AMARA tossed and turned—her face frowning as the memory taunted her in her sleep. Her body was covered in sweat—mixing with the saltiness of tears that owed down her face. Her body began to shake violently, as she abruptly forced herself out of sleep.
The room began to close in—Amara felt as though the walls were brushing against her skin as she screamed for her parents. Her breathing was quick and hollow; Her chest suered sharp pains as she cried louder. Her ears were ringing and she'd lost sense of everything around her.
"Amara," Simone guided herself onto her daughter's bed, "Listen to my voice, Nani."
"I-I—" Amara stuttered, as she became light-headed.
"Focus on your breathing," Simone coached, gently holding her daughter's hands, "I'm here with you, Anandi."
"Deep breaths," Simone guided, inhaling deeply. She repeated this act, allowing Amara to take her time, "Good," She raised Amara's hands and placed them on either side of her face, "Tell me what you can feel, Nani."
"Eyes," Amara began to list as she tried to continue her breathing, "Nose."
"Good," Simone smiled, as she could see Amara beginning to ground herself, "What else?"
"I-I don't know, Mama," Amara began to panic, "I-I can't—"
"Come here," Simone opened her arms, swallowing the lump in her throat. Amara leaned into her mother's chest, crying softly as her hands grasped her Mother's robe, "It's okay, baby."
"I'm sorry," Amara managed through her tears.
"No, baby," Simone reassured, "You do not have to be sorry, Nandi," She swayed slowly, cradling Amara, "I'm here, baby. Always."
Amara couldn't understand. Her experiences with sexual assault was traumatic—it haunted her each time she closed her eyes. She couldn't understand how she was the only one suering, yet the people who violated her—who lowered her sense of self-worth and self-validation—had not suered at all. She had no sense of normalcy, and she wasn't sure if she was capable of getting it back.
"Do you want me to stay?" Simone asked, kissing the top of Amara's head. She nodded in response, as her mother grabbed Amara's scarf and secured it to protect her locs.
Simone helped Amara into the bed before climbing in behind her. Simone opened her arms, allowing her daughter to rest on her chest as she wrapped her arms around her. Easing Amara into sleep, Simone mimicked a hymn her grandmother used to sing to her. In no time, Simone could hear her daughter's light breath—nally allowing tears of her own to fall. Silently, she prayed over her daughter until she could no longer keep her eyes open.
"Bust rap tunes on flat spoons, take no shorts like poom pooms," Amara rapped aloud as she sat beneath the large oak tree, The small canvas planted into the grass as Amara created art without direction.
The thoughts in her mind transferred to the painting—she'd created an image of her inner self kneeling; a small, tattered heart in the palm of the paintings' hands. There were intricate details as Amara continued to perfect her art—focusing on the red droplets seeping through the openings of the persons' hands.
Amara had learned to enjoy her solitude—to bask in the highs and lows of her own company. The process wasn't easy, though. In the beginning, Amara believed that being alone meant drowning negative thoughts, feelings and emotions. She was afraid of being by herself—afraid of dealing with emotions that she couldn't escape and wasn't ready to deal with.
However, Amara found beauty in appreciating her alone time. She found a distant reality in her solitude—a peaceful escape to not only know, but to understand who she was and who she is becoming.
"Anandi Noelle," She heard her father's voice, "Whatchu doin' out here, Moo?"
Amara glanced at her father—Amadi's long locs pulled into a low ponytail as he cradled Nyala in one arm, "Painting. What are you doing out here? Why are you holding her like that?"
"Moo," Amadi shook his head at his daughter, "You sound just like ya' Mama."
"What're you painting today?" Amadi carefully sat next to her, glancing at the canvas.
"Just something random," Amara shrugged, "What'd you think?"
When it came to art, Amara always sought validation from her father. By his family, Amadi was considered an artistic genius—there wasn't anything he couldn't do. As a child, Amadi sketched, drew and painted anywhere he could—the walls of his childhood home, an old bill statement, it didn't matter. In the early years of Amara's life, Amadi witnessed his talents blossoming within his daughter and he helped her talents grow from then until now.
"Brighten your reds, Moo," He adjusted Nyala in his arms, "Do a little bit of orange and it should brighten."
"That's what it needed," Amara showed her father, "I wondered why everything looked so—"
"Dull as hell," Amadi nished, as the two shared a laugh before welcoming the silence.
Amadi rested his back against the trunk of the tree, resting Nyala on his chest and he touched the spot next to him. Amara sat beside him, tting her body into the length of his arms. Amadi pulled her closer, placing a kiss on her forehead, "I love you, Nandi. You hear me?"
"I know," Amara sighed, staring at the clouds. Her eyes stung with tears as she melted into her father's embrace.
"Let it out," Amadi held his daughter tightly, "You don't have to hold it in."
"I can't," Amara avoided her father's gaze, "I don't want to think or talk about it."
Amadi sighed, gently soothing Amara, "You have to free yourself, Anandi. Your thoughts become restraints and you'll forever be a prisoner within your mind, Phats. It doesn't have to be on anyone else's time, but yours."
Though Amadi's words contained wisdom, Amara didn't know how to release herself. She was trapped—entangled inside the poisonous nettings of her own thoughts. Each time Amara's mind seemed to drift, taunting and traumatic memories led the space of tranquility. The images were vivid—she could hear her loud, ear-piercing cries and heart-wrenching pleading. She remembered everything because her mind and thoughts never let her forget it.
"Be gentle to yourself, Anandi. Healing isn't linear but it isn't stagnant," He kissed his daughter on the forehead, "You deserve to walk in the light that has always been destined for you. You deserve to have your power back."
"One day," Amara wiped the lone, fallen tear, "One day."
"Jia," Amara glanced at her best-friend, "You know I can't do it. Even so, the Poetry Slam is tonight, Jianna."
Amara had invited Jia over, since the two hadn't spent time together in a while. Currently, the two friends are laying in Amara's bed—simply enjoying each other's company.
"Mara," She replied, a pout forming on her face, "You can, Boop. Do you not know how talented you are?"
Amara glanced at Jia's phone—reading the contents on the digital yer. Though Amara knew her gifts, performing her personal writings and poetry wasn't in her comfort zone. Amara had secrets that only the pages of her journal would know and those weren't to be shared with an audience, "I don't know, Ji. My writings are for me, and I don't have the desire to share my pain with anyone."
Amara and Jia had been friends since small children—when Jia and her family moved to Texas from Florida. At the time, Jia and Amara were their parents' only child. As children, Amara and Jia were inseparable—and that had continued throughout the decades of their friendship. Though polar opposites, their friendship still remained.
"I know, Moo," Jia sighed, "I want you to express yourself. You have a way with your words—your voice that will make people hear you. These people don't know you, Moo. This is an opportunity to share your pain—to acknowledge your story without claiming it at all."
Amara sighed as she pulled out the battered journal, "Do you really think I can do it?"
"Of course, Boop!" Jia reassured, "I'll be there, Mar. If you can't stand to look at the audience, you can look at me. But then again, I'm ne as fuck and it might make you nervous," Jia joked, as Amara rolled her eyes playfully.
"Jianna, please!" Amara laughed, as she thumbed through the worn pages of her journal, "These are too personal. I may have some old ones in another journal, though."
"So, is that a yes?" Jia asked with her usual, bright smile. She batted her long, natural eyelashes as she awaited an answer from her best-friend, "Is it?"
"Yes," Amara sighed, as she glanced over at Nyala, who was unbothered by the noise, "I'll do it."
"Thank you Jesus," Jia shouted, throwing her hands in the air, "It doesn't start for a couple of hours, though. I will be picking you up and dropping you o, Nani. Don't tell me anything about a rideshare or gas money."
Amara was beginning to protest, but decided to choose her battles wisely. Jianna was a spoiled brat when it came to Amara—and Amara wasn't dealing with her antics, "Okay, Ji. I'll be ready."
"I'm not playin' with you, Junior," Omari's mother, Angela, fussed over their Facetime call, "Watch your mouth."
"I'm just sayin', Ma," Omari placed his phone down to examine his outfit in the mirror, "I'm not reachin' out or acceptin' half-ass apologies. When they disrespected Liv, they disrespected me too."
"If Papa and I forgave them, you can too," Angela tried to reason with her son, "Olivia has been gone for years, Poppie."
"It doesn't matter!" Omari glanced down at the screen, a lump forming in his throat, "Olivia is my sister! Regardless of her choices, I'm not goin' for anybody disrespecting her."
"Poppie," Angela noticed the tears in her son's eyes, a small pout forming on her face, "I didn't mean to upset you—I'm sorry. I just want you to forgive them, so you can move on."
Omari scoffed, as he searched for his keys—done with the conversation, "Alright, Ma. I'll call you later. Love you."
Without waiting for her response, Omari hung up the phone before placing it in his pocket. Olivia had always been a sensitive topic for Omari. Though the siblings were years apart, Omari always felt responsible for his sister. She needed help—which their family failed to realize until it was too late.
Omari felt his phone ringing in his pocket, which irritated him as he headed out of his apartment. Sliding it out, he answered and placed the phone to his ear, "What?"
"Damn, O. Who took a shit in yo' bed?" KC said, Omari picturing the mug on his face, "I was callin' ta' see if you were on yo' way. Everybody hea', we jus' waitin' on you."
"My fault," Omari apologized as he started his car, "I'm headed there, now."
"Alright," KC responded, "Jus' let me know when you at the gate, so I ca' let you in."
"Bet," Omari said, before hanging up the phone. He waited for the Bluetooth to pair before pulling out of the parking garage and heading towards his friends' home.
"Throw up in my car and I'm gon' beat the fuck out of you," Omari pointed to Darrian as they headed out of the club, "Let that shit out before you get in my shit, D."
"Man," Darrian hiccuped, "Nobody gon' throw up in yo' fuckin' car, Mari!"
"Before we left, everybody told yo' ass to chill out," KC pointed at Darrian before handing him the water, "But you do the shit you wanna do! Drink this fuckin' water, D."
As they argued, Omari began to tune them out. He didn't have the energy for it. They'd been out for hours, and his social battery had long expired—all he wanted to do was go home and play his guitar. The conversation with his Mom had him on edge—as it always did whenever they attempted to discuss Olivia. It caused him an immense amount of anxiety, chaos and pure stress.
Heading towards the car, Omari heard a captivating voice that oated from Blues—a small, Jazz club popular for artists' performances. He couldn't ignore it—the voice luring him inside.
"KC," Omari said, causing him to turn around, "Let me stop in here. You bring him to the car," He tossed the keys.
Not giving KC a chance to respond, Omari followed the voice inside. He recognized her as the woman from the record store. As she spoke, Omari couldn't take his eyes o of her. An earth-toned, two-piece set adorned her small frame—golden, handcrafted waist-beads sitting on her waist. Her hair was pulled into a palm-tree hairstyle, a few locs framing her face and the nape of her neck.
"Damn," He said to himself as he picked a chair at the front table.
Omari listened intently as she shared her poetry—each word passing with ease. Her words moved him—his facial expressions changing as she placed particular emphasis on certain lines, her body language matching the nature of her poem. He couldn't help himself—mindlessly pulling the chair closer to the stage.
"The walls of my home—were no longer my own as they burned around me. Ashes to Ashes—But, these ashes didn't look like dust," She made brief eye contact with him, "No, they mimicked the burning pages of my story—chapters once written and sealed by my tears. Stories and memories left unspoken for all these years because I couldn't—I wouldn't dare open myself to the world only to be stripped bare—down. Down to my feet with nothing but my truth to cover me. That causes shame, then brings about blame that was never meant for me," She paused, wiping underneath her eyes as people snapped their fingers.
"But, the walls of my home were never mine to call my own," She spoke, dropping her shoulders, "The only purpose they served was fullled. To burn around me, to uncover the truth of my story that outside eyes could never see. These walls of my home were never mine to call my own."
She let the moment drift—as the audience erupted into snaps and cheers. Omari stood up, allowing his eyes to settle on her as she glanced around the room. She looked down at him again, a small smile gracing her face before she thanked everyone and left the stage.
Omari had waited until the room cleared a bit, before heading over to the open bar where she was standing. Her head was down—eyebrows furrowed in concentration as she paid attention to her phone.
"Miss Neo Soul," He joked, causing her to look up from her phone, "Not only do you have better music taste—you have talent, also. You think you're better than me?" He smiled, earning a soft laugh from her.
"Just a little," She pinched her fingers together, "I didn't get your name."
"Omari," He introduced himself, "Yours?"
"Amara," She smiled, "Our parents' must have had similar ideas."
"You could say that," He laughed, "Your performance was great. You have a way with your words, too."
"Thank you," She blushed, "You made me nervous when you pulled the chair closer to the stage, though."
"Not gon' hold you," Omari smiled, "I was entranced."
"Don't boost me, Omari," She smacked her lips, as she took a sip of her water, "It wasn't that good."
"Don't dilute your talent, Mama," He said, cursing himself for inheriting his Mother's Southern traits, "It was great, honestly."
"You're right," She smiled, "Thank you, again. Are you into poetry?"
"In a way," He shrugged, taking the seat next to her as she motioned for him to continue, "I play guitar, so I might write a few lyrics here and there."
"Really?" Her eyes widened as Omari nodded, "How'd you get into playing?"
"My Grandfather taught me how to play," He said, as the two began to get lost in their conversation.
Their conversation went on for a while, before Omari realized KC and Darrin were still waiting for him. They'd talked about everything and Omari didn't want their conversation to end. He was interested in staying in contact with her, "Before I go, may I have your number? I'm interested in continuing this conversation, but it slipped my mind that my friends are waiting for me."
"It's fine," Amara nodded, before the two exchanged phones "Don't forget to send me the address for your performance next week. I'm lookin' forward to it," She handed him his phone and he did the same.
"I won't forget," He said, "I'll text you when I make it home. That's cool?"
"Sure," She smiled, "Have a goodnight, Omari."
"You too, Amara," He smiled, before heading out of the club.
Hi LOVES💙.
I hope you all forgive me. I've been goin' through it!
Thanks for supporting me.
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Until next time🦋
AB