The 'N' Word, Book 1

by Tiana Laveen

  4. Are you a Christian? In the technical definition, the answer is yes, meaning I do believe that Jesus Christ is the Son of God. My father is a minister and my mother a schoolteacher so as I am certain you can imagine, I grew up in a religious home. Regardless of this, my father, though wishing for all of his children to adopt his beliefs, has slowly come to realize that we are all individuals and must pave our own way. I was raised in the church though I do not attend nearly as much since I’ve moved away from my hometown in Auburn. I do have an open mind, however, and try to learn as much as possible.

  5. What do you look like? I’m 5’7” and weigh around 135 lbs. I have long black curly hair and what I’d call medium brown eyes. They aren’t light, and they aren’t dark, but somewhere in between – like honey. Like you, I stay active and try to keep in shape, particularly since I love to cook and especially enjoy sweets. It is my weakness, unfortunately, and if I wasn’t such a good baker, it would make life a bit easier. But hey, a little indulgence is okay every now and again, right? Sometimes a little taste of chocolate makes life so much better…

  As is stated in the instructions, I have the same questions for you. I wish you well on your quest to find your “Mrs. Pike.” Now, in additional information, I have several hobbies, one of which is writing for pleasure. Something you stated reminded me of a memory of my childhood. You wrote about needing to control your environment. I can identify with that, too. I think when people are like us, that is, have that sort of characteristic, it is based in fear. Like, what would happen if things were moved all around and people didn’t behave in the manner that we wanted them to? What is the worst that can happen? Sometimes we make things scarier than they are, cause a problem that doesn’t exist due to our need to control. I’ve written a lot about this, and have countless pieces on the subject, but there is one I’d like to share with you. First though, let me give you a bit of background.

  When I was a little girl, I spent a lot of time at my grandmother’s home with my cousin and sisters and brothers. My grandmother was tall in stature, but soft and small in her demeanor. We loved being with her. Anyway, she had a lot of land and we’d play games, have family dinners out there and all sorts of things. It was the source of peace for me. Whenever I would feel nervous or upset, even now as an adult, I will sometimes think back to my times there. On her land stood an old tree. At the time, as a little child, it scared me. Large and dark, it cast a huge shadow over the entire area. The branches were thick and winding, the bark beaten by the hands of time.

  The tree was half dead, but she refused to have it cut down, despite my father and his sister’s protests. That tree sat right outside the window of the bedroom I’d stay in. Sometimes I’d wake up crying, completely losing my mind over it. My grandmother told me that old tree had a lot of history and wisdom, and that’s why, even though it was impaired, she’d never cut it down. She told me, jokingly, that tree was there to stay, so I may as well get over my fears and make friends with it.

  One day, I decided to confront my fears. I went outside and stood in front of that tree. I reached out and touched it, then looked down and noticed a cluster of small, beautiful flowers growing around it. I felt like if those flowers could surround it like that, then some of those roots must’ve been okay, and if those tiny flowers weren’t afraid of the tree, than nor should I. I think, Aaron, some people are so afraid of things that are there to help them, not push them away. I was afraid of what I saw on the outside, deemed it as scary. That tree was older than my great, great grandmother. It was a part of her life, her history, and it was still giving life to those around it! It had purpose…and I finally understood that. One day I sat down to write, and thought about that old tree, my fears, all of which were unfounded… and here is what I wrote…

  You don’t look right to me, old crooked tree.

  You’re taller than the heavens, but its leaves you lack –

  You’re dark and murky, gray and white

  Coated in shades of black.

  I came outside to see you

  Grandma said you would not go.

  So I came out to talk with you, lean in real close…

  You barely have leaves.

  And you’re dried out, fruitless, awkward and sad.

  But then I looked low, and realized

  I’d truly been had.

  By my own silly emotions,

  My fears of what was not meant to be –

  You were an old tree,

  That mothered a floral family.

  They clung to your essence,

  For you are Mother Earth –

  I was too simple to see,

  Your value and your worth

  Say I ask for your forgiveness

  For wanting a perfect world –

  Thinking if you’d been removed,

  I’d be a happy girl.

  The true horror didn’t lie in your branches,

  Your sway or your ways –

  The repulsion of it all was in my mind,

  And it stayed there, day after day

  If we subtract only a symptom

  Doesn’t the problem still stake its claim?

  I can cut you down to size

  But your roots would always remain.

  And you are not my issue.

  In fact, you never were.

  I have to look within

  For the true healing to occur…

  So thank you, old, wise tree…

  For the lessons that you continue to give.

  You are the epitome of beauty.

  …And that’s why you still live…

  -M.W.

  Aaron, I hope you enjoyed my poem. Thank you for writing me back. I look forward to your next letter and may each day be an opportunity, despite your surroundings, to grow and appreciate the world around you.

  P.S. There is the Serenity Prayer that perhaps would benefit you:

  God grant me the serenity

  to accept the things I cannot change;

  courage to change the things I can;

  and wisdom to know the difference.

  Sincerely,

  Melissa

  As she sat there a moment or two looking at her penmanship, re-reading her words, she began to distrust herself, question her motivations.

  He is… interesting… so interesting. I would have normally left my response to him short, but he was so… open. It’s like his personality leapt off the pages. Goodness gracious…

  She sighed and slid the letter off her lap, smacking the pen against it as she ran her hand along her forehead.

  I should have never written him, gotten involved. I see that now… because I want to know more, much more…and I hope he writes back.

  She picked up the letter the man had hand written and gave it a hearty sniff. Her lips curved into a delighted smile as she picked up the subtle scent of the prison soap amongst the cigarette smell. Prison soap had a distinct aroma. She was accustomed to smelling it on the men she’d teach—a white, antibacterial bar that some complained left them irritated and dry.

  But now, the aroma of it had her drift into deeper mental phantasmagorias, imagining Aaron sitting there with his writing instrument, his fingers and the side of his palm grazing the paper, leaving a trace of himself along the way…

  He’s tall, or at least he says so in the letter. He has buzzed, dark brown hair… but he didn’t mention much else. Oh, yes, he has tattoos… But what does he truly look like?

  Her curiosity grew and grew and grew until it took up permanent residency within her soul.

  I sound as bad as Trudy now. I want to see who this guy is…

  She slipped her letter inside a fresh envelope and devised a plan within her mind as she got to her feet. The old screen door screamed out in its usual way as she made her way back inside her home, still simmering in thoughts and ideas, which begged to be released via an empty pot on the stove, or perhaps, her poetry book. Her muse wanted a moment with her. And why should she deny it? Th
is was an outlet of sorts for her, to allow the forbidden intrigue to grow in a secretive sort of way, protected behind a hedge of self-preservation. And now, she had to ask herself…

  Have I stepped into territory in which I don’t belong?

  Chapter Six

  THE CLICKING AND locking of the bulky cell door bothered him a bit more this sweltering evening. Why was a dull light shining from the other end of the hall, allowing him to see men’s shadows moving about? He could just imagine their stride as they went in their light gray uniforms, keys banging against their hips. He twirled his cigarette between his nimble fingers, turned towards his latrine, and tossed the damn thing inside it, certain he’d gotten a three-pointer for his makeshift jump shot. Susan sang and sizzled as it hit the shallow valley of water. Valley… like one filled with wildflowers…

  That’s what Melissa’s last letter smelled like, written on purple paper with goldenrod trim and smelling so fucking sweet and delicate. They’d now exchanged four in total, and each one turned a key inside of him, unlocked a bounty of lust and admiration. The woman could fucking write. He’d re-read her letters and poem a million and two times. He hated that the one pen pal he’d had an inkling of an interest in let him down fast and easy… making it clear that she did not wish to have romantic ties with a man such as himself. Matter of fact, her second and third letter stated it once more; perhaps she picked up on his flirtatious nature. And yet, for some strange reason, her continued rejection made him want her all the more. He’d begun to daydream about her a few times a day… morning, noon and night. He wanted to hear her actual voice, caress her skin, and run his hands up and down her legs. Her physical description titillated him just so, sweetened the pot.

  She’s got long, dark hair and light brown eyes… a beautiful white woman kissed by the sun… Her last name is Weber… That’s German… How nice…

  The touch of a woman… the sight of a woman… the feel of a woman beneath his bones…mmmmm…

  The scent of a woman… the kiss of a woman… the softness, wetness of warm pussy as he pushed his thick, hungry cock deep into the depths of the feminine valley between her thighs…

  His thoughts had morphed from PG to XXX in a matter of days. The more he told himself to remain platonic, keep the shit on the up and up per her request, the more he realized that he simply couldn’t. He’d never met anyone like her before in his entire life. Melissa was blessed with an inspirational vibe, and the way she delivered advice wasn’t pushy or preachy. She made it sound like the lyrics of some glorious song. Without criticizing him, she simply offered him a lifeline, and that, he could certainly appreciate.

  Yes, a song… She practically sang in the damn letter. He could almost envision her on her grandmother’s land before the tree that frightened her and everything she’d described in such heart-warming detail. She’d discussed praying in the front row of her father’s church, and her preparation for cooking a lavish meal. When he’d finished reading her letters, he was certain he had a front row seat into her mind. She left no detail spared, no stone unturned, and with each missive, they shared more and more, almost to the point where he was experiencing the beginning stages of… trust.

  The woman professed so many things… things he’d tried to find in other women, all wrapped beautifully into one package. Up to now, it had been a struggle.

  So he found himself opening up to her a bit more each time he sat down to write her, tell her how he felt and what he thought about the world and life in general.

  He didn’t want to scare her away, bombard her with details of a broken childhood and his daily struggles with trying desperately to not slip into fits of despair. Matter of fact, the thought of mentioning this repulsed him in some strange way; he felt the need to protect her from it… And, perhaps on some subconscious level, from him…

  As he sat within the rough hug of loneliness, he discovered the distant embrace left him changed, a bit of a lesser man than he’d been moments prior. The desolation was slowly killing him. He’d been stolen away from his only child, his career and his passions, and now he was left a lone man grasping at new roots. Sure, he’d served time before, but this time it felt… different. The cold was frostier, the cruelty more punishing, and the grotesque more outlandish than ever before. He’d begun thinking of his past, with its wayward weeds all grown up and trying desperately to take him out, strangle the potential and choke the very essence of who he used to be. Deep, tortured reflections of past, present, and future merged, becoming one large, hideous monster… and now, he was forced to look the beast in the eye.

  He began to question himself, observe a world within a world inside of that prison. The men looked different, though their rough faces were the same. He no longer knew who to confide in and who to beat into a bloody pound of flesh. Inside, violent rages waged a war against his very soul… Conceivably he was bought and paid for, and the Devil had no intentions of auctioning him off to a higher bidder. He wasn’t sure he could maintain a level head any longer. Whispers and shifty eyes abounded around him, leaving him in a habitual state of paranoia.

  With a huff, he stomped to a chair in a far corner of his iron box and slumped in it, his notebook and pen in hand. The small light in his room provided just enough illumination to write a decent letter, to see the black, inky words birthed across the stark white paper…get some feelings out… make some shit clear…

  Dear Melissa,

  We’ve made introductions, shared some memories, but please know, I am open to any questions or misgivings that you may have. I must put my cards on the table once again. I am drawn to you. I await your correspondence, above all others. The only letters that bring me more delight are my daughter’s, and that says quite a bit. You’ve impressed me, and I hope with a bit more time, I will have the same effect on you. Melissa, I believe the pursuit of a mate to be similar to that of a hunt. Anything worth having is worth a struggle.

  As I told you, my professional career revolves around protecting others, via security. I’m also freedom fighter, and to me, these two things go hand in hand. War is what I know, combat is what I do, but on my own terms. I see you as no different. I do not wish to make you uncomfortable or to make you believe that your beliefs and feelings are irrelevant in regards to my own ideas and planning.

  However, what you do need to understand is that I am not convinced that I’ve fully exposed myself to you, in order for you to form an accurate depiction of me as a man. We have barriers; one of them is obviously prison walls… the other barriers are our ideas of how a courtship should begin. My body is in prison, not my mind or heart. And my mind and heart took a vote and have come to an agreement…

  …They want you…

  Before you say it is because I’m lonely, I assure you that is not the motivation. Before you say I’ve gone crazy due to being in isolation, again, that would be incorrect. I want you, Melissa, because you are the type of woman I have been searching for. You have absolutely no idea how frustrating it has been to find a woman that matched what I knew I needed. You’re polite, yet direct. You’re beautiful, yet modest. You’re traditional, yet open-minded. I would be a fool to not tell you what is on my heart right now. Your letters bring me unbelievable happiness. I’ve not felt contentment in a mighty long time, Melissa. I do not want to bring you down, or make you pity me, but you make me feel comfortable, like I can share with you, and it will be okay… no judgment. I never discuss my childhood with anyone.

  The only person, besides my brother, Joe-Joe, and sister, Amy, who knows anything about my home-life is the mother of my child, and even what I told her is limited. I am at the point in my life where I really want to move past it, let it go, but it’s a struggle. I have been forced to see the prison psychiatrist, and he gave me a questionnaire that included questions about my childhood. I lied in many of my answers to him. I did this for two reasons: One, because I didn’t want to do it, and I don’t like being forced to do something. Two, I did not want to continue to have to
see him. Well, I have to go back and see him anyway, so unfortunately my plan backfired. Anyway, I want to tell you that, as a little boy, I was abused. My parents would hit me and my sister and brother. I’m the eldest, and felt the need to try and protect them. Usually, I failed.

  In order to keep my cool, I found something I really enjoyed: fishing. There was a lake not too far from our home, and I’d go out there and watch people on small boats with their rods out, early in the wee hours of the morning. It would be so quiet, you know? I really enjoyed it. One day, an older man offered to take me out on his boat. He’d seen me come up there and stare at him. I jumped at the chance, though in retrospect, as an adult, I know that was foolish, especially with all the perverts in the world. Luckily for me, he was just a really nice guy. His name was Herschel, and he showed me how to hold a fishing pole and bait a line. After that, I was hooked… pardon the pun. One day, he gave me my own fishing pole. It was dark blue, and I was so happy, I think I smiled for the rest of that day.

  I would go out there all the time, practice casting my line. Sometimes Herschel would be there, sometimes he would not, then one day, he was just gone. I am not certain what happened to him, but I know he was quite up in age. I assume he died. I still recall to this day everything he’d said and taught me about fishing. He never asked me about my bruises and scratches, but I’d see him look. I’d go home, deal with my parents, but dream of fishing with the old man. One day, my father saw my fishing pole in the corner of my room. He’d been drinking and drugging. He asked me where I got it, and I told him a man had given it to me. He seemed impressed, and told me he was a great hunter. This surprised me, because my father never mentioned fishing, hunting, and sports of any sort. The only thing he did consistently was gamble.

  In any case, Melissa, he said to me, ‘Aaron, let me take you hunting tomorrow morning.’

  I jumped at the chance. My father had never taken me any damn where. He was rarely home, but when he was, it was seldom a good experience. Anyway, he said it would just be us – father and son time, with his firstborn. The following morning, I was ready, Melissa – super excited. We got in his truck and drove out to Alger Flats in Atmore. He had two rifles and told me he’d teach me how to hold the gun and shoot. Well, we walked and walked to a remote area. He grabbed one of the guns, put it in my arms, and told me how to aim it. He told me to practice aiming it. Well, I did and when I looked around, he was gone.