Total pages in book: 159
Estimated words: 149301 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 747(@200wpm)___ 597(@250wpm)___ 498(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 149301 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 747(@200wpm)___ 597(@250wpm)___ 498(@300wpm)
“Poet, I’m so sorry!” Melba apologized once again, grabbing at her hand like some desperate child in need of a way out. That’s when she saw them. An assortment of old and new nasty bruises all over the woman’s wrists, chest and legs. Purple, brown, red and yellow… big and small ones. Cuts and scars, too. Usually, Melba was covered up when she came to the house to start her antics, but her robe had flung open during all the ruckus, exposing everything that her little cream nightgown didn’t cover.
“Melba…”
“He doesn’t know what he’s sayin’ or doin’! He’s sick.” The woman’s eyes pleaded even more than her mouth. They were sad, and tired, sheening with unspent tears. “I’ve been takin’ care of him, ya see? And he just says things. He don’t mean nothin’ by it!” The woman was rambling on, but then she stopped mid-sentence and suddenly fell to the floor. The old man had hurled those keys like a professional baseball pitcher, and they hit Melba hard on the side of the head.
“Oh my God!” Poet scooped the woman from the floor, lifting her into her arms. Melba was dead weight—like a rag doll. Blood pooled on the side of the woman’s head, and her eyes were rolling about as she groaned.
She dragged Melba over to a nearby chair, and set her down in it so she could call 911. The old man stood there for a bit, unsteady on his feet, his eyes trained on Melba. A confused expression stretched across his face. Then he grimaced, as if he were just realizing once again that Poet was in his house.
“Who are you? GET OUT, NIGGER!”
He reached for something by the side of the couch, but she couldn’t see what he was doing. Taking a few steps closer to him, she watched him trying to grasp what looked to be a bucket filled with sullied rags.
All of her tension, rage, and sadness drained from her body, and she went into attack mode. She raced toward him at full speed, and snatched the handle from his fingers. Throwing it across the room, she shoved him down on the couch, pressing her weight into him. The old man looked up at her with his overcast, cataract-covered blue eyes. His thin, pale lips parted, showing small, uneven, yellowed teeth. Drool shone along his stubble-covered chin.
A vile expression crossed his face, like that of a demon. He worked his lips, and she realized he was trying to spit on her, but having trouble since he was lying on his back. Grabbing a food tray that was lying on the adjacent coffee table, she put it up to his face before he could complete the task. A small sputtering of saliva landed on the tray. She tossed the damn thing to the floor, then covered his mouth tight with her hand as she leaned down close to his decrepit face.
“You sick, stinking, nasty son of a bitch,” she said between gritted teeth. “It was you at my house tonight. You had enough gumption to drive yo’ ass down the road and throw eggs. Now you wanna pretend to be all frail and helpless. I saw what you did to your wife…” His eyes narrowed. “Don’t you throw one more gotdamn thing, or I’m going to throw YOU! YOU HEAR ME?!”
He just looked up at her, that tube in his nose, his eyes now wild and crazy. “You might be sick, but you know exactly what you’re sayin’. That vile, ungodly vocabulary has always been in you, and I know you been beating this woman for years, too. You’re a coward! A racist, disgusting, nauseating, yellow-bellied chicken! DON’T YOU DARE HIT THIS WOMAN ONE MORE MOTHAFUCKIN’ TIME! Don’t you touch her, or so help me God, I will skin you down to the bone, rip all of your organs out, pluck your eyes from the sockets with my bare hands and turn yo’ ass into a human mannequin for our Old Stone Age Paleolithic Era caveman display!”
Poet felt like she was having an out of body experience. Her distress rushed to the forefront; her blood ran cold then hot all over. Her nerves were on fire! The world was spinning far too fast as her anger poured out like hot lava.
“That woman you married, she’s been taking care of you when she’s barely well herself, and you’re using your sickness to keep on fuckin’ wit’ her. To hurt her! I know a performance when I see one. You ain’t slick, fool. Now you listen here. I’m gonna tend to your wife. If you get up from this here couch, I’m gonna get my shotgun, it’s right there yonder, and do the unthinkable… You think I killed yo’ mama, you shriveled up pasty worm? I’mma kill you next!”