Page 5 of Cuffed By Your Love
“Let me be clear: You haven’t lost anything tonight but dead weight and deception. That wasn’t your husband. That wasn’t your cousin. And that shit definitely wasn’t your fault,” Jonell said.
They pulled me into a group hug, and I crumbled in their arms like cornbread.
“I don’t feel strong at all.”
“You don’t have to feel strong. You just gotta keep standing. We’ll work on the strength part later, sis.”
Then Leila pulled back, wiped my tears with her thumb, and added with a wink, “And we are definitely slashing Studnificent’s tires after this hospital visit.”
Grief enveloped me and masqueraded itself in the smell of hand sanitizer and latex gloves. It hung in the air like an invisible fog—sterile, sharp, and suffocating. I sat in the cold hospital waiting room wrapped in my mama’s old Self Ridge State University hoodie and a quilt of regret stitched together with betrayal, heartbreak, and exhaustion. My knee bounced restlessly, as if it had somewhere better to be, trying to outrun the day before it could pull me under.
The fluorescent lights hummed ominously overhead like a swarm of angry bees, casting a stark-blue hue that drained the life from everything and everyone beneath their glow. Thewaiting room felt like a grim purgatory, a sterile limbo where time stretched endlessly, leaving an air of palpable dread hanging in the stale atmosphere.
My hands felt raw and chapped from all the scrubbing I’d done, the skin red and tender as if I had been washing away more than just dirt. I kept reapplying cocoa butter every five minutes, desperately hoping that the thick, rich cream could somehow soften the ache inside me, smooth over the harsh reality I faced, and allow me to escape into a happier existence. But the trauma lingered, far more than skin-deep; it was anchored deep within my bones, in the marrow, ancient and utterly unshakable.
Something had shattered inside me, splitting my heart wide open like a fragile piece of glass. I could feel the cracks spreading further, threatening to break me apart completely. And now, faced with this… What could possibly come next?
First, I found my fiancé bent over like a used napkin, moaning, while my cousin worked a strap as if she were competing for gold in the Ass Olympics. Now, I was sitting here trying to breathe through the possibility that my mama might not make it out of this hospital bed alive—all because some fool couldn’t keep his drunk ass hands off the steering wheel.
God, why are You letting everything come crashing down around me at the same time?
I hugged myself tightly, as if trying to keep from unraveling. A long, shaky exhale escaped me… the one a soul releases when it’s holding back a scream. It tasted like metal and mourning.
Earlier that morning, before the nurse stepped out and called my name, not understanding the weight it carried, I stood in my bathroom attempting to wash away the last twenty hours from my body as if they were dirt rather than devastation.
The water had been scalding, just how I liked it when I was trying to boil my emotions into silence. I stood there until myfingertips wrinkled and my vision blurred, steam curling around me like grief with no exit strategy.
I shaved, exfoliated, and deep-conditioned my hair, not because I was going anywhere, but because I needed to control something, anything. When the world felt like it was spinning off its hinges, sometimes all you had was a clean scalp and smooth legs to remind you that you’re still alive.
I applied cocoa butter so thick it could block bullets, demons, and bad decisions. I didn’t bother with makeup, just lashes and lip balm. Even in heartbreak, I was determined to show up looking like someone who didn’t fold under pressure.
I stepped through the sliding doors of Self Ridge Memorial Hospital with my heart punch-drunk and still limping from the emotional Mayweather I’d just survived. The cold, white lights slapped me in the face like they knew I didn’t have any sleep. The linoleum floors felt too clean for the dirty-ass thoughts swirling in my head.
I barely had on real clothes; just sweats, a yellow, stretched-out tee, and my Crocs in sport mode like my favorite author, Mel Dau, always preached about. I didn’t even lotion my damn ankles. I looked like abandonment with nice edges.
But I was there. My mama needed me. And broken or not, I always showed up when it counted.
I gave the nurse my mama’s name and she directed me, Jonell, and Leila toward Trauma Recovery. I nodded, numb, barely clocking the nurses, the machines, and the slow drip of some stranger’s IV.
I didn’t even hear them coming.
“Baby girl…”
I turned, and there they were, Daddy and my big brother Jason, walking side by side like they’d been carved from the same shadow. Daddy, big, broad, and as dark as ever, looked like he could body slam grief itself. Jonathan Jacobson, the originalhood legend, was my first lesson in strength and the reason I never tolerated disrespect from anyone.
He didn’t say much. He just looked at me as if he knew I was hanging on by a thread and pulled me into a bear hug, like I was still ten years old.
“She’s stable now,” he said in a low, rough voice, like gravel beneath tired boots. “She’s really banged up, though. The doctors have her sedated… It’s just a matter of waiting and seeing now.”
Wait and see.
I hated that phrase. It felt like a curse masked as patience. Like sitting in a burning room, praying the smoke would clear before my lungs gave out.
“I’m tired, Daddy,” I whispered. My voice was small, cracked, stepped on by the weight of it all.
“I know, baby girl,” he said, still holding me tight as if he could keep the world out. “I understand.”
Before I could sink any deeper, Jason’s voice cut through the weight like sunlight breaking clouds. “Come here, my jewels,” he said, reaching for Jonell and me, pulling us into his arms like he was trying to fuse us back together with his own strength. He held on tightly, long enough to remind us he wasn’t letting go of either one.
