Quod Me Nutrit Me Destruit: That Which Destroys Me with The Alternate Ending (22 page)

From 1999-2004 Psych evaluations by the state of LA were WNL (Within Normal Limits) r/t his developmental stage.

2)
    
Sam Smith

Male; Caucasian 

DOB: 2/6/83

Hair/Eye Color: Blond/Brown

His family members were fatalities in a house fire in July 1983, which occurred while the infant was hospitalized for pneumonia. The child had no living relatives. At the time of discharge, infant was placed in LA Foster Care Program. In 1988, he was placed in the foster care of Mr. and Mrs. Smith. The Smith’s filed for adoption in 1989 and was granted custody by the state of LA.

Initial Psych evaluation in 1988 by the state of LA were found WNL r/t his developmental stage.

Annual follow up evaluations:

From 1988-2001 Psych evaluations by the state of LA were WNL (Within Normal Limits) r/t his developmental stage.

After rereading the files over and over and looking back at the initial files that I’ve read so many times I have it memorized, I begin feeling as though I’m getting closer to an answer.
An answer to what? Hell if I know. I also don’t really know where to start. So with nothing else to go on, I start with the first foster home and scour the internet searching for
ANYTHING
on the people that lived in those foster homes with Stella.

It’s almost four am when I literally cannot keep my eyes open anymore. I make my way into my bedroom and crash face first into bed where I promptly pass the hell out.

Beauty & I

I spent the rest of my childhood, teenage years, and young adulthood attempting to conform to society’s expectations of me. With my vast knowledge, and my already stellar achievements in all of my classes, moving through high school successfully in less than two years was an effortless feat. I paid no attention to the other students, and my grades alone kept whomever I lived with - I didn’t even pay attention to names any longer - happy and content enough for me to be left alone with my thoughts and study’s.

When I graduated college at the young age of
twenty with honors, no one was in the audience applauding as I accepted my Master’s degree in Physics. And I was extremely relieved that I’d finally cut out every person to ever try to pretend they cared for me.

When I looked around at my life and had no idea what or where to go next, I went back to school; ready to master another subject.

It gave me direction. Without it, I was adrift. And being adrift, for me, is unacceptable.

Over the next ten years
of my life I traveled following whichever collage offered my next conquest and mastered most degree programs offered by the numerous colleges I’d attended.

One day, out of
the  blue, I was no longer adrift. The urge to write consumed me. I locked myself inside my New Jersey studio apartment, and began to write. Finally, after almost twenty years, every single word, every phrase and assemblage of words I’d yearned to express and illustrate the depth of emotions my Beauty evoked - poured out, story after story.

I found after
I had written several books, it did not suffice. I needed more. I needed affirmation from the masses that my reactions to Beauty’s betrayal was errorless, despite what the demons within insistently sneered.

I was without insight on how to get my stories to the masses, so I revisited my old stomping grounds, city parks—with nothing more than a handful of my story’s I’d printed, bound, and covered at the Kinko’s across the street from my apartment. 

I found it took more effort than anything else I’d ever attempted, however after studying the people in the city’s parks and the interactions between them, I was able to adapt… I found myself for the time ever socializing; knowing this was a necessary evil to reach the goal that was my new main focus.

I interacted with people of every race, gender, and walk of life. All the while, selling my books.
Sometimes as little as five a day, some days as many as fifty. I sold my books during the day, and wrote the story, our story… The story of Beauty and I.

It took me over a year and a half to finish our story. I had accumulated a few people I trusted enough, who loved almost to the point of worshipping my stories so much, that while I manically wrote mine and Beauty’s story, they would sell my books on the corners and at the parks when I was unable to extricate myself from writing.

And one night that had turned to early morning, I finished. I closed the manuscript and wrote in my calligraphy trained hand across the cover the only title this story could ever truly be entitled:

A Soul
Becomes Sand

After I found Jude’s note he left on my dresser while I showered, I settled into a night of restless sleep, tossing and turning as thought after thought assailed my conscious mind. “Such an asshole!” Every time my eyes closed last night, I saw his note.

Now I lie in bed staring at the ceiling fan as the blades endlessly circle, chasing the blade ahead. And I conclude that on this day - Sunday, April 20
th
- I will inform Wesley Jacobs of his upcoming fatherhood.

And then, I will assure him that this too will not destroy me - that I am more than willing to fight this battle alone, just as I have fought every battle before.

I shower, shave, and dress to the motherfucking nines. In my black strapless linen dress with an empire waist which hangs almost to the floor, I step into my six inch nude with black pin stripe heels before grabbing and shoving the sticks (there were twelve) that I pissed on after my visit to Dr. Thomas, inside my purse.

I walk into the living room and see Trina and Eve sipping coffee on the couch. Trina’s eyes almost bulge from their sockets.
Eve’s? Eve’s fill with tears. “Good morning!” I smile brightly. “I can tell from your expressions and tears of joy that what I have on my agenda for this morning, is obvious. Oh! For Christ’s sake! You both knew this shit, I mean this day was coming. I look six months fucking pregnant, the cat’s already out of the bag with Jude, and Wes… Well,” I sigh, “I guess we’ll see about Wes.” Smiling through a shrug, I finish, “If I come home, I will be a crying hot mess in dire need of copious amounts of alcohol. With no possibility of supplying said dire need. If I don’t, then
YAY
!!!!”

I clap my hands together with an excited look on my face trying to get my sisters to be a little more enthusiast
ic. My attempt is, as always… an epic fail.

Trina sets her coffee cup on the table before walking over to me and wrapping her arms around my neck. Hugging me tightly, she whispers in my ear, “I love you, Stella. I know this is going to feel like you’re walking into the dredges of hell, sister. And I promise, if it were possible I would give anything to do it for you.”

I steel my spine and pat her back, still hugging her and say, “T, it’s what I do, it’s what I’ve always done. And just like every walk through hell I’ve endured alone before this one, I’ll come out in the end. That which doesn’t kill me, only makes me stronger, sis.” I kiss her cheek and step back.

When Eve comes running at me, all of her fine blond hair flying behind her, she wraps her thin arms around my neck and just falls to pieces, crying. “
Shh…Evey, I’ll be fine, honey. Come on. Look at me.” I pull back, smiling at her while looking into her light blue eyes, “Don’t cry for me, babe. Please?”

Through her sniffles, she sputters out, “If I-I don’t, then w-who will?”

“Huh, never thought of it that way. Okay, I concede, cry your eyes out, sis.” I smile mischievously at her, “However, if I’m not home by four pm, you and T better be having a cocktail, because I will be getting righteously fucked by, quite possibly, the most beautiful cock in the whole state of New York.”

She smiles, blushing and shaking her head, “Of course you do.” She looks at Trina, “Of course she does.”

I slip my purse strap over my shoulder and turn to leave. When I get to the door and open it, I turn around and say before leaving, “Of course I do, if I don’t keep shit light and let it roll off my back, this fucking world would’ve taken me down years ago.” I hold up my middle finger and kiss it, flipping them off and blowing them a kiss. “Love you two bitches. Here’s to hoping I don’t see y’alls’ asses later!” I laugh closing the door before making my way from my building… Making my way to my baby daddy’s house, to tell him he’s my baby daddy.

I wave and smile at the
door man on my way into Wesley’s building. After I step from the elevator and stare at the door to his penthouse, my nerves assault me, crippling me from moving forward and knocking on his door.

I stand, frozen in place, staring at the dark lines veining their way across the even darker wood. What if we can’t figure this out? He said no
forevers. My hands slide over my baby bump as tears fill my eyes. Everything about my new little peanut spells out forever. Baby and forever is universally known as… Forever. What if he doesn’t want our baby?

I can literally feel my resolve steel. Determination c
ourses its way through me. Conviction solidifies around my soul. My shoulders pull back, my head held high, I step forward and knock seven bold times.

After a minute of no answer, I scoop the keys from my purse and unlock his front door before walking inside. Each click of my heels sounding across the hardwood floor as I make my way through the living room ricochets
with the same determination that continues pushing me forward.

The entire penthouse is cloaked in darkness, there are scotch bottles lined up on his glass coffee table. When I walk into the kitchen, I see more evidence of a Wesley Jacobs bender.

Well, this should be fun.

I grab a garbage bag from the pantry and make my way through the kitchen tossing bottles into the trash bag. Once I’m in the living room I collect those bottles as well then straighten the cushions on the couch and chairs. On my way to the storage room on the opposite side of the penthouse, I round the corner and come face to face with his office.

Seriously? “Jesus, Wesley. How much fucking scotch can one man consume?” I sigh making my way into his office and head towards his desk. When I reach over to grab the two bottles my eyes snag on my name, my name written and typed over and over, paragraph after paragraph on what looks like records, or something. I toss the bottles of scotch into the garbage bag before picking up the piece of paper and scanning over it.

Over six broken bones noted via X-ray which appeared to go untreated. (See below):

Both clavicles
, mandible, maxilla, left femur, right humerus.

The
nurses notes also state there were multiple abrasions, lacerations and contusions. Some of which appeared to be recent as well as healing injuries.

Also documented and photographed: Numerous bite marks covering the patient from neck to knees, most of which where located on the patients anterior thighs, genitalia and rectum.

The bottles crash, shattering as the plastic ties slip from my fingers. I snatch the file from his desk, my eyes skimming the words as the memories strike, stripping the old scarred flesh from my soul.

Patient was brought into ER via EMS on a stretcher after students found patient (9
yo Stella Reese) in the bathroom of the school unconscious with copious amounts of blood around the patient. Upon assessment, after removing tampon and several pads, 4
th
degree vaginal and rectal lacerations were noted consistent with extremely severe sexual abuse.

“Why?” I choke out frantically flipping through the pages. “Why?” My whimpered question cuts through his silent office.

Stella Reese’s whereabouts remained unknown from July 4
th
2001 until January 3
rd
2004.

In 2004, 16
yo Stella Reese was found living in an abandoned home on Texas Street.

Documentation states 16
yo Stella Reese admitted to living in both the abandoned home as well as sleeping some nights in her high school library she’d been attending without knowledge of the State of Louisiana. 

CPS filed for a warrant to retrieve the following medical files:

July 5, 2001- Time: 0018:

911 phone call: 

“Hey there’s some chick passed out by Cross Lake.” —background unknown female voice—“Steve she isn’t breathing! Tell them she’s not fuckin’ breathing!”

Male caller: “Umm… my girl says she isn’t breathing. I would stay, but I can’t be late for my curfew.”

911 dispatcher: “Sir, I need you to remain where you are. Do you or your friend know CPR?”

—Phone call ends. July 5, 2001- Time: 0020.

Medical Records/ Doctors dictation notes/ Nurses notes:

Dr. Cole- Dictation notes of patient currently known as Jane Doe (age unknown):

Received patient via EMS to ER 1. Upon admission patient status is unstable with a weak and thready pulse noted. EMS documentation states that patient was resuscitated via CPR and defibrillation.  After patient stabilized doctor assessment yields asphyxiation as well as first and second degree lacerations noted in and around vagina and rectum consistent with rape and/or sexual abuse. Lacerations were sutured using a 2.0 chromic suture times 2.  Patient remains stable. Will continue to monitor.

(Patient signed out Against Medical Advice less than nineteen hours after admission.) Prior to patient signing out AMA patient refused rape kit.

Patient’s printed name and signature:
Stella Reese

My hands fist around the pages as tears stream down my face. I spin to leave his office, headed straight for his room knowing there is only one place a man that consumes that much scotch could be. I trip, staggering through the hallways, as savage pain brutally shreds its way through my heart; twisting and tightening, slicing it in two. Uncontainable sobs hiccup from my throat as I reach the double mahogany doors leading to the master suite.

With both fists clenched around the papers in my hands I shove both doors open before crashing into his room as insanity blankets my rational thought screaming,
“OF EVERY FUCKING MAN TO EVER FUCKING DESTROY ME, YOU’RE THE ONE I WON’T LIVE THROUGH! YOU FUCKING KNEW ALL ALONG YOU MOTHERFUCKER!”

When my teary eyes adjust to the darkness in the room and my blurry vision clears, what I witness shoves my fractured sanity and scatters the sand that remains of my soul leaving absolutely nothing of me in its wake.