Blue Colla Make Ya Holla by Aimie Grey, Cat Mason, Chelsea Camaron, Laramie Briscoe, Carian Cole, Seraphina Donavan, Bijou Hunter, Stella Hunter, Christina Tomes Page A
Authors: Aimie Grey, Cat Mason, Chelsea Camaron, Laramie Briscoe, Carian Cole, Seraphina Donavan, Bijou Hunter, Stella Hunter, Christina Tomes
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he do to me?
If he doesn’t accept, what will Joel do? Is he waiting to pick me back up and take me home? I almost laugh at the thought – home. I have no home. Pete and Joel, their house was far from being my home. God, I really am a mess. Who gets sucked into this kind of life and actually somehow twists it in their mind to call one of their captive’s places home. There isn’t enough therapy in the world to help me sort my life.
Why go on living? I have no family. I have no home. I have no job. Hell, I don’t know anything about myself but my damn name. I don’t have a birth certificate. I am another Jane Doe. Would it matter if I died? No one would even be around to bury me.
I look around me to see if there is something sharp. Joel pulls the car closer. He is watching. He will step in and save me. I can’t do this from here.
Okay, he said get inside. Once I get inside, there has to be something I can use to end my misery before I completely give in to this world that has become my life.
Get him to accept me as his payment.
Get inside.
End it all.
Heath
It is a long damn day. The work day passes on as I push through. The combination of the Texas heat and my stiff muscles are still sore from the exertion two nights before, only add to my agitation at being ripped off. All put me in a foul mood for the day at hand. Fight money isn’t bill money.
Drill money is bill money.
I fight to give back. Every dime Wendol and I make on my fights goes into the House of Hope , a battered women’s foundation. More than a shelter, House of Hope rebuilds each woman from the ground up. They provide food, shelter, clothing, education, counseling, and so much more for women of abuse, rape, assault, and young women who have been abandoned.
Wendol grew up with a mom and a dad who were soul mates. His parents have the kind of marriage they should write instructions manuals based on. His sister met a guy when she was sixteen. He was twenty three. It started out okay, despite the age difference. Unfortunately, it did not end okay. His sister, Shayla, ended up in a casket and her boyfriend got a reduced charge to manslaughter and is currently serving time in a correctional facility.
My upbringing was far different from my best friend’s. My dad is a lowlife. A drunk. A user. And, although not physically, he is an abuser. I know all too well how words can hurt.
Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words can never hurt me – if that isn’t the biggest line of bullshit we ever teach children, I don’t know what is.
When Wendol opened The Basement we immediately began offering free self-defense classes to all women. You have got to stand for something… as the saying goes…and this is what we stand for.
The Professor owes me money. He owes House of Hope this money so they can help a single mom of two cover her attorney costs for her custody hearing. They also have four women who are in need of scholarships for the GED program at the local community college. We have children who need clothing and women who need general physicals as they haven’t been seen by a medical professional in years.
I have had a long day on the rig and my mind is racing over last night. Why place the bet if he didn’t have the funds? I mean sure we all get desperate for money. Not paying up in this league though, that could get you entered into a death match – where the winner is the only one left alive – or get you dead at the hands of a goon. Either way, you have a low chance at being able to breathe much longer.
Pulling up to my small house, I have to blink as I see a stranger on my porch. All funds donated to the facility are done anonymously. No one knows I fight to give it to charity. House of Hope certainly doesn’t know the money comes from me. It isn’t exactly taxable income so I don’t need a donation voucher. Why is there a red headed woman on my front porch?
Parking my truck, I hop out with questions running through
If he doesn’t accept, what will Joel do? Is he waiting to pick me back up and take me home? I almost laugh at the thought – home. I have no home. Pete and Joel, their house was far from being my home. God, I really am a mess. Who gets sucked into this kind of life and actually somehow twists it in their mind to call one of their captive’s places home. There isn’t enough therapy in the world to help me sort my life.
Why go on living? I have no family. I have no home. I have no job. Hell, I don’t know anything about myself but my damn name. I don’t have a birth certificate. I am another Jane Doe. Would it matter if I died? No one would even be around to bury me.
I look around me to see if there is something sharp. Joel pulls the car closer. He is watching. He will step in and save me. I can’t do this from here.
Okay, he said get inside. Once I get inside, there has to be something I can use to end my misery before I completely give in to this world that has become my life.
Get him to accept me as his payment.
Get inside.
End it all.
Heath
It is a long damn day. The work day passes on as I push through. The combination of the Texas heat and my stiff muscles are still sore from the exertion two nights before, only add to my agitation at being ripped off. All put me in a foul mood for the day at hand. Fight money isn’t bill money.
Drill money is bill money.
I fight to give back. Every dime Wendol and I make on my fights goes into the House of Hope , a battered women’s foundation. More than a shelter, House of Hope rebuilds each woman from the ground up. They provide food, shelter, clothing, education, counseling, and so much more for women of abuse, rape, assault, and young women who have been abandoned.
Wendol grew up with a mom and a dad who were soul mates. His parents have the kind of marriage they should write instructions manuals based on. His sister met a guy when she was sixteen. He was twenty three. It started out okay, despite the age difference. Unfortunately, it did not end okay. His sister, Shayla, ended up in a casket and her boyfriend got a reduced charge to manslaughter and is currently serving time in a correctional facility.
My upbringing was far different from my best friend’s. My dad is a lowlife. A drunk. A user. And, although not physically, he is an abuser. I know all too well how words can hurt.
Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words can never hurt me – if that isn’t the biggest line of bullshit we ever teach children, I don’t know what is.
When Wendol opened The Basement we immediately began offering free self-defense classes to all women. You have got to stand for something… as the saying goes…and this is what we stand for.
The Professor owes me money. He owes House of Hope this money so they can help a single mom of two cover her attorney costs for her custody hearing. They also have four women who are in need of scholarships for the GED program at the local community college. We have children who need clothing and women who need general physicals as they haven’t been seen by a medical professional in years.
I have had a long day on the rig and my mind is racing over last night. Why place the bet if he didn’t have the funds? I mean sure we all get desperate for money. Not paying up in this league though, that could get you entered into a death match – where the winner is the only one left alive – or get you dead at the hands of a goon. Either way, you have a low chance at being able to breathe much longer.
Pulling up to my small house, I have to blink as I see a stranger on my porch. All funds donated to the facility are done anonymously. No one knows I fight to give it to charity. House of Hope certainly doesn’t know the money comes from me. It isn’t exactly taxable income so I don’t need a donation voucher. Why is there a red headed woman on my front porch?
Parking my truck, I hop out with questions running through
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