The Making of #A0210208 is a compelling story based on the factual events of a young woman's life. Expect to experience a diverse range of emotions as you take this intense journey with her while her life spins wildly in and out of control.
The innocence and adventures of her childhood will make you laugh out loud. The hopelessness she faces as she copes with unplanned teen pregnancy, rape, domestic violence and eventual drug addiction will wrench your heart.
The decisions she makes in the face of psychological dilemmas will leave you cheering her on or exasperated. The courage she rallies in the midst of the soul's darkest fears will leave you contemplating your own.
Each disturbing event leads to the next until, ultimately, she finds herself at a crossroad that will either change her life...or end it.
Barnes & Noble
The Making of #A0210208
We have been together now for just one year.
One year too long.
Our daughter is three months old. Life with Him has been unpredictable and insane. He is not who I thought Him to be.
Well, maybe He is, maybe I refused to see what I knew in my gut to be true.
Tonight we are going out. I look forward to the rare occasion that I can actually get out of this so called house, what used to be a warehouse, be out in the fresh air, breathe. I want to leave now, but He is not ready to leave just yet. He is standing by our bedroom door staring at me. He looks at me up and down, like potential prey, dressed up, makeup on, ready to devour. He smiles that evil smile.
“Get over here.”
I already know we will not leave this house until I am reminded that I am His one more time. I stand up and walk over to Him. He grabs my arm and pushes me into the room, onto the bed.
“Take off your clothes."
I do as I am told, not because I want this, but because I want to get out of here. I lay there, physically accepting His reminder that I am His. Mentally, I am already gone, out, having fun, away from here. He tries to make me feel His dominance by pushing and pulling harder and harder on top of me. He is trying to make me stay here with Him until He says I can go, but I can leave in my mind anytime I want.
Eventually it is over. I call myself back here just to put my clothes back on so we can physically leave now. He is smiling as we exit the front door of my prison. He has made His point as far as He is concerned. I don’t give Him any reason to believe otherwise. My reprieve depends on it. I smile. He laughs.
Hanging out on the strip in town with our friends, the only ones I can ever hang out with since I became His, the ones He knows, the ones that know Him, is my occasional saving Grace. When I am here, like this, I can actually relax, let myself pretend I am normal like our friends, carefree, happy. Normal. We sit on the curb, in front of the game room, drinking Bacardi mixed with coca-cola. This drink is perfectly mind numbing, an illegal mixture for someone my age, hidden safely within my soda cup. This mixture is also a saving Grace for me. When I am drinking it, I laugh, I feel big, I feel safe, in control. We’re hanging out, waiting for something to happen. Always hanging out, always waiting for something to go down.
We drink and we wait, making stupid remarks to the passing tourists, hoping to instigate some kind of drama. Then something does happen, we run out of alcohol. One of our friends that is there hanging out with us asks me if I’d go with him to his apartment up the street to grab some more Bacardi. Drunk and almost bored by then, I agree. It’s only okay to go because he is one of our friends. We get to his apartment, he goes in, I wait outside. He comes out holding two full bottles of Bacardi.
“Hey, I got two, let’s drink one ourselves, then take the other oneback.”
What the hell.
We walk around to the back of the building. It’s very dark.
Was that a chill?
If I were sober, I’d have known the weird itch in my back is actually the first tingle of cautionary warning. But I’m drunk, and I don’t.
We approach the cement trash bin enclosure where instead of a large bin, there is an old stained and dirty mattress. He leads the way.
“Let’s chill out here.”
“Um, I think we should go back.”
“Don’t worry, I got your back. We’ll be fast.”
“Well, okay, I guess. But we gotta hurry.”
If I were sober, I’d have known the shaking in my knees are indications of alcohol-obliterated fear, not signs of drunkenness. If I were sober, I wouldn’t be laughing. If I were sober, I would be aware of the language his eyes are speaking, but I’m drunk and I’m big, and I’m safe, and I’m in control.
We sit. We drink, I laugh, he laughs. Suddenly, I’m struggling to emerge from drunkenness to reality, quickly, quickly. I’m not laughing anymore.
What happened?! This is ALL wrong!
Now, I see his eyes. I hear and feel what they are saying.
I struggle to push him away from me.
“Let me GO! Get OFF of me! What the hell are you doing?!”
He covers my mouth, pushes me down. Pressing and smashing, pushing and forcing himself onto me, into me as I begin to understand the reality of what is happening. I have come here voluntarily, but I did not volunteer for this. He is taking pieces of me without my permission, like a thief, a robber, a burglar. It is there in his eyes. All I need to know.
As quick as the moment of clarity comes, so goes the will to fight him. I don’t have a chance, except in my silence. Silence. I drift. I’m good at this. When he is finished with me, he gets up and lowers his hand to help me get up, smiling. He is smiling. I close my eyes. I brace myself. I open them and look at him, my eyes begging.
Is it over, are you letting me go?
I ignore his hand, I loathe it, despise it, fear it. I don’t get up. I close my eyes and brace myself. I hurt. Everything inside of me hurts, my body bent and broken in ways it never should be. He hands me the last bottle of Bacardi.
“Here, take this. Let’s go back, I’ll meet you there.”
He walks away, zipping up his pants. Smiling. Satisfied, gratified. I sit up on the filthy mattress, it’s even dirtier now.
How many others have stained here?
I cry and I cry into my own hands. I look at my hands.
Do they belong to me?
They don’t look like mine. I sit crying, forever. I can’t move. I don’t understand. I don’t want to understand. He is gone from here, but not from me. He is still on me, in me, under my skin, crawling like bugs all over me, not willing to let me go as I had begged of him, at first out loud, and then again silently. I scream inside of my own mind, shrieking, screaming, crying, dying. Crying, confused, lost. It’s darker now here. I’m cold. My whole being is cold like an icicle. Hard and cold. I get up slowly. I begin walking back. I’ve walked this route a million times, but nothing looks familiar, nothing looks the same, I feel lost.
Where am I? It hurts…God it hurts so bad!
When I get back to our friends, I look at my best friend, pleading with my eyes for her to come to me. Because we grew up together, she understands the language of the eyes easily. She gets up, we walk away, in silence. Somehow knowing, as the currents pass between us undetected by those around us, that something very bad has happened. I look at her. She feels it, but then pushes it away. I can see this in her eyes. Accepts, rejects, knows, denies. She has survived this way for years. I don’t blame her for this, if she had to face all she has survived, she would not survive it.
We walk to the back street which is much more quiet and deserted. I tell her what happened. I cry outside and die inside the speaking out loud of what has happened. She looks at me in solidarity as she listens, solidarity that slowly transforms into doubt, and then disbelief.
“What? But, he’s our friend?! Are you sure? He just left us and said you guys had sex, not to tell you know who, and it was cool.”
I stare at her in greater disbelief than her own.
“What?! He said what?!”
She looks at me with confusion.
“I don’t understand.”
I look at her and suddenly I know I will never speak of this again. I begin to question myself the way she is questioning me. I was drunk.
Did I ask for it, like it, want it, allow it?
No! I KNOW the truth.
When he left me in the garbage bin enclosure, like yesterday’s trash, happy to be done with it, I know he took from me something that can never be replaced. Then, like pieces of a puzzle nearing completion, the picture becomes clearer, it starts to make sense. I really didn’t know him. He was not a friend. All the while, he knew what he was going to do. It didn’t just happen as it seemed. He knew. He planned. He plotted and schemed. He has done this before. I know that my best friend, the one who knows me, the one who really knows me, is finding it difficult to believe me. He is good at this horrible thing.
How will anyone else believe me?
I decide, right then, to bury it inside of me as far and as deep as it can go. I never speak of it again.