Stiletto Mafia (The Empire Trilogy) by Terry Benton

Author:Terry Benton [Benton, Terry]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: United States, Urban, African American, Genre Fiction, Literature & Fiction
ISBN: 9781630027902
Amazon: B00E663EUW
Publisher: CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform
Published: 2013-07-25T04:00:00+00:00

I didn’t know if I blacked out, fell asleep, or if the EMT gave me a sedative. I didn’t really care. When I awoke the next day, for a split second I thought I’d imagined the previous night. I’d hoped that it was all a nightmare and soon I’d hear Ronnie crying in the next room and my mother would appear in my doorway bouncing my baby brother up and down in her arms while she struggled to tell me between Ronnie’s whining that breakfast was ready. The door opened but my mother didn’t walk through it and then it hit me—she’d never walk through my bedroom door again. It wasn’t a bad dream.

The doctor walked up to my bed and smiled at me. I didn’t smile back; instead I turned my head and stared out the window. Clouds rolled by overhead as I thought about my family watching me from Heaven and I fought back tears.

My bed creaked as the doctor sat on the edge and placed a cool hand on my arm. “How are you feeling, dear?”

I glanced at the man indifferently and then returned my attention to the window. I didn’t feel like talking. I didn’t even feel like living. All I wanted right now was my family back.

For the rest of my time in the hospital, I watched doctors, nurses, psychiatrists, and social workers parade in and out of my room at all times of the day and night while I refused to speak to any of them. I didn’t care if they thought I was crazy. They mumbled amongst themselves and threw out random medical terms like “Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder” and continued to pump me full of all types of medication that I’d never be able to pronounce or spell. Soon they all stopped talking to me and began to converse amongst one another as if I weren’t in the room. It didn’t even bother me when the nightshift nurses would sit in my room for hours and hold inappropriate conversations with God-knows-who on their cell phones for half the night.

However, despite my prayers to the contrary, every morning my eyes opened and the procession of doctors and medication proceeded like clockwork. I lost track of time as I sat in that hospital room day after day. Nothing ever changed—until the day I was released into the custody of the social worker.

She learned quickly not to expect a response from me during conversation as I’d gone completely mute, only communicating via occasional nods or shakes of my head when I deemed it absolutely necessary.

A small suitcase filled with my things, all remnants of my past life, waited in the backseat of the social worker’s green Ford Taurus outside the hospital. Once inside and buckled into my seatbelt, I eyed the suitcase and then looked at her inquisitively.

“I’m taking you to your new foster home today,” she said. “We talked about this, remember?”

I simply turned and stared out the window as we pulled out of the parking lot and onto the street.

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