Page 163 of Own It

“No. Just act like you don’t hear it,” Ayan said, grabbing Rakim’s bicep when he noticed his twin starting toward the back of the home to intervene.

“I can’t.” Rakim shook his head, slipping from his brother’s grasp and starting down the hall.

“Rah . . .” Josias started to call for his brother but knew it would be ineffective to do so. Rakim, now that he was in middle school, could seemingly never let their parents fight it out anymore.

Ayan and Josias were frozen, not sure if they should retire to their bedrooms to avoid their father’s wrath or stay in the living room in hopes that Nate wouldn’t completely obliterate Rakim if he had an audience.

Sweating profusely already, Rakim neared his parents’ bedroom, shutting his eyes as he listened to his mother’s wails and his father’s heavy fists pound on her. Gripping the doorknob with a dampened hand, he twisted it to enter.

“That’s enough.” His small voice blended into the commotion, but somehow, both Nate and Helen heard it.

“No.” Helen shook her head, face bloodied and mingling with her tears. “No, baby,” she spoke softly, wanting her baby boy to leave the room.

“Who the fuck you talking to?” Nate stalked toward Rakim who naturally jolted but gathered himself quickly and got back in place. “Oh, you think you a man?” Nate laughed derisively, then wasted no time decking his son in the face, sending him into the wall.

“No!” Helen hopped to her feet, the strength of a mother entering her otherwise weak body as she rushed toward Nate. “Argh!” She grunted when he backhanded her seamlessly, sending her onto the bed with a dizzying headache.

Nate felt a weak punch to his stomach, and upon realizing it was Rakim, he became infuriated despite how little effect the pitiful punch had on him. It was the gall Rakim possessed, staring up at his father with a busted nose and balled fists.

Enraged at the disrespect, Nate tore into his son as if he were one of his opponents in the ring. And the more Rakim’s little fists swung in effort to fight back, the harder his father, who was thrice his size, went. Nate saw red, punching on the young boy until he no longer fought back and lay on the carpeted floor, limp.

“Disrespectful muthafucka!” Nate roared, snatching Rakim’s pendulous body and dragging it along the floor as he yanked the bedroom door fully open and stomped down the hall.

Ayan and Josias jumped from the couch and darted down the opposite hall toward their bedrooms, their father’s thunderous voice aborting their plans to stick around for their brother in the living room. The boys’ hearts beat out of their small chests as they both fought to hold onto their bowels and bladder, knowing that would only result in punishment.

Back in the living room, Nate opened the small storage closet of the stairs that led to the attic and tossed his unconscious son inside, bolting it closed. By now, everyone—including Helen—knew not to open that door no matter how much Rakim cried and begged once he came to. He wouldn’t be freed from the tiny closet until Nate allowed it, and sometimes that took a few days, while other times, a whole week.

Hours later, Rakim awoke in the dark, his entire body sore. But once he realized he wasn’t in bed or in the open space but instead locked away, he began to scream, causing his brothers to put pillows over their heads to temporarily escape the agony they experienced hearing the torture of their brother. Helen, in her bedroom, sobbed into her pillow while Nate sat in the living room, content.

I gasped as I shot up in the bed, Daylin sitting upright almost as quickly.

“Baby, you okay?” She rubbed my back, and when I didn’t answer, only now recognizing my surroundings and that I wasn’t in the hell I lived through twenty-two years ago, did I nod unconvincingly. “Did you have a nightmare?” She moved some so that she was in front of me instead of beside me.

“Uh, yeah.” I tossed my legs off the side of the bed, gripping the edges of the mattress.

Though I was cognizant of my surroundings, I couldn’t deny that I was still a bit petrified. I couldn’t go right back to sleep, despite how tired a nigga was, because I wasn’t ready to be plunged back into that fucking nightmare, the factual nightmare. I wasn’t even sure if you could call it that since that shit actually happened, and I was just reliving it.

“About what?” Daylin came around to sit in my lap, and the shit was comforting, feeling her warm, scented body so close to me.

I thought of making some shit up but decided against it. Daylin was the only woman truly privy to what happened to me as a kid, and I’d divulged that shit when she was more of a stranger than she was now.

“My father.” I ran a hand down my face, feeling like a bitch. “Shit that happened to me when I was a kid. I usually always have a nightmare or recalling, whatever the fuck you wanna call it, at least once a week.”

“We sleep together all the time, and I never heard it.” She looked off momentarily, seemingly chiding herself.

“They stopped when we got together for a little while, but for some reason, they’ve resumed.” I expelled a breath. “Fuck.”

“How long has this been the case, Rakim?”

“Shit, how old am I?” I chuckled it off though there was no real mirth laced in my tone. Daylin didn’t mirror my gesture, keeping a stale expression.

“Have you ever talked to anyone? You or Josias or even Ayan?” Her brows furrowed.

“No, and I don’t plan to, Baby.” I looked out through the doors leading to the vast balcony. The scenery was calming. “Talking to somebody about this shit ain’t gon’ help. Killing that nigga would,” I admitted.

Only reason I hadn’t murdered my pops was because I felt like God would truly never forgive me. All the other murders I’d committed were people I barely knew and ones who I had no doubt deserved it. And while Nate deserved death, too, I didn’t know how I would fare after murdering my own father. And he wasn’t just my father to take out. I had to consider my brothers.

Cupping my face to pull my attention from the scenery and onto her, Daylin said, “Baby, murder and violence isn’t always the solution. You and your brothers need therapy, and though you are nothing like Nate, you’ve inherited acting out violently to get desired results, and that’s not always the way.”