Page 22 of Severed Heart
What of Marine and Francis?
What of my nephew, Ezekiel? Is he growing strong?
Please, Celine, teach him to be protective of you and of women so that he will never resemble the men we have so horribly chosen. Tell him there is so much strength and honor in treating women with respect and care. I’m ashamed and scared, and I’ve never felt so alone. Alain’s mind has taken a turn for the worse, and I fear his plans. His friends and allies are slowly losing faith, as am I.
Alain continues to take all my checks so I cannot escape him or travel home. What of your plans to come here? Am I holding onto false hope?
Could you visit? Maybe to remind me of who I was such a short time ago, and maybe I will do the same for you?
If you cannot come, please, for yourself and Ezekiel, do what I cannot and leave Abijah. Maybe if you do, I’ll find the strength to do the same. Please write back.
Chapter Eight
TYLER
US PRESIDENT: GEORGE W. BUSH | 2001–2009
WALKING INTO THEhouse, I release the strap of my bookbag and am about to toss it when I’m stopped dead in my tracks.
Frozen at the entryway, my eyes fix on the family portrait hanging in the gap across the hall between my and my parents’ bedrooms. The sound reaches me again, disbelief turning into rage as my blood begins to boil because there are two things I’m certain of. One—my mom’s car isn’t in the driveway, and two—she’s at work.
This is confirmed a second later when a woman’s shrieks engulf me, a woman who is unmistakablynotRegina Jennings, as her enthusiasm rings out.
“Fuck, oh, God, Carter. God, yes!”
He must be too drunk to realize the time, knowing good and fucking well I would be getting home from school. He has to be.
The woman’s enthusiastic groans and pleas sicken me, and shortly after, I’m granted the added bonus of slapping skin.
My instinct to act on my fury threatens to overtake me, and it’s the fear of what that might look like that has me pulling my bag back on and slamming my way out of the house, away from what’s happening inside it.
And what’s happening ... is that my father is cheating on my mother in their marital fucking bed.
In the home she built for him, for us. Years of her love’s labor make up every room. It’s our haven and refuge against the outside world, and Dad might as well have lit a match to it. I feel that truth now as flames engulf me from head to foot.
Just like I feared, Carter Jennings disappeared somewhere overseas, and Master Sergeant Jennings took his place, invading the home Carter left.
Every hope I had that it could be rectified—and that he could be redeemed—leaves me as waves of memories surface, all involving my parents. The two of them stealing bordering-inappropriate, lengthy kisses next to the bonfire. The hysterical laugh that only my mom seemed to be able to draw out of him just before Dad pulled her to him and nuzzled her with adoration.
My mother is the best of women—a dutiful and doting mother and wife, a respected career woman, and a staple in the community. In recent years, she’s put up with more shit from Dad than any woman ever should for her husband—Marine or not—and he repays herthis way?
Devastation fights with the rage for dominance as I realize I just lost every ounce of respect I have left for my father. Blinded by the ingrained image of our family photo and the accompanying noise I now and will forever associate with the sight of it, rage overtakes me, and I go black.
* * *
“... one, inhale, two, exhale, out, three,” the firm voice speaks. I know the source, the accent, familiar with the curl used around certain letters and words, but I gravitate toward the command inside them, leaning into it. “Count with me.”
“One,” she says.
“One,” I repeat.
“Two,” she says.
“Two,” I repeat.
“Three.”
“Three.”
