"Is there any more Gatoraid?"
"No, that was the last one. Come on, we'd better pack up."
The picnic was over. Their friends headed to campus and they headed to their rental house. Good times man. Good times.
When they got home the phone was ringing. Carla ran to get it. "Monnie it's for you!"
Monnie picked up the phone.
"Hello?"
"Monnie?"
"Hey Greg...what's up?"
"Monnie...you gotta go home."
"What?" pointing to Carla where to drop the cooler.
"My mother said something bad has happened at your parent's home. Police are surrounding it."
"What?"
"Yeah...they say your father is holding the police off with guns. You gotta go home."
OH MY GOD.
She hung up the phone and called home. The phone rang and rang. She hung up.
She called her Grandmother.
"Grandmother...what's wrong?"
"They say he done shot my baby. They say he done shot my baby."
She grabbed the keys to the car and ran to it. Carla ran out behind her. She couldn't speak. Wouldn't speak. She punched the accelerator and backed out. The Toyota squealing against the street.
She got on the interstate and drove the twenty minutes to her parents home. She didn't stop for any lights once she'd determined it was safe to continue through. Once she crossed the bridge she was in her town. No one would stop her and if they tried to she'd explain once she got home.
No one tried to stop her.
She turned to go to her parents neighborhood and noted there were no cars on the streets. She turned onto her street and saw the crowd. She continued on until she was almost there and jumped out the car and ran the rest of the way.
Neighbors were gathered. People she'd known all her life. All distraught, all crying. The street was blocked off by police. They recognized her. Everyone did. She was home and everyone knew her.
She noted her brother handcuffed to the fence. She was stopped by police. By an officer she'd known all her life.
"Monnie...I can't let you go in there."
Her brother was limp. Hanging by his wrist. He looked tired. Spent. Defeated.
"WHY IS HE HANDCUFFED! LET MY BROTHER GO! LET MY BROTHER GO!"
She tackled the police trying to restrain her.
"Monnie...they are gone. He...he...your father...he killed your mother...and then he killed himself. They are gone."
And the roaring in her ears started. She closed her eyes agains the darkness that followed. She bit her teeth together tight against the pain. Hands reached out to her. She never like being touched by anyone other than her parents. She shook them off but they tried to hold her. She did the only thing she knew how to do. The thing that ensured her place as an Iron Person on her company's team. She ran.
She ran and ran and ran. When she stopped she couldn't breathe. She couldn't get the words out of her head.
They are gone. They are gone. Killed mother...killed himself.
They are gone. They are gone. Killed mother...killed himself.
She screamed and fell to the ground.
That night after the bodies were removed she went inside her parent's home. The police had cut out the spot in the carpet where the blood from her father has spilled. The blood had seeped through the wood beneath. It was a dark spot like it would be forever wet. Blood doesn't separate well. The blood in the kitchen had been cleaned. You know...the blood from her mother. It took her five minutes to die. Five minutes of knowing she was dying. With half her beautiful face blown off. Splatters of her blood on the cabinets, on the pantry door, on the legs of the table.
She never went inside that house again and whenever she remembers it...that's the scene she remembers first. All of her memories are tainted. All the good follows the thought of the worst.
My name is Monnie to my family. You know me as Monica Mingo...as CreoleInDC. You send me emails asking me what's wrong when I'm down. You send me your holy roller testimonies and tell me to keep my chin up and that I'll shake it off. You ask me what's wrong.
I bet you won't ask no mo.
You wanna know what I think about when I'm all fucked up inside? I think about my father, smart, funny, wonderful...aiming his 357 at my mother and pulling the trigger and then turning it on himself. Then...I think of the five minutes it took her to die.
Sometimes...the roaring in my ears returns and I gotta sit quiet.
I bet you won't ask no mo.
Call your parents and tell them you love them. And be gotdamn glad you can.
Remember...even though I'm FABULOUS...even though I'm the SHIT...it ain't always pretty bruh. Believe that. (LOL...and folks wonder why I get so fuggin mad sometimes.)
Peace out.
Homie.
