needed me the most.
I replied to him "Daddy you're my daddy no matter what and if you need me to do anything I'm here for you."
The statement released whatever guilt he ever felt for not being there because at that moment he was reassured that I love him. Momentarily the silence was felt and I begin to straighten his bed and wash my hands.
He continued bravely, saying, "Baby, I'm scared and I don't want to die." His voice was muffled, trying to refrain from crying. Tears filled both of our brown slanted eyes, and I tried to hold them back as they fell down my round cheeks in abundance. It felt like I couldn't breathe. I had to keep my composure, for as I looked into my father's eyes, he looked worried as if he wanted to say sorry for what he had no control over and for what he thought he could have made better. Instantly I grabbed and held him and said "Daddy, you will be ok." I couldn't let him know that I too was scared, and from my medical knowledge, I knew very well that he was not going to make it through. I had to lie to my Daddy to make him feel the comfort and ease he needed to go without suffering anymore. Daddy passed four days later without me by his side, but with all the care and love I gave him in those last days, I felt I had earned the title of Daddy's Little Girl.
My older brother couldn't deal with daddy's death. He would walk off alone saying "I don't wanna see Daddy like this." He lost his mother to cancer when he was very young, and seeing his father ill caused a rebirth of the hurt he felt because of his mother's death. As life opens a new wound as an elaboration of old ones, some can't endure the intensity, and my brother became a victim of this. He committed suicide three months after we buried out father
Chapter TwoAt the age of fifteen I began to feel the wiggle between my legs, wow it drove my desire for a man. Peculiar, though frantically familiar was the tingly sensation that came from within and I was confused about whether I was a virgin or not, as Frank appeared from the haunted past through my damaged and hurtful memories. Consciously, my mind played tricks on me, making me believe he was the reason I felt exotic and not because of the natural change that happens to women. I began to battle within, thoughts of
"Will I ever feel normal? Will I feel contaminated before I give my virginity to someone?" "Will I feel comfortable with the man I decide to place my belief in? Will he be gentle and safe with my body?" There was a guy who lived a few buildings down from me that found me attractive, and I gravitated to him and entertained the attention he showed me. As the months passed, the attraction grew stronger between Denzel and I.
Denzel and I tried to be shifty when we decided to have sex for the first time. It was not even close to what I had imagined, or what I had seen on TV. Of course, it started with kissing, and that part was fun and romantic. It made me feel like I was grown and in control of a decision. However, what I did not know was that it was also Denzel's first time. "Typical guy, always putting so much emphasis on sex when they are the main ones that are virgins."
We had already removed our pants, as he lifted up my shirt to unfasten my bra so that he could suck on my nipples and kiss me on my neck. . At the time, I wasn't quite sure what to feel and how to react, although the physical touch felt good and made my body warm inside. I felt something I now can identify as passion course through my body, and I was ready to fuck. I had talked to other females about sex, and they told me that the first time would hurt, but I had told myself that I would be tough and not let that fear of pain intimidate me, and that's exactly what I did. Little did I know, there was no need to work up all of my courage because Denzel was so aroused before he could get it in, he had already came. I got my body all tensed up for pain and this fool tried to put a soft penis in my vagina. I didn't know any better, so I'm just a humping away, following his lead because he was too embarrassed to tell me what had happened. It was then that I realized that sex should be between two mature, consenting adults, and not between a boy and a girl.
So by the time I was approximately three months shy of sixteen, I had fake-lost my virginity, by Denzel Hayes. He was a good pick as far as looks go, kind of short but taller than me. He was a stocky guy and somewhat fat in other areas, with thick smooth eyebrows and fair skin that gave him a reddish brown tone. His lips were suckable and so soft that when they touched my skin they made me melt. His eyes made him EVERYTHING though. Light brown, complete by the long eyelashes that made him look like he wore eyeliner. Denzel didn't have his head on the right track because he sold drugs and he was not serious about his education. We were both young, but of course we felt like we were ready and the fact he sold drugs did not discourage me from getting to know him better. He even cheated on me several times before we could call ourselves a "couple" but that was alright, because while he was getting his, I was getting mine. All the other stuff didn't matter because the challenge to be his girl caught my attention and the money he appeared to have combined with that thug life excited me. "All good girls want bad boys."
Young and naïve I became pregnant nine months later. I did not believe in abortions due to my temporary practice as a Jehovah's Witness, so we were faced with parenthood at an early age. I can remember like it was yesterday, me standing in the living room, slight bulge in the stomach in the early months.
"Baby, can I talk to you?" I said, fearing meeting his eyes.
"What?" He responded, hardly looking up from the TV.
"I said, I need to talk to you."
"Well go head, we both sitting right here."
"Remember, when you asked me if I ever cheated on you?" Now his eyes snapped away from the TV, and could see his nerves shaking him.
Excerpted from Facts to a Story by Kimberly Jordan Copyright © 2011 by Kimberly Jordan. 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.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
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Most Helpful Customer Reviews
Being a victim of many of the incidents that happen in the book I was delivered and I commend the author for her courage. I had a eye full of tears after only the first 3 pages that is how chilling it was for me! Definitely a writer of soul!
Once I picked up this book I found myself 3 hours later still reading and late for my appointment......great story!!!!
This book is full of surprises and truths woven into an intricate plot. I will never forget this book , it is eye opening and educational. This is a good read for people who have not experienced abuse and would like a better understanding. By the end of the book the reader cares about what happens to the lead character Daliah, even if we dont agree with all her choices. Hopefully , this book will encourage victims of abuse to speak out about their experiences and seek help.
As I was reading this book, I got more and more interested in this book. The drama in this book keeps you glued to know more of the story. I honestly finish the vook in 3 hours. Get the book now to be lost into the drama of this book, it is a can not put down book
Facts to a Story is a book that contains alot of real and emotional circumstances,in which the majority of society can relate. Facts to a Story is so realistic, while you are reading, it will be easy to feel and/or become part of the character'Daliah'. I enjoyed this book and I will recommend it for everyone that enjoys drama and suspence. This book will take you on a roller coaster ride of real life events that you will NEVER forget!