SUFFER WITH ME Page 8

  “You lazy, hypocritical bastard!” Mr. Porter says rising from his seat, spittle flying with each syllable.

  “Mrs. Porter.” Benji ignores his insults. “How many mothers have your son caused this same grief?” Unable to maintain eye contact because of guilt, Mrs. Porter stares at the handbag she clutches in her lap. “Why didn’t you come here to get justice for their families, when your son was the culprit?”

  “Elliot, I’m ready to leave,” she mumbles.

  “You worthless rental cop! I should break your nose, you son of a bitch! How dare you—”

  “Elliot!”

  With a huff he snatches his wife from the chair and storms from the office. Benji stares at the door that stands wide open. Instead of going to shut it, he stays seated, quietly seething. Being from the streets, he has the advantage of getting his intel directly from the streets. The Porter’s baby boy was an oppressive bully. He murdered, robbed, hustled and lived lavishly at the expense of the community. But when arrested, he turned everyone in for doing exactly what he does, in exchange for being released to recommit the same debaucheries. Sometimes street justice is more honorable than judicial justice.

  “How long have you been purchasing narcotics in this neighborhood?” Detective Lewis asks the small addict in the backseat.

  Her body is in such poor condition, it’s impossible to calculate her age by sight. She could be anywhere from thirty to seventy-five years old. The scent coming from her is unbearable, but Lewis is so focused on the task at hand that he doesn’t notice it.

  “Maybe two, like two years,” admits the skunk lady.

  “Okay. During the course of those two years, you have never laid eyes on the gentleman in that picture?”

  “No sir, and I know all ‘em ‘round here.” She says confidently.

  Feeling his opportunity slipping away, he decides on another approach.

  “If I gave you $50 to buy some crack for me, would you? We can split it. Five and five.”

  Skunk lady looks at him greedily while trying to determine if this is a ruse.

  After a long day of swimming, zip lining and riding four-wheelers, Suffiyah and Alicia sit in the fancy Mexican nightclub in dresses that mention all of their unmentionables. The tequila shots they down in unison, loosen them up nicely. No problems can reach them here, the only problem is they can’t stay here forever. Two men from Detroit have been vying with other men for their attention all night.

  “Su, you take the cute one and I’m gonna get the cuter one. You ready?”

  “Girl, I ain’t come here for no men.” Suffiyah brushes her off.

  “Me either, but they come with the drinks. Listen you can act like a nun and get none. But I’m her to enjoy my freedom and my life. And if that comes with one of those cuties and an orgasm, I’m in!”

  Suffiyah laughs. “Pervert.”

  “Hoe.”

  “It’s too hard living… but I’m afraid to die…” The killer belts out along with Sam Cooke.

  This statement is beyond true for him. Majority of his life he has contemplated suicide as a way out of his suffering. Drunk out of his mind with a loaded pistol in mouth, he always chickens out. Why? He’s too afraid of what comes after the grave. Is there really a hell? Because if there is, he’s confident he’ll be attending. So why rush? And if not, then only thing after death is an eternity of nothing. That’s truly hell. An eternity stuck with himself is more terrifying than any story of fire and brimstone he’s ever heard. To have to live with the demons in his mind, would break him. This is why he decides to live and alleviate his sickness by bringing death and suffering to others. Which is why again, he finds himself entering Wet. As security stops him to ask for identification, he looks around at the action. Suddenly he begins patting his pocket in search of his wallet. He seems to have misplaced it. Signaling to security to give him a second, he backs out of the doorway. Once outside, he sprints to his van while pressing unlock on the keypad. Sweat trickles down his brow as he gets in the vehicle. He exhales loudly. The look of fear he sees staring at him through the rearview mirror causes him to laugh. Now that he’s behind the safety of the tinted windows, his near brush with imprisonment seems humorous. Amongst all those beautiful faces, Detective Lewis stood out like a toenail fungus on a foot model.

  “Not today, Detective. Not today.”

  CHAPTER 14

  The heavy rain pelts off of the building’s façade in a rhythmic manner, creating a soundtrack to today’s session. Suffiyah lays back on the chair in a dark gray, pinstriped pantsuit. The pink blouse rises with each breath, the space between her buttons displaying a peek of the flesh beneath it. Her caramel complexion is a little darker from her vacation, which somehow makes her prettier than she already was. With her eyes closed, she appears as you would imagine Sleeping Beauty.

  “Describe the child for me.”

  “He’s tiny, for his height. Like he was malnourished. Maybe five or six years-old. Very fair skinned and his eyes,” she becomes quiet as she struggles to remember her nightmare. “I remember they were shut so tight that I felt he was either hurt or frightened to death.”

  “Did you recognize him? Was he a sibling?” Dr. Jackson asks.

  “No.”

  The fact that she’s a foster child was never discussed in her sessions. That’s more embarrassing to her than anything else in her life. When things go wrong in other’s lives, they have a parent waiting with open arms. Waiting to shoulder the pains of a world that their children are ailed with.

  “Dr. Jackson, can I ask you something?”

  “Of course, Detective.”

  “What was your favorite cartoon?”

  Dr. Jackson leans back in his chair. He’s looking at the ceiling as if the answer is written on it. When he looks back at Suffiyah, the professional sternness has dissolved from his face. His eyes smile at the memory his mind holds.

  “I don’t know honestly. Cartoons were my own world, so I loved them all. I was the Roadrunner, fast enough to escape any harm. I was a Power Ranger, able to combat any evil. I was…”

  He looks so human right now, his words faded and Suffiyah could only focus on his face. His words were like ointment soothing her.

  “What about you, Detective?” Suffiyah just stares. “Detective?” He says snapping his fingers, causing her to jump.

  “Huh?” She catches herself.

  “Did I bore you?” he asks.

  “No, I’m sorry. What did you ask me?”

  “You’re favorite cartoon, what is it?”

  “Doc, don’t judge me or feel pity for what I tell you, okay?” He nods. “I am a foster child. So the love and simplicity of home life that others treat as mundane, is exotic to me. Which is why Peter Pan was always my favorite. He and the Lost Boys are a real family. With no parents around to love them, they managed to love each other. But, no matter what they still craved a mother. Do you remember when Peter Pan asked Wendy what a mother was and how was it to have one? I felt he spoke just for me. I listened because I needed to know. What did I do to become a Lost Boy? I’m smart, ambitious and caring. Maybe nobody could see it or acknowledge it, except Lee Lee. That’s when it all made sense. I’m Peter Pan and Alicia’s my Wendy.” His eyes mist as he watches tears spill from hers. “Why didn’t I deserve a mother? A real mother, who wanted me!”

  Suffiyah feels so empty right now, she is her fourteen year old self all over again. Instead of being surprised at the feel of his lips, she welcomes the sensation. Hungrily pulling him forward as he kisses her neck. A moan escapes her lips as his hands brush her mounds beneath her blouse. She tugs her shirt free from her pants, yearning to feel his hands on her bare breasts. Reaching down she caresses his growing bulge as he undoes her buttons. Euphoria envelopes her as she feels his mouth suckle her breasts. She needs her emptiness filled immediately. As his hands cup her firm cheeks, her panties moisten more. Her vulnerability is so evident. It’s now or never. She pu
shes back looking at the floor. Turning her back in humiliation.

  “I’m so sorry, Dr. Jackson. I can’t… not like this,” she says while fixing herself.

  Never looking back or awaiting a response, she leaves. She would not succumb to finding a temporary filling for her permanent void. It only ended in more heartbreak, for her.

  “As misfits, most of our wrong moves come from fear,” Benji explains.

  “I ain’t scared of nobody,” declares a young girl of about sixteen.

  She’s not as well dressed as some of the other students and seems more withdrawn. She probably only spoke up because his attention was directed at her when he made the statement. He fancies himself a rare jeweler or an appraiser. He’ll pick through a handful of rocks and find the gem that’s been overlooked a million times. He’s here looking for his diamonds in the rough.

  “What’s your name, sister?”

  “Lenae.”

  “That’s a beautiful name. Very unique and special.” Her cheeks crimson immediately. “Now, when I say fear, Lenae, I’m not only speaking of people. It can be fear of a place, a situation, a thought, a perception or a fear of standing out. In my opinion, the worst fear is the fear of reality. The things we have to deal with on a regular basis, is sometimes scarier than any monster Hollywood can dream up.”

  A kid in the corner with a tattoo under his right eye, watches him intently. He’s been staring out the window refusing to participate or interact. Something Benji said grasped his attention.

  “Bruh, if you don’t mind, can I ask your name?” Benji asks the kid with the tattoo.

  “Drama.” The kids laugh.

  “Okay, Drama.” Benji concedes to his moniker. “Do you agree with me?”

  “Moreless, I can’t say. I don’t know if you chattin’ for a check like these teachers or you rockin’ wit’ real,” Drama says.

  “First, I do this for free. To help people like me see the flaws in our ways, before they’re forced to hurt as I hurt. Second, I ain’t wit’ ‘chattin’. Real recognizes real. Do I look familiar?”

  Drama smiles before answering. “I agree that wrong moves come from fear. I fear starving so I hustle. I fear being hurt, so I hurt first. I want to be different so my Moms can be proud of me, but I fear that if I change an opp might off me,” Drama says, referring to the opposition. “Then all she can do is cry over me. See all that talkin’ ‘bout change sound good when you don’t have to deal wit’ reality. When you do it’s a whole different ball game. What you fear?”

  The question and admission catches Benji by surprise. “Fear?” He shakes thoughts from his head. “Too much. I fear not living up to the person I wish for y’all to be or exceed. I fear not saying what needs to be said and seeing one of y’all on the news or in the obituaries. You mean more personal?” Benji asks seeing the scowl on Drama’s face. He nods his head. “I fear falling short and reverting back to being a corrupter. Or all my past wrongdoings coming back and causing me to spend the rest of my life in confinement. I fear dealing with the conflict of who I was and who I want to be. I fear reality. And reality is, I fear love the most. I lost my girlfriend, well she was murdered. It hurt me so bad that I know if I was to find love and lose it, life would end for me as I know it now and I would once again be that corrupter. Is that real enough?”

  Drama stands ups and walks to the front of the class. He puts his fist out for a fist bump, Benji obliges. Then he walks out the class with twenty minutes left. Benji stares at his back, feeling like a failure.

  “He never stayed in class longer than five minutes or spoke. You kept him here for forty minutes and got him to contribute. That’s success,” Lenae says, reading his face. Benji smiles at her.

  Suffiyah enters her apartment feeling abandoned. She allowed Dr. Jackson to regress her back to the needy girl who settled for any inkling of affection. The turmoil in her soul stirs and can’t be quelled. As she undresses and slides under her sheets, she just cries. Lewis is trying to provoke her, Benji and Dr. Jackson are trying to take her, the world continues to treat her unfairly and it seems as if God is still trying to break her. She made up her mind that she will no longer be taking sessions with Dr. Jackson.

  CHAPTER 15

  The scent of the tulips are intoxicating and soothing. Thick cranberry carpet covers the floor of the suite as natural sunlight bounced of the white walls. Dr. O’Malley is a squat, Caucasian woman in her fifties. Gray streaks are starting to show in the roots of her red hair. Her round, dimpled face is as pleasant and welcoming as her office. Shoeless, her pudgy pedicured toes are absorbed in the plushness of the carpeting. She bites down on her bottom lip as she thinks before speaking.

  “Repressed memories are memories that have been unconsciously blocked due to said memory being associated with a high level of stress or trauma,” she explains of the prior diagnosis by Dr. Jackson.

  Unlike Dr. Jackson, Dr. O’Malley has no ties to the police department or law enforcement. So Suffiyah can speak liberally about her dreams, the caller and everything else which stresses her.

  “There are multiple ways in which we can attack this, some practical while others are experimental. The former consisting of traditional doctor-patient dialogue until we start to make headway. The latter being hypnosis, if all else fails. The route we pursue is totally your decision. My office is a place of comfort and trust.” Dr. O’Malley gives a motherly smile. “No pressure. Now, let’s begin.” She sits back in her chair and crosses her feet, attentive to Suffiyah.

  “So, repressed memories are real?” Suffiyah asks.

  Dr. O’Malley makes a face which says ’sort of, kind of’.

  “Studies show, that the first documented stories of repressed memories started dating back to the nineteenth century,” she replies while biting on her pen. “The clinical terminology is Dissociative Amnesia. Charles Dickens’ character, Dr. Manette, suffers from it in ‘A Tale of Two Cities’, that was in 1859. But deeper investigation turned up an opera, Nina, by Dalayrac and Marsollier from 1786. Before that, the subject was never broached. So some say it’s just a creation of the imagination of the therapist. While others believe it to be a legitimate ailment. I, being of the latter. So don’t fret, I shan’t judge you a lunatic,” she says playfully.

  Suffiyah tells of the shooting, her dreams, the murders, the calls before the murder and her job.

  “Interesting.” Silence. “What makes you believe all of these events intertwine?” O’Malley inquires while still scribbling in her pad.

  “The timing. It all coincided with each other. Not natural like a snow storm, but overwhelmingly unnatural, like an avalanche. That’s the best way I can explain it.”

  “Well, that’s only speculation, my dear. Now the caller says…” she refers to her pad. “He’ll make you suffer as you’ve made him suffer. The monster in the dream says for you to suffer with him. That’s what stuck out to me, Suffiyah.”

  Suffiyah sits there and ponders the relevance of the statement. Until Dr. O’Malley said it she never gave much thought on the actual wording. But the caller does say suffer repetitively. That’s very peculiar to say the least.

  “Let’s backtrack. Which was first, the call or the dream?”

  “The dreams. They started after the shooting. While the first murder didn’t take place until almost ten months later.”

  “Okay. So the word suffer wasn’t a product of the fear of the caller entering your subconscious, sleeping mind. The dreams were brought on by the trauma of the shooting. Whether it was you being shot or you taking a life, is what we need to establish. Everything has a root. I believe if we get to the root of one problem, the answers will be obtainable to the rest. What is it that you believe the caller wants?”

  “I feel he wants me and is using my work to bring me to him.”

  “But why?”

  “If I knew that, Doc, I could save myself some money and you and I wouldn’t know each other.” Suffiyah smiles.


  “Very clever observation. Maybe we should switch seats.” Dr. O’Malley returns the smile. “But I asked what you believed, not what you knew.”

  “I wish I did know something. It’s beyond puzzling, like he’s trying to keep me rattled. I walk into my apartment as if I’m entering a hostile area, every time. Maybe I’m just paranoid, but I’ve found a motive in almost everyone in the precinct.”

  “I disagree. What if you’re looking too close? Expand your view. Think back on what began all of these events transpiring.”

  “You mean me being shot?”

  “Is that all that occurred that day?”

  “All that I remember.”

  “No, all that you want to remember.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You were not the only person hurt that day or don’t you recollect?”

  “You mean?”

  “Tyler Scott.”

  The name smacked Suffiyah like a ton of bricks. Before the name was said it was nonexistent. Not thinking about Tyler in the least helped her sidestep being the one who removed the light from his eyes. Giving a name to his corpse forces her to have to see him as more than a junkie, robber. It made him a son, student, boyfriend, a friend and a kid. But moreover, it made him human and just as deserving of life as she is.

  “What does he have to do with this?”

  “He also died that day you sustained your injuries. You told me you’ve never discharged your weapon at an actual individual prior to that day. In the first time you have to, it results in the target’s demise. That’s traumatic enough alone, so pair it with you being shot. It’s easier to forget it even happened as you try to do. But you have to face the truth to get an honest answer. The media had a field day with the story I imagine. I know your face would have been front page worthy. Granting the entire country a glimpse at the face that ended this young, promising life. Including?”