Trapped by This Thing Called Love 3

Author:Niya Holland [Holland, Niya]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Literature & Fiction, United States, African American, Urban, Women's Fiction, Two Hours or More (65-100 Pages), Genre Fiction
Amazon: B00SEK49UK
Publisher: King Publishing Group
Published: 2015-01-17T05:00:00+00:00

Redcliffe Apartments was controlled housing for welfare mothers, disabled people, and reformed drug addicts; like his grandmother. Young girls and their babies trampled the lawns in front of their yards into dirt and dust. There was a minimum amount of litter, but the apartment buildings weren’t kept up well at all. People were outside, sitting, loitering. They stared like him and the car he drove was foreign. He quickly found somewhere to park and observed those observing him. People didn't intimidate him. Look at how he grew up.

He noticed one girl, who was sitting on the steps one door over from him. They eyed each other. She grinned and bit into her piece of fruit. He smiled back, got out of the car, and walked right up to her.

"What's good?" He glanced around briefly, and then focused in on her. She leaned back in her chair.

"You," she looked him up and down, "Who you looking for?"

"This old woman named Dascha."

She grinned again. "You smoke?"

Kida didn't respond. He took a dub sack out his pocket, and tossed it to her. She caught it with little effort and examined it. "This some good green," she mumbled. "You parked right in front of her door."

Kida felt his heart jump at how close he was to the mother of his mother. He looked at the badly painted steel door.

"Is she home?"

"She in there, she ain't came out all day."

"Bet," he walked off, went up to her front door, and knocked. He knocked again. He watched the blinds move, but he didn't get a glimpse of her face. He heard her walk to the door, but she didn't open it.

"Who are you?"

He looked down at his Adidas; which were already dusty, and paused. "Kara was my mother."

The door opened. He wasn't expecting a weathered, washed-up version of his mother, but that's what he got. Her lips were dark from smoking a lot of cigarettes. Her hair was straight and dark, but thin and pulled back in a ponytail so tight it made her cheeks look even more severe. Her body was thin too. She used to be pretty, but dick, drugs and destruction took a toll on her; too much, too fast. But she was still strong, and nothing to play with. Kida already knew.

"What do you mean by, was?" She didn't have time for the bullshit, and neither did he.

He shifted. "May I come in?"

She was staring at him, hard. For a minute Kida thought she was going to deny him entrance, but she moved aside and let him in. Kida pressed the alarm remote on his rental, and walked in the apartment.

The walls were concrete. The floors were like the ones in the hallways of his old school. Her furniture was bits and pieces from thrift stores; money wasn’t flowing through here. She closed and locked the door. It smelled like cigarettes, and some kind of scented oil. She needed to open a window, but it was clean. His mother was cleaner though.

"Answer my question," her voice was raspy and commanded his attention.

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