I"m Beatrice Kennedy, but everyone calls me Beat. I live a low-key life, fresh out of college and drifting from town to town until I find my home.
I love music, and how it stirs even the deepest and untouched parts of your soul. Depending on what you choose to listen to, would depend on what it touches. It"s the drug we all damper in, only different strains. My strain is Jazz. The smooth instrumental strums that take over me. The sound of cigar smoke, bourbon and an old dusty fedora hat. My strain wasn"t rap, and it sure wasn"t laced with some A-class shit like murky blue eyes casted down from the Lord and the Devil"s handcrafted smile. I knew who he was"the whole world did. One fateful night set off a chain of events, events that no one was coming back from. You can"t save people who don"t want to be saved. You can"t pull them up from the ocean when they"ve latched themselves to an anchor. Love was my anchor, destruction was the water that was drowning me, and the rope that was so tightly clamped around my ankles, was woven with the lyrics of Aeron Romanov-Reed, also known as, ‘Manik. He steals hearts from all around the world, but one night, he stole
something that wasn"t his to steal.
Me.Books by Author:Amo Jones Books
Cell bars melt together in dark waves of distress, the roof a salient contrast. The cold concrete floor I lay on is stained in puddles of damp old urine that rubs against my flesh. I clench my eyes closed and count to three.
My eyes open but I"m still here, sort of. Things look warped, strange, but I"m still in my nightmare. A nightmare that I will never wake up from. I stare down at my legs, my very real legs, and see that it can"t possibly be fabricated from some subconscious part of my brain. Everything is real. Very freaking real.
"Who are you, Beatrice""" someone asked from the corner of the room. His voice is deep, swimming with familiarity. My head pounds behind my eyes and sweat trickles down the side of my temples to the back of my head.
I cranked my neck, turning my head toward the sound, desperate to see who owned the voice that left a foul echo inside my mind.
Where the hell am I"
Why is my brain fuzzy"
"What"" I inched up onto my elbows, only to fall back down from the room buzzing in and out. Was that a cat" Three doors" Three windows" No. There are no windows in a cell. Everything was distorted by manipulation.
Heavy footsteps thudded closer, and for a second, I thought it matched my heart. "I said, who are you, Beatrice""
"Who are you"" I counter, tilting my head, trying my hardest to see. "Did you drug me"" I asked, confused by my vision going black and then coming back in. Nothing ever stayed in focus long enough.
He finally stepped out of the dark shadow of the corner. "Sorry, Cub, but since new revelations have come to light"" I didn"t have to see to recognize the voice. Now that it"s closer and the haze of my brain isn"t as marbled as it was, it feels more familiar.
He kneeled beside my bed, but I lay back anyway, scrunching my eyes closed. I don"t want to see him. I don"t want to feel him. I thought I ran from him, far enough to have him not catch me. ""You"re no longer something I need to keep alive. Now you"re something I need to kill and bury"like you should have been a long time ago."
Who am I"
"Hit "Em Up""2Pac
When I was a little girl, my grandpa, who I called "Pops" would tell me "Bea, you"re just like your Nona. You have so much fight in you. A little spitfire. Just remember, that it doesn"t matter the size of the dog, what matters is the size of the fight inside the dog. We all have good and bad in us, Bea, make sure you feed the right one."
Through high school and college, I had that embedded in my brain. When I would get bullied, I would tell myself to "feed the right fire""Until, I broke Jackson Peterson"s nose for touching my, then best friend"s, ass. Yeah, I got suspended for that, never mind the fact this limp dick jock just inappropriately groped someone. His excuse" Was that she was wearing a short skirt, so she was obviously screaming for attention.
There was screaming after that, but it wasn"t from her. There was a lot of blood and crunching bones, and I was slightly worried about how my pops would react to what I had just done. Only when he picked me up from school, he took me to get a chocolate shake at our local diner and squeezed my hand. "You did good, kid. Must have been one helluva right hook. You get that from your nona too." In his eyes, I got everything from my nona. A few years later, on the day of my graduation, my pops passed away. I went to wake him in the morning, but when my hand touched his stiff cold arm, I knew.
Phases then passed through my mind.
Phase one: Why isn"t he waking up"
Phase two: Seriously, Pops, wake up.
Phase three: Pops"
Phase four: the cracking sound of my heart splitting open in my chest.
My pops was my world. He taught me everything I knew and set up all the fundamental values I have as a person today. His funeral was very brief and sad. Aside from the grave workers and the priest, it was just me.
Actually, he would probably haunt me for saying that he made me the person I am today, because right now" I don"t have those fundamental values.
Flipping a bottle of Grey Goose upside down, I pour a shot into one of the glasses that are lined on the counter.
"Twenty-one"" I grin, draining the vodka down the line of shots.
Young guy in front of me nods his head, a cheesy smile on his face. He is cute, in a puffy I-still-live-in-my-mom"s-basement-feed-me-then-screw-me kind of way. In other words, not my type.