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Momma had dressed me in my best Sunday dress, and my hair was curled just so. I could still smell the noxious fumes from the hair spray she'd insisted upon. "We have to make you look presentable. Can't have anyone thinking we're ashamed, now can we?"
The car ride was quiet. What more was there to say? The secrets had been revealed - now we all had to face the consequences. Papa turned on the radio, and I was grateful. Silence isn't always golden. Sometimes its tainted red with anger, or black with hate.
"Lili, you make sure to say exactly what I told you this morning, you understand? This is your brother we're talking about. He may have done wrong by you, but two wrongs don't make a right."
The court room wasn't what I expected. There was no high ceiling with fans whirling stale air around. The baliff wasn't fat or balding. In fact the baliff wasn't even a man. She didn't stare contemptuously out at the crowd either. One too many "Matlock" episodes, perhaps. But what surprised me most was the judge. He wasn't old and gray with a permanent frown on his face, and he wasn't in sweeping black robes. He only rapped his gavel once for attention, and he rather looked like he detested the tradition.
I listened to the opening statements and the initial proceedings that I still don't understand with baited breath. I didn't move or speak or so much as twitch until my brother came into the room. My very soul seemed paralyzed.
He was in the standard screaming-orange jumper, and his twelve-year-old hands and legs were shackled. The chains clinked quietly with each step he took, but their damning song echoed horribly in the silence. My eyes never left him. He cast me a single look from his seat, a look I couldn't read with my eight-year-old mind, and never looked at me again. Guilt doesn't like to show its face.
There were more proceedings and long, boring speeches. Then my name was called. I was startled and jumped as it was called again. I stood and stole a glance at my papa. He smiled at me reassuringly, looking strained. I looked at my mother and she beckoned me closer. "Remember what I told you." She kissed my cheek and smoothed my hair, like a mother should. "He's blood, and I won't have you ruin his reputation over something so silly."
I walked to the chair our lawyer pointed to. I put my hand on the Bible and I swore the Oath. I looked at the judge and he smiled down at me. "Do you understand the oath you've just taken, young lady?" His voice was kind and gentle. I nodded. "You'll need to speak into the microphone." He smiled again.
"Yes, Sir." My voice echoed inside my own head. I had just sworn to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. So help me God.
"Okay, I have a few questions I need you to answer for me. Can you do that?"
"Yes, Sir." The echoes again.
"Is your brother in this room?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Can you point him out to me?"
I pointed. "Yes, Sir" again.
"Did he hurt you in any way?"
I looked at my mother, then my father, then my brother one last time. My gaze fell back upon the Bible the baliff had set aside. My heart, so still all this time, finally began to beat. All I could hear was blood thundering in my ears and the soft whisper of my breath coming in and out in short gasps. I thought I might faint.
"Lili, please answer the question. Did your brother hurt you in any way?"
The oath I had just taken repeated in my mind, and I found myself crying softly. "Yes, Sir," I whispered, and silence so complete I could have gone deaf fell on the room. I stared at my brother, who was determinedly staring at his own hands, and I confessed all his silly sins for him.
©Lilian Leader 2006
- Place:Home
- Music:Skillet - Say Goodbye
Its sad when your best friend is a computer screen. Pathetic that you can pour your heart and soul into a keyboard before you can dare bare it to living breathing person. And ultimately pointless too.
My brain knows all of that. It's screaming at me to find someone to talk to. Someone to trust. To ask for help. It's the last one that's hard. I've never been very good at asking for help. I can give it in a heart beat. Need advice - here's what you do. Need help moving, I'll be over at noon. Want to talk, my ear is always open. I know what to do when your life is a disaster, but what about mine?
How do I admit, out loud, that I have no idea what to do? That I don't even know what's wrong? But something is terribly wrong. Horribly wrong. Unimaginably wrong. Tears aren't supposed to fall so much they run dry, and smiles shouldn't be so brittle they'll crack under pressure. Heart beats aren't supposed to climb so high it hurts to breathe, and your own thoughts aren't supposed to destroy you.
But mine do. Everyday.
You're not good enough. You don't matter. You're dirty, used up, washed out. Why do you bother? You know you'll always fail. Life is just too hard. It's your fault. Your. Fault.
How do I ask for help with that?
Chapter 1:
My grandma used to say that life is like a river. It flows over rough patches and smooth patches alike. I never really knew what grandma meant by that. For me, life is a cage, and I'm the animal in the zoo. Fingers prod me, faces stare, and garbage always manages to find a way inside the bars.
My name is Roxanne DeWalt, but people call me Roxy. I'm fourteen years old, and this is my diary. I don't know what the purpose of writing all of this out is yet. I'm told that writing is supposed to be healing though, so I figure it can't hurt. If ever there was a girl in need of a little healing, it's me.
But let's start with the basics. I go to PS 113 in Boston, Massachuesettes. I live in a two bedroom apartment with my mother and two younger sisters. Mom works three jobs to keep food on the table and never lets me forget it. Deidrah and Natalie are my sisters - three and eight. All of us have different daddies. Trademark of a single mother in the big city.
I like to draw. It's the only thing I'm really any good at, but Mom says that pretty pictures don't buy college educations. I haven't had an art class since the fourth grade, but that's alright. I know Mom only wants what's best for me. She may be single and hard-working and just a little bitter towards men, but she loves me and my sisters.
My daddy left when I was five. He just packed up and left one day and we never saw him again. I have a picture of him that I keep under my mattress so Mom won't see. Sometimes, I take it out and just stare at it, trying to find a part of myself in that man's eyes. So far I haven't seen anything but my nose. And that's not exactly what I'm looking for.
Diedrah's daddy left when Mom told him she was pregnant. At least my daddy stuck it out for a few years. Natalie's is the really sad tale though. Her daddy put a ring on Momma's finger the same day he got hit by a taxi. I actually liked Derrik too. But, life goes on.
There's Mom hollering at me to finish the dishes. I'll be back to write more.
TBC
~Lili
but do you know the meaning?
Emotion is not the only ingrediant
your readers should be gleaning;
all emotions we know well
can you paint them in a picture
with sounds that smell?
waiting for its face?
Or does your pen hover
staying in a single place?
Has it traversed the edges
of each corner of the earth?
Has it reached for the untouchable
sprinted through the universe?
to bring beauty, even in pain?
Can you show instead of say
that the meadow needs a rain?
that you know Writing's kiss?
Looking in the mirror
I'll tell you what I see,
the shadow of a woman
supposedly me.
A scar runs from her chin
to her dull green eye
the mark left by pain
and ever-present lie.
Skin that's almost see-through
except for a patch of black,
the yellow around it -
results of talking back.
Hair hangs thick
around her sallow face
and her lips twitch
to keep the smile in place.
The shadow has no voice
can't laugh or sing or speak;
She's trained now,
humble, small, and meek.
Looking in a mirror
I'll tell you what I see:
the shadow of a woman
that once was me.
~Lili
Once I might have cared -
but my heart, its shriveled,
petty, small, and scared.
It beats but barely
and can't stand another blow;
it won't open the door again
so don't buy tickets to the show.
Thorns have pierced it
and still it bleeds
bandaids can't heal these wounds
and time's not all it needs.
Come to me with begging eyes
and tearful confessions;
If you want my advice,
pay me for the sessions.
No more a servant to your will
called upon when you choose
I flipped the coin, you called tail
lucky heads, you lose.
