Chapter 1: Someone Borrowed, Someone Blue, circa 2009
By: Kim Brightness
Tags: New Book, Childhood Trauma, Sexual Abuse, Abuse, Sexual Assault

December 1st, 2009. Exactly 11 years ago today, I won my first and only #NaNoWriMo — 50,000 words written in 1 month towards what was to be my soon-released novel, now ready for heavy edits. Cool. And, right there in Google Drive, it sat untouched, shrouded by fear, shame, and resistance to publicly share my story of overcoming childhood trauma and sexual abuse. Until now…

As I think about the writing journey for my novella, “Someone Borrowed, Someone Blue”, and prepare for its release on January 11, 2021, I couldn’t resist taking a look back at that old 2009 version, you know, dust it off in my Google Docs and give it some love for all it taught me.

The 2021 published version of “Someone Borrowed, Someone Blue” (you can pre-order the ebook on Amazon) looks vastly different from the draft below. The final version is a modern epistolary novella of email conversations on childhood trauma between two characters, Mikki Jones and Krystal Ashe. The book comes with a mini-soundtrack of my original music, and every reader is the silent, unseen character. Learn more about the book and join my book family here.

Meanwhile, I’ll just sit this draft right here. This was Krystal’s account. Funny, it’s all coming full circle now… finally.

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Chapter 1

Mama said it’s not smart to hold your pee. But if I don’t, she’d find out. Maybe. And, I’d be in big trouble.

“Here you go, Ms. Belinda — in cash this week. I’ve inadvertently run out of checks. I’m sure you won’t mind.”

I hid my whole body behind Mama’s left leg but stuck my head around to peek at Ms. Belinda. She licked her thumb and started counting her money one by one, smiling real wide. Not because she understood the word inadvertently, but because she had just put her teeth in ten minutes before Mama showed up.

Mama says I am smart. And even at 5 and a half, I know the real deal. That money was all Ms. Belinda cared about. I’m not being mean or nothing, it’s just the way it is with everybody in the projects — except me right now. Shoot, don’t give me one quarter; all I want to do is run back inside to Ms. Belinda’s bathroom and make sure I rubbed all those marks off my neck and got all the dirt out my hair. Even if Daddy was still around (but he’s not) and knew the difference between shampoo and conditioner (which he didn’t), the last thing Mama had time to do was wash my nappy, sandy brown hair on a day not called Saturday.

“Ms. Jones, you know cash is aight with me, ‘specially the silent kind that don’t jingle. You is one of my favorite parents, you know. Always pays on time, checks always good. I ain’t neva had no problems with you Ms. Jones. And don’t worry, little Miss Krystal was a good girl today.”

How the hell would she know? Sending me outside to play all day in the hot Florida sun, while she watched the stories.

Ms. Belinda is a big fat lady. She’d probably melt in the sun, and sweat moon pies and cheese balls. She stays in the house all day, eating everything in sight without a bowl or plate to catch the crumbs — Mama’d have a fit if me and my big brother Cole did that. She has a big, stinky chair and watches the news, Price Is Right, and then all the stories on Channel 4. In between all that, Ms. Belinda yells at me for dumb stuff; the screen door is supposed to slam that loud, lady, to let you know when someone comes in or out. It’s called safety. See, like Mama said — I’m smart.

“Well, that’s always good to hear, Ms. Belinda. I’ve raised Krystal to do the right thing, she knows better than to disrespect her elders.”

Ms. Belinda always smells like bologna and onions. Maybe she smelt herself that day she took a bath and made me sit on the toilet lid with the lights off. Ms. Belinda said I’d get into stuff if she didn’t keep an eye on me, but said she’d whoop my ass if just one of my eyes looked over at her in that tub. When I get big and have a little girl or boy, I won’t send them to a big fat babysitter. And I’ll make sure the skinny babysitter will have kids the same age as mine to play with.

“I know you have Ms. Jones. As a young, thirty-somethin’ motha of today, you is doin’ a good job giving her them old school values. And I knows from experience, honey, it ain’t easy doin’ it alone.”

It looked like Mama tried to play nice and smile at Ms. Belinda, but her happy face always seems mixed up with a sad face. The happy face was trying to win, but I get it. The word alone doesn’t make me smile either.

“Well. We’ll see you on Monday, Ms. Belinda. Have a good weekend.”

I tried not to say a word in the car on the way home, but Mama kept asking me stupid questions. “So, how was your day, Krys? Did you have fun playing outside today? What did you do today?” She has to ask alot of questions on her good government job (that’s what my Auntie Joyce calls it), so maybe she’ll realize that she’s not at work anymore the closer we get home.

It hurts my head and my stomach to have to think so hard before I answer. I already knew — liars will burn in hell forever. And after the day I had, I didn’t want to escape hell and then go to hell. Not smart.

“Girl, be still. Why are you wringing your fingers and pulling on your clothes, Krys? You didn’t run all that nervous energy out today?”

“Yes ma’am.” I actually did and was very exhausted on the inside. Mama had no idea how hard and how fast I had to run to get away. No idea how hard it is not to trip and fall when you’re running and looking backward every five steps. Even when I ran forward, looking straight ahead, I could still see them in my mind’s eye.

“Well, good girl. Exercise is very important, especially among our people — black people. You see how big Ms. Belinda is. You never see her working out unless she’s lifting those babies…”

“Or lifting her Big Gulp cup.”

Mama laughed, but her smile quickly wrinkled up when she looked over in my hair.

“Krys! What’s all this dirt doing in your hair, girl?”

Mama looked away from the road off and on as she picked grains of dirt and sand from my hair with her right hand. The steering wheel would jerk back and forth a time or two.

“Girl, what have I told you about getting dirt in your hair? You know good and well I don’t have time to wash your hair every night. Besides, that every day washing stuff is for white folks. You know your head. I’d have to wash, detangle, get my hot comb…girl, I just don’t have the energy to do all that. Where were you playing anyway?”

Boy, that was a really tricky question, especially since a lot of the day was pretty much one big blur. Was I playing out there today? Was I having a ball? Sure, if you call fighting for your life fun, then yes. If you call having a knife pressed against your neck, while hot, stinky human dog breath brushes against your cheeks and ears fun, then yes. Let’s just say for saying — I tried everything I could do to keep my head out of the dirt and grass, though that was the least of my worries. It just didn’t seem right to rest my head on a chest whose heart beat so fast with all that cruel evil. I didn’t mean to get my hair dirty. I didn’t mean to be so dumb and get myself snatched, either.

“In the bushes.”

“Look here, when we get in the house, get your brush and take a loose your ponytails and work that dirt outta your hair, hear me?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Mama turned on the radio just as the organ intro for Going Up Yonder came on. She started nodding her head and rocking to the music.

Looking out the window, I could feel the music, too. Or, maybe I just wanted to go to heaven and call it a day. Say good-bye to the day I was snatched and molested by those two white boys in the projects.