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Legacy V
Mental Mastrubation and Other Musings |
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I wake up to the sound of my voice continuing my grandmother’s scream as my body rigidly sitting upright in the bed. I see two silhouettes through blurry eyes entering the now darken room in a shaft of light and one of the figures grabs me. The other turns on the room light and Bryant’s familiar scent fills my nostrils but the memory of the dream of him biting off my tongue is fresh and I attempt to fight him off but he pulls me close restricting my arms. I slowly calm down. Over his shoulder the motel’s night manager stands bug eyed and says “She alright?” Bryant pulls me away and does a quick inspection placing his hands on my face and arms. “Baby, are you hurt?” I respond as I collapse in his arms and cry. Holding me with one arm he turns slightly to the night manager “I got it from here.” The night manager leaves and I go into full sob. What makes Bryant so incredible his intuitive nature when I’m distressed. He knew I needed comforting not questions. He cups the back of my head and lays it on his broad shoulder; the tips of his fingers massage my scalp as he rocks humming our favorite song in my ear. I calm down in the security of his loving embrace. “Feel safe?” he asks in a whisper. His hand in my hair slowly grips a tuft and jerks my head back. Once again I’m faced the maniacal younger version of my grand father I just dreamt about. Sneering he says, “You’re far from safe ya’ lying bitch?” Before I could respond big hands surround my throat and I feel my air supply cutting off rapidly. As I lose consciousness I hear the shrieking voice of the same baby I heard all those year ago . I’m on the living room floor at grandmother’s house. It’s dark and there is someone banging on the door. I touch my throat wondering what’s real and what is a dream? I hear Bryant calling out my name and I make my way to the front door but I hesitate to open it. “Let me in baby. It’s me.” “ What’s wrong with you? Open the door.” He very annoyed. His head is backlit by a liar’s moon and the eerie glow adds to his distorted features caught in the ornate etching of the front door window. Fed up with freaky dreams I decide to get the jump on the situation. I fling the door open; windmill him with all my might. He steps back tripping over the dropped bag, and carries me with him. “Shit!” he yells after the back of his head bounces on the hard wood floor. I collapse on top of him quickly rolling off as I push away. “What is wrong with you?” You can hear the fear blended with the anger in his voice. I begin to cry just as I did when my grandmother tied me to the tree that fateful night. Between the bizarre happenings of the day and the never-ending nightmare I have no words to explain the depths of my terror. Despite my wild behavior he crawls over in pain and sits against the front porch banister grabbing me. Though we barely can see each on the darken porch our mutual mix emotions linger like a thick fog between us. He pulls me close and I warily lay tense in his arms. Softly he asks, “What’s wrong Zion?” I tell him about the reading of the will, my aunt’s protest, my coming to the house. By the time I mention the dead baby in the attic, my aunt’s departure, and the never-ending nightmare I’m sobbing again and Bryant patiently waits for me to calm down. Wobbly he rises with my assistance as apologize for my “greeting.” As we walk through the dining room we pass the sideboard where the red velvet box sits and the urge to take it with us never gets strong enough for me to pick it up. As we head towards the bedroom to drop his bags off he says, “I know you’re very upset and scared but I want to see this baby.” The knot of anxiety tightens in my stomach. I want to show him but I’m scared shitless. “I won’t let anything bad happen to you.” I giggle at the irony of his promise of protection. “What part of supernatural don’t you understand, Bryant?” I asked. “Obviously the pressure of the day has your mind’s playing tricks on you.” My anger ignited by his condescending response motivates me to move beyond my raw feelings. “Let’s go the attic.” I say with conviction. Grabbing his hand we go down the hall where portraits of dead ancestors watch us walk pass. I know they are the real keepers of the secrets of this house. At the attic door the knot tightens. “I’ll go first,” he says. So gallant, so naive. I give him the key I now wear around my neck. He opens the door and up we go into the dark unknown. The light switch at the bottom of the stairs doesn’t work. He turns on the flashlight he brought and it acts light a spotlight on the attic’s creepy contents. From behind his back I direct him to the chest where I found the baby and I can’t believe it! All the satin sheets that I left strewn on the floor was gone and the chest closed. I wanted to say something to Bryant but he’d add to other strange things I told him. We slowly walk towards the chest as the goose bumps rise all over my body. He asks for the next key and I give with trembling hand. The lock turns as I close my eyes and hear the creaking top. I open them and I see piles of vintage clothing folded in neat piles, which makes me grab at them until I hit bottom. “T-there was a dead baby in here. I swear!” I say in a panic. Masking skepticism he quietly says, “You’re stressed Zion –““My ass!” I yell. “A dead black baby with ice blue eyes starting at me was in a coffin right here a few hours ago and whether you believe me or not I saw it!” He had that look between confusion and sympathy.” “Don’t you dare Bryant Anthony! Don’t-you-dare not believe me! I’m telling you some real scary shit is going down and I need you to support me. At least fake it.” He slid his glasses on top of his head and rubbed his eyes, which is the signal he’d back me no matter how crazy things get. I had him turn the flashlight on the photo albums I looked at earlier as we headed back downstairs. Looked back at the chest washed in moon light from the window above gave me a chill. We went in the bedroom, sat on the bed, and began looking through the pictures and of course they were different. Why should creepy things stop happening now? All the ones that contained black people vanished and the photographs left were pale faces with stiff smiles and hollow eyes however . . .The last picture was a beautiful sepia toned photograph of my grandmother sitting in a rocking chair holding a baby in her arms with her sisters flanking her on either side like sentries. My grandmother had a pained smile while my aunt’s stoic faces held solemn secrets. I maintained my calm “This picture . . . this picture wasn’t here when I first looked at the album this afternoon. Look! The baby she’s holding is brown and wearing the same christening gown I saw in the chest.” “You know what? . . . Bryant gave me a look that was skeptical. How could I be mad at him? Every piece of evidence of the scary events of the day is changing and if I continue to act so erratically he’ll never believe. Taking a deep breath I calm down and look into the face of the only person who has ever shown me love and the fear goes quiet. “I don’t want to be scared any more.” “What do want to do?” he asks innocently. I take that as a cue to slow kiss him allowing my hands to slide towards familiar places. Pulling back, he says, “You sure?” I gave him the look that told him that I’m sending those emotions on a union break.” Before another word was said I sit on his lap and lick the scar behind his ear. The area’s hypersensitive and the next cue I not only want to have sex I want it long, rough and reckless. In seconds I forget the day’s proceedings and surrender to the rhythm of my lover’s arched back. We have sex, make love, fuck, grunt, cry, and yell each names until we we’re sore, tired, and hungry-No tongue biting or choking just Bryant, me and the our devotion for one another. We take a shower, dress and decide to go out for a bite. I feel rested and relaxed. The red velvet box left for me in the foyer that I sat on the buffet this afternoon, in now on the dashboard of Bryant’s rental car. His eyes widen and he jumps back as if he saw a snake. “How the hell did that get in here?” Think I’m imagining this now? I ask . . . (To be continued). Melissa E. Taylor copyright 2006