way he used to play that guitar was just amazing. He gave you that gift, sweetie. Don’t waste it.”
I gasped, Mom must have heard it as her head whipped around, her gaze landing right on me. I studied her face. She didn’t look upset, there were no tears or bloodshot eyes. In fact, she smiled.
“Embrace the gift he gave you, Neva. Music can heal, hurt, break and maybe sometimes fix. You have just got to decide which type you want to play.”
“I miss him, Mom,” I whispered, unsure of what else to really say.
“I know, darlin’. I miss him too,” she said.
Standing from her chair, she took me in a hug and kissed my cheek softly. I hugged her back as she stroked my hair.
“Play to heal,” she whispered in my ear. “Play to heal, for yourself.” She pulled back from the hug and gives me a small smile. “I’ll be in my office if you need me.” She left the kitchen, and took the stairs to her office.
Play to heal, for myself? I hadn’t touched my guitar in such a long time, and even if I did, what would I play? Standing from my chair, I made my way to my old bedroom. I had been avoiding coming back to my room, knowing Angel’s guitar was in here. It was locked away in the closet. Out of sight, out of mind, I suppose.
As I stepped into the room, I looked around. Everything was the same. The same dark furniture, the same scarlet color painted on just the one wall, the smell of fresh vanilla sheets. Walking over to my large king size bed, I sat down on the edge. My hand instantly hovered over the top drawer of my bedside cabinet. In there was a letter, one I have had trouble even thinking about. But right now, I needed to know what it said.
Pulling open the drawer, I put my hand in and pulled out the letter. Scooting back to the middle of the bed, I ran my fingers over my name on the front of the envelope, just like I did in the hospital. Flicking my gaze up, I spotted my old picture of me and my father. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes for a couple of seconds. I waited, waited for my heart to start pounding, but it didn't.
Opening my eyes, I ran my finger along the lip of the envelope, pulling it from the body. Inside, a letter, folded into three. As I opened it up, I could feel my throat constricting, but the pounding heartbeat or shaking hands don't come. So, I read.
Neva,
I don’t really know what to say other than I’m sorry. What I did is beyond words. But, I need you to understand what happened, and why I did what I did.
My father first laid his hands on me when I was just five years old. Ever since I have known he's hated me. I don’t use the word hate lightly, but it is what it is. I was the child that was never supposed to be born. I am the product of rape, and I was reminded every damn day.
After my sister Faith died, my father quickly sunk into a hard depression, finding solace at the bottom of a bottle. I’m not telling you this because I want your sympathy, I’m telling you this so you get a clearer picture.
A couple of long and torturous years later, my mom found out she was pregnant again. She was pregnant with me. It was a pregnancy she craved, but also despised. My father raped my mom in a drunken fit of rage and I was the result.
My father had been hell-bent on getting so drunk that he couldn’t even remember his own name, he also couldn’t remember raping my mom either. He accused her of having an affair with another man. This almost cost my mom her second pregnancy. He threw her down the stairs over and over, trying to make her miscarry.
Over those nine months, my mother fought for her unborn child, me, and eventually won. I was born and in turn given the name Angel. He couldn’t deny I was his, I have his disgusting eyes. Years rolled by with the same routine. Don’t look him in the eye, don’t speak unless spoken to, and Jesus, don’t ever wake him up after he passed out drunk.
Then one day, he lost it. He punched, kicked and head-butted my mom,
I gasped, Mom must have heard it as her head whipped around, her gaze landing right on me. I studied her face. She didn’t look upset, there were no tears or bloodshot eyes. In fact, she smiled.
“Embrace the gift he gave you, Neva. Music can heal, hurt, break and maybe sometimes fix. You have just got to decide which type you want to play.”
“I miss him, Mom,” I whispered, unsure of what else to really say.
“I know, darlin’. I miss him too,” she said.
Standing from her chair, she took me in a hug and kissed my cheek softly. I hugged her back as she stroked my hair.
“Play to heal,” she whispered in my ear. “Play to heal, for yourself.” She pulled back from the hug and gives me a small smile. “I’ll be in my office if you need me.” She left the kitchen, and took the stairs to her office.
Play to heal, for myself? I hadn’t touched my guitar in such a long time, and even if I did, what would I play? Standing from my chair, I made my way to my old bedroom. I had been avoiding coming back to my room, knowing Angel’s guitar was in here. It was locked away in the closet. Out of sight, out of mind, I suppose.
As I stepped into the room, I looked around. Everything was the same. The same dark furniture, the same scarlet color painted on just the one wall, the smell of fresh vanilla sheets. Walking over to my large king size bed, I sat down on the edge. My hand instantly hovered over the top drawer of my bedside cabinet. In there was a letter, one I have had trouble even thinking about. But right now, I needed to know what it said.
Pulling open the drawer, I put my hand in and pulled out the letter. Scooting back to the middle of the bed, I ran my fingers over my name on the front of the envelope, just like I did in the hospital. Flicking my gaze up, I spotted my old picture of me and my father. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes for a couple of seconds. I waited, waited for my heart to start pounding, but it didn't.
Opening my eyes, I ran my finger along the lip of the envelope, pulling it from the body. Inside, a letter, folded into three. As I opened it up, I could feel my throat constricting, but the pounding heartbeat or shaking hands don't come. So, I read.
Neva,
I don’t really know what to say other than I’m sorry. What I did is beyond words. But, I need you to understand what happened, and why I did what I did.
My father first laid his hands on me when I was just five years old. Ever since I have known he's hated me. I don’t use the word hate lightly, but it is what it is. I was the child that was never supposed to be born. I am the product of rape, and I was reminded every damn day.
After my sister Faith died, my father quickly sunk into a hard depression, finding solace at the bottom of a bottle. I’m not telling you this because I want your sympathy, I’m telling you this so you get a clearer picture.
A couple of long and torturous years later, my mom found out she was pregnant again. She was pregnant with me. It was a pregnancy she craved, but also despised. My father raped my mom in a drunken fit of rage and I was the result.
My father had been hell-bent on getting so drunk that he couldn’t even remember his own name, he also couldn’t remember raping my mom either. He accused her of having an affair with another man. This almost cost my mom her second pregnancy. He threw her down the stairs over and over, trying to make her miscarry.
Over those nine months, my mother fought for her unborn child, me, and eventually won. I was born and in turn given the name Angel. He couldn’t deny I was his, I have his disgusting eyes. Years rolled by with the same routine. Don’t look him in the eye, don’t speak unless spoken to, and Jesus, don’t ever wake him up after he passed out drunk.
Then one day, he lost it. He punched, kicked and head-butted my mom,
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