Rage
There were three of you. Young and strong. Evil and ruthless. And one late April night, you removed a screen, broke out a window, and entered into my grandmother’s house.
She was awakened, blinded, struggling for air, with a pillow thrust down over her face. She didn’t die. In frustration, you tried to strangle her. Wrapping your young, strong hands around her frail, thin neck, and still she did not die. The three of you then tried to merely beat her to death. With a length of pipe, with a baseball bat, with you fists, you beat her until she was almost unrecognizable as a human being. And when she still lived, you tied her, at last, to a chair, and then went on to ransack her house.
You stole her jewelry. You stole her silver. You stole gadgets and memories. You were such idiots you stole original artwork. And at some time in that awful night, you stole my grandmother.
You fools! What threat did she pose to you? This tiny 74 year old woman? Had you awakened her and asked, she would have served you coffee and told you where the good jewelry was. The jewelry you didn’t find.
Long after you left, she freed herself. After finding the phone lines cut, she crept her way to a neighbor’s house. A neighbor she had known for 30 years didn’t recognize her. Wondered who was this black woman heaped on his doorstep at 4 a.m. Once he heard her voice, he knew. She wasn’t black. She was merely beaten black. He sprang into action. Called the police. Called my parents. Rushed her to the hospital. Stayed with her until my parents arrived.
I got the phone call at 7 a.m. I barely remember throwing things into a bag, rushing to my car, driving the long highway home to be at her side. When I arrived, she was with her minister. Telling him every wretched detail. A thing she would repeat over and over with each new visitor.
The very sight of her shook me to my core. I have never seen someone so badly beaten. Never before and never since. Her misshapen face was cole black with deep maroon beneath. Her cheekbones and nose were broken. Even in the deep blackness I could see the clear handprints at her throat, the bruises dripping down her chest to her broken ribs.
You were caught, of course. All three of you. The jewelry and the silver and the things were all returned. A deal was struck with the D.A. and you spent three years in prison. Three years! For the utter destruction of a woman. For a life destroyed beyond repair.
She did not die that night, but she was never the same. The woman I knew as my grandmother vanished, and in her place was a bitter, mean, old woman. Given to flaring tempers, and averse to company of any sort. She tolerated my visits from then on, but I don’t think she ever again enjoyed my company.
As a child, she had been my one safe place in a world that was horrifically, wholly unsafe. She had been my friend, my confidante, my playmate, the heart and soul of all my best childhood memories.
She is long dead now. She died alone, she died a wreckage of the woman she had been.
And if I ever see one of you, catch even a glimpse, I will hunt you down and I will end you.
My heart is bitter and vengeful. My heart is full of rage.
She was awakened, blinded, struggling for air, with a pillow thrust down over her face. She didn’t die. In frustration, you tried to strangle her. Wrapping your young, strong hands around her frail, thin neck, and still she did not die. The three of you then tried to merely beat her to death. With a length of pipe, with a baseball bat, with you fists, you beat her until she was almost unrecognizable as a human being. And when she still lived, you tied her, at last, to a chair, and then went on to ransack her house.
You stole her jewelry. You stole her silver. You stole gadgets and memories. You were such idiots you stole original artwork. And at some time in that awful night, you stole my grandmother.
You fools! What threat did she pose to you? This tiny 74 year old woman? Had you awakened her and asked, she would have served you coffee and told you where the good jewelry was. The jewelry you didn’t find.
Long after you left, she freed herself. After finding the phone lines cut, she crept her way to a neighbor’s house. A neighbor she had known for 30 years didn’t recognize her. Wondered who was this black woman heaped on his doorstep at 4 a.m. Once he heard her voice, he knew. She wasn’t black. She was merely beaten black. He sprang into action. Called the police. Called my parents. Rushed her to the hospital. Stayed with her until my parents arrived.
I got the phone call at 7 a.m. I barely remember throwing things into a bag, rushing to my car, driving the long highway home to be at her side. When I arrived, she was with her minister. Telling him every wretched detail. A thing she would repeat over and over with each new visitor.
The very sight of her shook me to my core. I have never seen someone so badly beaten. Never before and never since. Her misshapen face was cole black with deep maroon beneath. Her cheekbones and nose were broken. Even in the deep blackness I could see the clear handprints at her throat, the bruises dripping down her chest to her broken ribs.
You were caught, of course. All three of you. The jewelry and the silver and the things were all returned. A deal was struck with the D.A. and you spent three years in prison. Three years! For the utter destruction of a woman. For a life destroyed beyond repair.
She did not die that night, but she was never the same. The woman I knew as my grandmother vanished, and in her place was a bitter, mean, old woman. Given to flaring tempers, and averse to company of any sort. She tolerated my visits from then on, but I don’t think she ever again enjoyed my company.
As a child, she had been my one safe place in a world that was horrifically, wholly unsafe. She had been my friend, my confidante, my playmate, the heart and soul of all my best childhood memories.
She is long dead now. She died alone, she died a wreckage of the woman she had been.
And if I ever see one of you, catch even a glimpse, I will hunt you down and I will end you.
My heart is bitter and vengeful. My heart is full of rage.
posted by Cala Lily at Sunday, December 18, 2005
2 Comments:
I'd be a fool to try and comment on this.
I'll just say thank you for writing it.
Amy
Words alone
cannot express
my sorrow
upon reading
of this.
These demons
will burn
in hell
for eternity
along with
the DA.
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