It seemed like the headache lasted for no less than six days. It might have been six weeks or six months, though, of continuous head pain so severe that I couldn’t think. I couldn’t pursue my plans. I was at a standstill. Ever since I had gotten shot dead, I wanted my mind to turn off. Now it was so painful that I was without thoughts. But that wasn’t what the fuck I meant when I wanted my mind to shut off. I reminded myself that at least I wasn’t in a cage. I wasn’t an exotic snake or a pretty dog, and I could still feel my body and each of my limbs.
It wasn’t until my headaches stopped completely that I recalled the six blunts I had in my saddle bag. Damn, I could kick myself. Why didn’t I think of the weed as the medicine that could of wiped away six months of pain? I would have puffed it so preciously, like how prisoners cut one cigarette into sixteen pieces and smoke it pinched between their fingers no matter how tiny the piece becomes. I could have made those potent blunts last for the six months, now that I think about it. I opened the saddle bag for the first time since I sped from the firehouse. I pulled out one blunt and held it so preciously. I searched through the bag looking for matches. Then I heard voices that I was sure was in my head. They were laughing at me, in the same manner that Succubus had laughed at me repeatedly.
“I fucking get it!” I screamed. “There are no matches in the fucking Last Stop Before the Drop, the County of the Ungrateful, the State of Ignorance, and the Land of the Arrogant. Only the Incubus and his crew monopolize and make the flames. There will be no sun, moon, or stars or even a trace of clear or bright light unless one of the UBS comes through with a mercy from the ONE who created us all,” I screamed and then collapsed on the steering wheel. “And why do I fucking need to say all of that shit?” I asked myself aloud. Then the voice of Siddiqah came to mind. You must never follow up sacred words with niggardly words. I sat up, unlocked the door, and hopped out into the blackness. My legs felt fucked from six months of sitting in the driver’s seat with migraines that halted my clear thinking and movement. I pushed myself to stand firm and screamed through the darkness, “Siddiqah! Siddiqah! Siddiqah!” like a hundred times. I fell back against the car and waited for what felt like six days. Then I screamed out, “Bomber Girl!” a hundred times. I waited for what felt like six weeks. Then I felt furious that she didn’t respond when I had given her more than enough time to travel down here even if she was coming from Jannah. “Hey, you fucking young bitch. Get your ass down here right this fucking minute!” The cursing didn’t work. I figured it wouldn’t. I couldn’t control myself, though. I had been so long waiting outside of the car for her, worried that if I remained inside she might see only the vehicle and believe that Dat Nigga was inside. Then she would drop a bomb on him and kill her own mother by mistake. “Own mother,” what the fuck had I just said?
The odor was nothing to me now. That’s how long I had been there alone in total and complete darkness. The quietness was so airy I even wished I could hear the sounds of the screaming and hissing and bones breaking and teeth grinding and even knuckles cracking. I even wouldn’t have minded if a few enemies showed up and I had to fight them. That would be action. For months or even for a year there had been no action. Complete silence unless I was reacting to the inaction by screaming. There was no one and nothing else here but me.
I climbed on top of the hood and laid down. After six days or so of lying there on the hood, I had no further expectation to see anyone else ever. Of course, that’s precisely when I heard something slowly approaching. It sounded like one person on a bike and a couple of others on foot. I got excited. I sat up from my lying-down position. It was painful, like my body, bones, and muscles were all attacking me for having been lying down way too long. Then a multicolored huddle of grandmothers showed up. They stepped right out of the darkness. One of ’em had a red wheelbarrow. I was suspicious of them. I saw their cheap wooden crucifixes hanging around their necks on an even cheaper string. They were all wearing long gray garments and Payless… no dollar-store plastic sandals. Just my luck, I thought. Why in the hell after all of this long, long lonely time are these old bitches the only ones who showed up?
“Are you alone, my sweet darling?” one of them asked. I didn’t answer. Thought it was a weird first question.
“Oh, my dear, you look like you need Jesus!” another one of them said in like a tone of pity. I threw myself back down onto the car hood with my arms stretched out wide. I was officially exhausted.
16.
There was some light in the convent. Not powerful, like natural sunshine, or bright, like a 125-watt light bulb. It was, however, more light than a flame could cast. From a BMW 7 series to a wheelbarrow. That’s how I traveled here. Pushed by a group of grandmas each taking a turn. They insisted that I was feverish and needed treatment. When I finally sat up, they pushed me back down. Two of them rolled me off of the car hood, two of them caught me in the wheelbarrow. Man, were they shocked when my pearl trench unsnapped from all the gymnastics. They stared at my nude body as though their own bodies was not made with the same woman parts. Then off we went, my dead husband’s car left behind in the black space, riddled with a thousand rock dents and windows that if touched might cave into ten thousand separate pieces of glass.
I went along with it. Of course I could have overpowered the old ladies. Hit them with some of the rocks that surrounded the whip, then run them over with their own wheelbarrow. But I figured they must have something to provide that I could flip into something more. Even if I only learned my way around town, met some other people, located a gas station. That would be better than standing, sitting, and laying around.
“Rest until you heal, or, at least until your temperature goes down. Once you’re stable, we can have a nice talk,” one of them said. I didn’t reply, just laid there like even talking was too painful for me. Even though at the time, I wasn’t feeling any pain whatsoever and didn’t feel fever hot.
I was back in a little room the size of a cell, but this time with no cellmate and no bars or prison door. Just cheap, hollowed-out fake wood and a knob that didn’t lock. I sat on the thin twin mattress with one sheet and one blanket and looked around. Somehow someone must have thought it was inspirational to see some guy hanging on the wall, his feet and wrists bound, head bowed, and blood trickling. I got up to remove it. It wouldn’t come off. It was plastered in place. No other pictures, not even of the ocean or the sky or some flowers in a field. Who in their right mind would think that the gruesome statue on the wall was all that was needed to decorate a room? The whole little place looked lonely. One wooden chair, one table for one, as though whoever lived in here would never have a guest and should never expect one. On the table was one empty glass and one metal pitcher filled with what I guess was drinking water. There was one little dresser with one little lamp on top of it, with one dim bulb. I opened the top drawer. There was one black book with too many pages, but less pages than the book Bomber Girl wanted me to read. In the bottom drawer was one pair of suspicious cheap white paper slippers wrapped in Saran Wrap. Had they been worn before? That’s nasty. There was one sewing kit wrapped in a cheap plastic dollar-store case and one pair of white socks. I closed it. There wasn’t even one window, which suggested that there was no hope for the alternation of night and day or the existence of a sun, moon, or stars. From my interior-decorating skills, which I sharpened by reading magazines for fifteen years on lock, I believe every room, apartment, house, home, or palace—the manner and style and way in which it is built, designed, and decorated—says something. Like a cell, this one room in this one convent had only one message. Make a move. Get the fuck out of here as soon as possible.
The door opened, no knock. “I’m here to wash your body,” the grandmother said after some hours since my arrival, I guess. She walked in carrying a basin of water with a bar of soap floating in it. Beneath the basin was one neatly folded towel, one washcloth, and some clothes pressed and packaged in clear plastic wrap.
“I can take care o
f it myself,” I assured her. She was gripping the basin like it was something of great value, walked past me, and sat it on the single dresser.
“Stand up,” she said with a trace of aggression that wasn’t in any of the old ladies’ manner up until now. I stood. She tugged at my coat.
I resisted. “I said I’ll do it myself.”
She yanked it off of me. “No one can wash their own back properly,” she said. “That’s why we all need help. May God help us all.”
“I’ll take that,” I said, holding my hand out for my trench.
“A place for everything and everything in its place,” she said. I was starting to think the bitch was crazy. She went to the door and opened it slightly, then handed my coat to someone who must have been standing right there on post.
“Do you have any candles?” I asked her.
“Yes, but why?” she asked.
“They’re more soothing to me than a lamp. Especially when I don’t feel well, like right now.” I made a painful face. “The light bulb is making my headache worse.”
“Let’s get you all cleaned up. I’ll tuck you in. Then I’ll come back with a candle.”
“Great,” I said. It was my first step to getting what I wanted in this place. Not what they wanted me to have or wanted me to do or wanted to do to me. I let her wash my body with the warm water. I didn’t need no grenade to get her off me if she tried something slick. I was catching chills being wet and bare bodied, with my bare feet on their cold floor.
“Goose bumps,” she said as though she was excited. She started patting me dry with the towel. “All finished. Cleanliness is next to Godliness,” she said, handing me the wrapped garment. Soon as I took it from her hand, I had a flashback to when I first got my prison uniform.
“I’ll get dressed while you get the candle,” I told her. She walked to the door and ordered whoever was posted outside of there to bring back a candle. She closed the door and sat down on the bed that was supposed to be mine temporarily. I unwrapped the garment. It was one cheap, plain, long, gray, ugly thing. I rushed and put it on to stop her from watching my body the way she was watching it.
“Come sit.” She patted the bed. “Now let’s pray together.” I was like, What the fuck? I was just restraining myself from throwing her weird ass right out until I could get my candle. “We will say the Lord’s Prayer. Do you know it?” she asked doubtfully.
“I don’t. You go ahead and say it. I’ll listen,” I lied.
“I will, but I would like you to repeat each sentence after me. It’s the best way to learn it for yourself and use it when you are praying alone,” she said.
“Sure, whatever,” I answered sharply. I was mad at myself for not fully controlling my reply. I meant to conceal my anger until I receive the candle.
“Our Father who art in heaven
Hallowed be thy name
Thy kingdom come
Thy will be done
On earth as it is in heaven
Give us this day our daily bread
And forgive us our trespasses
As we forgive those who trespass against us.
And lead us not into temptation
But deliver us from evil
For thine is the kingdom
And the power and the glory
Forever and ever amen.
I repeated each sentence after her. The door opened, no knock again. It was a young woman. Finally, not another old bitch, I thought to myself.
“Excuse me, Mother Maria. Here’s the candle.” She placed it on the dresser in exchange for the dirty water basin. I could hardly contain my joy at seeing that candle, even though it had a very faint flicker through the thick glass jar it sat in. I kept my jaw locked shut. Yeah, I had a bunch of questions I needed answered. But not at the risk of causing the grandmother to say even one more word or to remain in my room for even one more minute. It didn’t work. The old lady sent the young one out with the basin. She turned, reached out, and touched my hair. Instinctively, I leaned back.
“You have quite a lovely head of hair. The Bible says that a woman’s hair is her glory. The Lord made your hair glorious.” I just looked at her from the leaning position. “But it seems that your ends are singed. Did you have some experience with fire?” She smiled. I straightened up. “You requested the candle. I wouldn’t like for you to harm yourself,” she said, hiding her suspicion of me unsuccessfully.
The young woman walked in carrying a basin filled with clean water. She placed it onto the dresser top. “No, nothing like that. I had a straightening comb that got too hot and it singed my ends. But I plan to clip them and wash my hair,” I said smiling politely, even though I was running real low on patience.
“What is your name, my dear?” she asked me. No one had asked me that question since I was shot dead and had arrived at the Last Stop Before the Drop. They all either knew it already or didn’t ask at all.
“Brooklyn,” I said without even thinking.
“Brooklyn, this young lady, who is named Petra, and who has graciously brought you the candle you requested, was once in your same position. I will let her share the rules of the convent guesthouse and our expectations.” I thought the grandmother was going to walk out and leave us two young women to talk. She didn’t. The young woman sat down beside me. The grandmother stood directly over us. I was like, Oh my fucking god! Petra started speaking like a programmed puppet. “Welcome to the Sisters of Grace Convent, which has been in existence for more than one thousand years, here at the Last Stop Before the Drop. Although you may feel uncomfortable at first, our goal is to make you comfortable and prepare you to protect your soul in the name of Jesus.” She was talking, but I could feel her uncertainty about what she was saying to me. She lowered her eyes and continued.
“Mother Maria has washed your body for your comfort and cleanliness, but also to check and test whether or not you are an evil spirit in disguise. Evil spirits are powerful and they can make themselves appear to be anything male or female of any type or complexion. As powerful as the evil spirits are, they all fear water. Had you resisted being washed, Mother Maria would have thrown the water on you instead. If you were an evil spirit, you would have been exposed,” she said, speaking softly.
I was like, Oh shit, so the nice-old-lady thing is a scam. All the while, the grandmother had been processing me like a suspect—no, better yet, a convict—while pretending that she was simply doing some charity for my benefit.
“Also Mother Maria was studying your body, checking your skin for signs of the Beast.”
“The Beast!” I reacted. Then I got mad at myself for saying even one word.
“The evil spirits each have certain markings on their bodies,” the young woman explained.
“You had some marks,” the grandmother chimed in. I was alerted by what she was accusing. “But they were the markings of someone who has been hurt by the Beast, who is not a beast herself. So you are in the right place,” the old woman assured me.
“Tomorrow, when all of the souls we have collected are gathered in the sanctuary, Mother Maria and many of the other sisters here at the convent will teach you how to prepare to give your soul to Jesus,” the young woman said. “It’s the only way to get saved and protect yourself from the powerful evil that resides down here,” Petra cautioned.
Then the grandmother pulled a card out of her long ugly dress pocket and handed it to me. I looked at it suspiciously. “The Lord’s Prayer is written on the card. If you would have been an evil spirit in disguise, you would never have been able to listen to the Lord’s Prayer being spoken aloud, nor would you have been willing to repeat after me. Pure prayers are like water to the evil ones. It causes them great agitation. Pure prayers plus water makes them dissolve long enough for you to flee from them,” she said strangely. The image of Succubus after her head had dissolved flashed into my mind. Then I saw the rapist Iblis and the other one who was with him, whose name I did not know.
“Brooklyn!” The grandm
other called my new name out sternly. “I can see from your expression that you have had an encounter with evil. We all have had such an encounter. Some more than others. Have no fear. The Lord Jesus will protect you.”
“You mean the One, right?” I checked.
“No. We believe in the Trinity, meaning the three. The Father the Son and the Holy Spirit,” she said.
“The Three?” I repeated. Siddiqah, aka Bomber Girl, said the ONE. Now the old lady is saying the Three. This shit is like three-card monte. You gotta watch the mouth, the hands, and the meaning all at the same time. Keep watching closely until you can figure out which shell the pebble is under, or where the truth is actually located, to win the bag and escape.
I agreed with her three-Jesus talk by head nod. I agreed with everything they said for one reason. I had to hurry them out without being obvious. Soon as the door closed, I pulled off the bullshit gray garment. It was an insult to my royalty and fashion. I used the towel to seal the opening beneath the closed door. Took the chair, jammed it beneath the doorknob. Grabbed open my saddle bag, reached in, and pulled out my blunt. I smelled the beautiful scent of it. Licked it lightly like it was an old-school rocket lollipop. I put it between my teeth. Next, I stuck my whole face into the candle-jar hole and finally lit my joint. Couldn’t believe it took me six months or six years after bombing Iblis and beheading Succubus to get my hands on a matchstick, a lighter, a candle, and a flame!
A few pulls and puffs of the most potent weed I ever smoked in my life-and-death-time led me to think about Dat Nigga. This was the weed he provided for me. I thought about what Petra and the grandmother had said. Water and prayer causes an evil spirit to dissolve and disappear long enough for a person to flee from them. It sounded like that meant that there is a way for an evil spirit, as they called them, to recover after dissolving. That meant I may have another battle coming up with Succubus. It was good to know. I would not let anybody else blindside me like Simone did. I toked and laughed a muffled laugh. Simone was built stronger than Succubus though. Succubus’s weaknesses, water, and prayers were very easy to use against her. If Simone was like that, I could of got rid of her in the prison shower. I cracked up. Then I started feeling sad and moody. I thought on the other hand, I was glad that I bombed the rapist. The thought of them being able to come back alive was too nasty and unfair an advantage for them to have. But then I thought about Dat Nigga, who also died from the blast of a bomb. I wish he could come back to me. But then I thought, If I am only able to have it one way—all bombed stay dead—then I’d rather bombs bring permanent death. Because how could I stay with Dat Nigga, whose own brothers had violated me? The only way that would be possible was to either inspire or require Dat Nigga to murder his own brothers. That’s the only way him and I could live together peacefully. If he’s a real nigga that’s exactly what he would do anyway. My father Santiaga had murdered two of my mother’s brothers in prison. Back then I knew that if Santiaga killed them, they needed to die. They must have done some real pussy-ass shit or treachery to end up in that predicament.
Life After Death Page 18