Phara
By: Tre L. Loadholt
Tags: Poverty, Short Story, Fiction, Prayer, God

Hello, God. It’s me, Phara.

I am a good girl, God. I brush my teeth. I keep my nails clean. I choose the best underwear to wear to school. I do my chores. I always, always double bag the chicken wing bones before putting them in the garbage. I do okay in school. Last quarter, I got a D. Ms. Lionel said she was disappointed in me. Is that why Daddy does what he does? Disappointment in me?

He doesn’t even see me, looks right past me. I am a dust mark in the pissy hallways of Grant Homes. I’m not supposed to say the word “pissy,” but it’s you. I guess, you knew I was going to say it, right?

Daddy doesn’t see my smile. He waves it off. Can’t he see his eyes staring back at him when he takes a bit of me every night? I die in that bed. I am dead before he even touches me and when he begins, during, and end, I die all over again. I am the walking dead, God. Why do you keep me here? Is there better to come? If so, when will it? Will Mama be there too? She works so hard. I barely see her now. They got her doing doubles. She says, “I’m saving. We gettin’ outta here.” I wonder, where are we going? And when will we leave? Are there safer spaces for little girls who know their Daddy’s sweet spots? She’s mad at Daddy. I think it’s my fault. She’s pacing the floors of my Granny’s house, talking to herself. She pulls at something that’s not even there. Every few moments, she’ll say my name. I think she’s praying, but it don’t sound like any kind of prayers I’ve ever heard. Sissy from the 3rd floor says she’s speaking in tongues. Did you give her this new language?

I don’t know what’s going on with me. I throw up my meals, can’t keep my legs still, they shake. In school, I have to raise my hand to excuse myself to the little girls’ room more than I ever have. Tia, she’s older than me, she’s eleven, said I got a baby growing inside of me. Do I? What she know about babies, anyway? You would tell me if I did, wouldn’t you, God? I don’t think that’s the kind of secret you’d keep from me. I came home and told Mama what she said and Mama jumped on the phone with my Aunt Corinne, and they began shouting and singing gospel songs, and going on about the devil is not welcome here. I don’t know what’s going on. They’re taking me to Mama’s job, gonna have me “tested.” I feel fine. Just a bug, I think. But, I heard Mama say, she thinks Daddy “left us a gift.”

If this is what this gift is gonna bring me, I don’t want it. You hear me, God! I don’t want no kind of gift that’s causing me grief. You know I am ten, right? Turned ten in December. Didn’t get no gifts. I am a Christmas baby. Christmas babies don’t matter around here. Only Jesus. He’s most important. But, Daddy remembered. Crept in my room that night and opened up his present. I am his gift. I was. I used to be. I am rusty now. Older than before. He doesn’t see my shine. If you’ll help me, I’d like that. I don’t wanna feel how I am feeling forever. I know you got other people to take care of and many prayers to answer, but God, I think this one should be pushed to the top of the list tonight. Please, God. Please. Make the pain go away.

I am a good girl, God. I brush my teeth. I keep my nails clean. I choose the best underwear to wear to school. I do my chores. I always, always double bag the chicken wing bones before putting them in the garbage. I do okay in school. Last quarter, I got a D. Ms. Lionel said she was disappointed in me. Is that why Daddy does what he does? Disappointment in me?

Are you disappointed in me too?

Amen.