Vengeance

Part of me wanted to rush out of there and tell Kagiso and Antonio I was ready to go. Diederik was off that day, dealing with some drama. Some crazy whore had shown up at the house, trying to get into the gate the night before, talking about how she was carrying his child. I knew all of their asses were fucking broads in Atlanta. It didn’t bother me, but they needed to keep their floozies out of my presence.

The other part of me said that it was time to be completely transparent. It was all for naught unless I told Marcella where my mind was really going. However, her comments about my disorder leading to violent behavior had upset me. Only because I knew it was the truth. When I was much younger, even prior to the rape, I used to self-mutilate. I would make tiny cuts on my thighs or burn my leg with a lighter or match. Sometimes, I would stick the tips of safety pins into my skin or bang my head against my bedroom wall. It was my way of expressing my emotional pain that I could not put into words. Not that I had anyone to talk to anyway. Grandma was sick and my friends already felt pity on me because of my facial scar.

“Caprice?”

When Marcella used my real real name, it was apparent that she was trying to get me to go back there.

“When I was in Germany a few years ago doing a concert, I saw this beautiful sign in a window. There was a photo of a sunset over the ocean. I asked the escort the label had assigned to me to translate it. It read: ‘Leave the bad memories behind and have faith in a greater tomorrow.’ It was in front of one of the few homeless shelters in Berlin. They do things totally different over there. Their education, health insurance, and all of that is paid for by the state.”

I paused and took a deep breath. “Their constitution, called the Grundgesetz, calls for all Germans to be able to ‘live in dignity,’ meaning that they are guaranteed to have access to all their basic needs. What I noticed about the homeless people that I did see—they only have about six hundred out of three-point-four million people—was that most of them had mental issues.”

I looked at Marcella. “The same goes for a lot of homeless here in the United States, except we tend to discard people who need our help. It’s a damn shame that men and women can go and serve in the military, protect us from terrorists—foreign or homegrown—and then end up eating out of trash cans or pushing all of their worldly belongings around in shopping carts.”

“You’re rambling because you’re trying to avoid the issue. Who needs to pay and for what?” She sat up further in her seat. “Caprice, you can avoid reality, but you can’t avoid the consequences of avoiding reality.”

“I’m just tired of my memories sneaking out of my eyes and rolling down my cheeks. I hate crying, Marcella, and if I go where you expect me to go, I’m going to definitely exhibit my weaknesses.”

“You inspire millions of women and young girls. That’s not a sign of weakness. That’s a sign of strength. My hope for you is to liberate yourself the exact same way you have liberated so many others.”

“I’m fucked-up in the head, so I say unto you: bye, Felicia.”

I got up from the sofa and headed toward the front door.

“Go ahead and leave if you so wish. But know this. You’re only leaving because it’s easier to walk out than fight for what you really want.”

I turned and gazed into her eyes. “And what is it that you believe I really want?”

“Ultimately, love, but right now, you need to prepare yourself emotionally to receive that love.”

I put my hands on my hips and smacked my lips. “I don’t want or need a man. Men want love. I’m incapable of loving anyone. Men want sex. I can’t give them that. Men want commitment. I can’t give them that, either. Men want kids. There’s no damn way I’m bringing any kids into this world.”

“Why can’t you give a man love, sex, or commitment?”

I shrugged. “Partly because I’m a coward and partly because I’m too damn selfish. At least I admit it.”

“Please, come sit back down.” Marcella motioned toward her sofa. “Your birthday’s in a few weeks, isn’t it?”

“The big four-O!”

“Good, then let’s work through this. Tell me who needs to pay and what they need to pay for.”

I stood there in silence for a moment and looked back and forth between the sofa and the door. One meant an escape and not having to deal with all my bitterness and baggage. The other meant taking a huge risk and taking myself into a deep, dark place that I’d never wanted to revisit. But Marcella was right; it was time.

I walked back over to the sofa and lay back down. I concentrated on one of the lightbulbs in her ceiling fan and then closed my eyes. Then I was suddenly fifteen-year-old Caprice Tatum way back in 1987. Not one but two, Ladonna and Wicket, lifetimes ago.

Chapter Nineteen

Saturday, October 24, 1987

9:43 p.m.

Atlanta, Georgia

Spirit Week had gone well at Powers High School, leading up to the homecoming game. Our football team was ranked third in the state of Georgia and everyone was excited about winning the state championship in another month or so. It would mark the first time that Powers took the championship since 1968. Our starting lineup was over the top and it was predicted that all the seniors would end up getting full-ride scholarships to the colleges or universities of their choice.

We were all freshmen—Cherie, Bianca, Herman, Michael, Jonovan, and me—and high school had presented both new adventures and challenges. Well, in my case, making new friends was always a challenge. Outside of the ones I just mentioned, the other kids in middle school had either ignored me completely, made it their personal plight to bully me whenever a chance presented itself, or remained neutral and didn’t give a damn about me either way.

I often read background stories of other celebrities to see if they were popular in school. From what I’d gathered, most merely blended in, and some were bullied, but all of them ended up being at the top of their game when they became celebrities. The major difference betw