Chapter 1
Peaches…That’s what they called me. They alternated between that, my real name, or whatever else they could come up with based on how they were feeling that day. No one ever called me by my real name until I got older. Until then, I was Peaches, the baby girl. I was always told that being the youngest child was a blessing. But sadly, being the “last” of four girls was more of a curse than a blessing. I would have gladly given up my spot in that line if I thought that it would have made my life any easier.
Early on, I felt like I got “tails” in this coin toss called life. I always felt like I was being punished for something that I’ve done in another life. Like maybe, I was a jerk in a past life and I was brought back into this world to atone for my sins. I could never have predicted that life would be so hard for me as a child. I mean, I knew that there were kids who unfortunately and sadly, have really fucked-up lives. It’s tragic, but no child is capable of predicting that. Kids just want to be kids. We want to be loved and cared for and it’s not a lot to ask for, but there are people who, for some bizarre reason feel otherwise.
And it wasn’t like my parents were bad parents, on the contrary, they were fantastic based on my definition of the word “fantastic.” They weren’t bad people and they loved me to death. And we had it pretty good. We lived in a nice home. It wasn’t the “best” home, but it was “home.” My parents were always kind to me. They worked hard and they believed in God so much so that they made sure that we attended church on all of the special holidays – Easter and Christmas. They always quoted Scripture. All three of them. The one that says, “If someone puts their hands on you then you have every right to knock the shit out of them,” the one that talks about, “How tomorrow is not promised, so you better have fun while you can,” and the last scripture that gives parents’ permission to beat the hell out of their kids because God said so.” That last one is my dad’s favorite one.
As a child, my parents didn’t really need to discipline me that much. All they had to do was give me the “look” and I straightened up. I never wanted to be on the other end of my Daddy’s belt and he used it often. He felt punishment should fit the crime and he had no problem making sure that folks got what he felt they deserved. But I’m sure that the other folks in the house felt differently about his “brand of justice.” I thought that he was fair, but I wasn’t the one getting hit every time that I did something stupid or bad. I made sure that I stayed out of the way.
Yes, I was the baby and being last made me cognizant of what that meant. It meant always having the focus on you even if you don’t want it. It also meant that there is always going to be someone to resent you for it even though you had nothing to do with it.
But enough about me…back to the reason why we’re here…the person who said, that “’Girls are made of sugar, spice, and everything nice’” never met my sisters. They were made out of salt, venom, spiders, worms, horror movies, and pure unadulterated evil.
Might as well start this off by being absolutely honest. I hate ‘em. Hate em’, hate em’, hate em’….Did I say that I hate em’? If not, let me say it again. I hate em’. Now, it wasn’t hate in the beginning. When you’re little and don’t know any better, you assume that people will just love you. It never crosses your little mind to think that the people charged with loving you would do everything but love you. And the weirdest thing is, I actually thought that what they did to me was love because again, I didn’t know any better. When you don’t have any point of reference, then what you see and experience becomes your point of reference. I mean, if your sisters lock you in a dog cage every day until you’re six, you assume that all six year olds sleep in dog cages until you find out that that was some bullshit that they thought would be funny; without thinking about how it would affect you in the long run.
And they loved it…
While other kids were out jumping rope, going to the park, hanging with friends, “The Evil Three” were looking for ways to make my life a living hell.
Regan, the oldest, was a bitch. I know that that sounds harsh, but there is no other way to describe her. I could try to say something nice, but if it walks like a bitch, talks like a bitch, then, what more can I say?
I honestly believe that when she was born, the doctor tried to slap her on the ass, but she probably looked up at him and scared him so bad that he just put her down and walked away. It is through her, that I learned what darkness is and learned to fear it. She was cold and unfeeling. My baby dolls were more “human” than she was. I’m sure that being the oldest came with a lot of responsibility and that the expectations for the first born were great, but being the oldest made her angry, evil, and it was sad, because she was actually truly beautiful. Now, I know that there is no correlation between beauty and a person’s capacity to make another person’s life miserable, a living hell, but her beauty made it easier for her to be cruel to people. I used to look at my sister and wonder how someone could be both beautiful and ugly at the same time. I’m sure that it wasn’t an easy task, but one that she’d perfected.
She had the most beautiful long jet black hair and she made sure that you saw it because she was forever throwing it in your face, literally. I mean that she actually threw it in your face. She was forever swinging it. You couldn’t talk to her without getting an eye or mouthful of her hair.
She also blossomed early, so at age nine, she had breasts that were more than a mouthful and an ass big enough to sit a complete table-setting for one on it. And the boys loved her for it. She got a kick out of letting them touch her. She would give them just enough to make them “hard” then she would leave them standing there looking stupid with an erection that they couldn’t do anything with, but wish or rub away.
When she was younger, she played with boys like I played with dolls. They used to chase her like she had the latest video game stuck up her butt. It was so easy for her to use them too because she convinced each one of them that they had a chance to be the one to take her virginity. Little did they know that that honor was already given to her fingers and anything else she could stick between her legs. From as far as I could remember, she was doing that – rubbing her vagina on things like a dog that dragged its ass across the floor because it itched. Maybe that’s why she did it, but there was not a pillow in the house that didn’t smell like musty vagina. Perhaps someone should have told her about soap or told her that little girls are not supposed to get freaky with the furniture – a practice usually performed by animals, but until she reached the big times, the furniture would just have to do. She had this thing. She used to walk around the house sticking her fingers in our faces and saying, “Smell my fingers.” Who did she think wanted to smell her booty-fingers? Who does that nasty shit? She did.
At some point, boys had become boring to her. I guess it was right around the time when she realized that they couldn’t do anything for her, but make her panties wet. No, she wanted more than that, so she directed her energies toward the “more-seasoned” of the male species. She used her sexuality to get men to give her what she wanted and if they didn’t, she took it from them.
When she was fourteen, she dated a man so old that I think he was the waiter at the Last Supper. She was always stroking those three strands of hair on the top of his head like that would make the rest of his hair grow back. It didn’t and when she rubbed his head, he purred – making his dentures whistle. When I heard it, I knew what was going to happen next.
One day, when my parents weren’t home, I saw them playing with each other. At least I think that’s what they were doing. It sort of reminded me of what I saw some dogs doing at a park one day. My mama called it “A Party for Two,” but that didn’t look like any party that I wanted to be invited to.
When I opened the door, I wanted to turn and run out of the room, but there was something so odd about it that I couldn’t look away. I looked, squinted my eyes, and tilted my head in every direction just trying to take it all in. She was pulling on his penis like she was trying to start a lawnmower. He was moaning and groaning so loud that I thought that he was going to “stroke-out.”
“Hurry up and cum you old bastard!!!!” she yelled, pulling on him with one hand and wiping sweat from her forehead with the other.
He huffed and puffed like the “Little Engine that Wished He could.”
She seemed exhausted like she’d been pulling on him for a while and then suddenly, as if someone had smacked him in the back of his head, his false teeth shot out of his mouth and flew clear across the room.
“Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!” he shouted as he clinched the sheets. His toes curled as he convulsed. His eyes rolled up into the back of his head. He twitched, and then his body went limp. When it was all over, she stared over at me, smiled, and wiped her hands on a towel that was sitting next to her. He was in a “coma” and wasn’t waking up anytime soon.
This was her opportunity. While he slept, she went through his pockets and wallet and took every dime that he had. She counted the money as I watched. She was so proud of herself. “Shhhhhhhhhhh,” she said, before telling me to get the fuck out and I was happy to leave because I knew that mess was going to give me nightmares or be the source for future therapy sessions.
Then there was Raven, Regan’s identical twin. Raven was Regan multiplied by 100. She was hard-core. I bet that when she was born and the doctor slapped her, she probably turned and slapped his ass back. She was a bitch too, but she was more calculating in her “bitchness.” She was a thinker – a planner. She didn’t just go about torturing folks haphazardly. No, she was too smart for that. She was serious about what she did and who she did it to. Everything had to be perfect – from the day, the time of the day, to what she was wearing when she was hurting her victims.
She was scary. She was the type of scary that you didn’t know that you were supposed to be afraid of until it was too late. Not like “a tarantula falling in your lap” type of scary; even though that’s pretty damn scary. No, she was more like a tarantula, dressed-up in a sexy Superhero costume, while carrying a loaded .22 type of scary.
Oddly enough, everyone liked her. Everyone else but me that is. She was very popular in school. She had her own little clique of girls who were bullies just like her. Interesting enough, high schools have a full supply of them; angry little girls who like taking their anger out on others.
She was a great dresser and all of the girls emulated her. If she wore plaid on Monday, by Tuesday, every girl in the school was wearing plaid. She was cute and had a walk that was almost hypnotizing – intoxicating and she knew it. It gave her great joy knowing that she had that kind of power over people, and power was what she wanted.
Her pleasure came in the torture of ANYTHING that had breath. She had this way about herself. She was a magnet. She drew people and animals into her circle, making them love her, want to be with her, and then punishing them for their choice.
Now, her “thing” wasn’t just using or hurting men. I’m not really sure if she even liked men. If she did, that part of her was kept a secret and I don’t think she liked women either. Matter of fact, I don’t think she had an affinity for anyone or anything. You see, that would require something that she wasn’t capable of – liking anyone or anything other than herself.
You couldn’t have anything around her. She would destroy it just because she could. Because of her, I had a lot of blind bald-headed baby dolls. When she was bored or when she wasn’t bored, she used to rip the heads off of my dolls, shave their heads, poke out their eyes and then hand them back to me. It could have been worse. She could have buried them in the backyard with all of her dolls that she no longer had any use for.
I was around four and I vaguely remember that my mother bought me a goldfish. After watching that movie about a whale, I just knew that I had to have one. Of course, I couldn’t have a whale, so a goldfish was the next best thing.
I begged and pleaded until my mom and dad gave in. The night before we went to pick one up, I spent the whole night thinking of what to call him. After several hours, I decided on the name, “Blinky” because goldfish have the biggest eyes.
I remember the trip to the store to pick one out. I was so excited. I skipped and hopped all the way to the door of the store. When we entered there were wall to wall animals, puppies, birds, turtles, bunny rabbits, mice, and gerbils. I was like a kid in a candy store.
When we found the tank full of goldfish, I thought that I’d died and gone to Fish Heaven. There were about a hundred in the tank, but there was one that stood out. He was both silver and gold and had the prettiest eyes. I pressed against the glass so hard that I thought that I was going to break the tank. “That one!” I shouted. “That one!” When the salesperson put him in the plastic bag and handed him to me, I held him up to see him in the light. “Mommy, look at his eyes. Don’t he have pretty eyes?”
My Daddy answered, “Yes, Baby Girl, he does have pretty eyes.”
Raven looked at me and frowned. “How do you know that it’s a boy?”
I held the bag up and looked closely at the fish not really sure what I should be looking for. “Daddy, is he a boy?” I asked.
He smiled and said, “It’s whatever you want it to be.” He glared over at Raven.
I was smiling and looking at the fish when I saw two eyes, blurry, staring back at me through the plastic. I lowered the bag to see who the eyes belonged to.
Raven smiled and said, “You better hide him from me.”
I held the bag close to my chest and said, “No, don’t.”
She smiled and looked at Regan who smiled out the corner of her mouth. “You better hope that she gets to him first.”
I could only imagine what they were going to do to him. Afraid, I ran to my mother’s side and said, “Mommy, I don’t think I want him.”
She kneeled down and said, “Sweetie, what’s wrong?”
Looking over my shoulder at my sisters and trying to figure out a way to save the fish’s life, I said, “He’s stupid and ugly. I don’t want him.”
My father looked at me and said, “Baby Girl, don’t be silly. He’s not ugly.” He took the bag from me, held it up, and grimaced. “Well, he’s no Denzel, but of course…he’s a fish.”
I pulled on his pants, pleadingly, “Daddy, please…”
Regan walked away and began to flirt with the store employee, but Raven’s eyes were fixed on me and the fish. She licked her lips like a cat watching a mouse before it pounced on it.
I continued to plead with my parents when my mother finally said, “Stop it…now, we came to buy a fish and now, we got a fish.” She began to walk to the front of the store. I kept looking over my shoulder at my sister. She continued to smile and she did that all the way home.
I tried not to think about the things that they said. I got so caught-up in loving it, that it never dawned on me that someone was on the other side of the house making other plans for it.
For the next couple of days, everything was fine. I fed him, talked to him, sang to him, and just loved him. Then it happened. One day, after coming home from the babysitter, I ran to my room to say “Hi” to Blinky, but he wasn’t in his bowl. I called out to him expecting that the fish would run into my room and jump into my arms, but that didn’t happen. I looked for him under my bed, everywhere, but there was no Blinky. Then I heard Raven call my name. As I walked towards the door, I could smell something cooking. I was so glad because I was so hungry. I ran down the hall still calling his name, but there was no response. When I walked into the kitchen, I asked everyone had they seen Blinky, but they all said, “No.” My dad looked around the table and said, “I don’t know where that fish is, but he better appear before the night is up…do you hear me?” My sisters, responded with a resounding, “Yes” that was met with giggles.
That night when we went to bed, I cried myself to sleep. The next morning, Regan called me for breakfast. I looked down to find that my pillow was soaked with tears. I cried all night. I stretched and sleepily slipped my feet into my house-slippers and immediately felt something wet and “slimy”. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and slid my foot out of the shoe. As my toes started to reveal themselves, I saw two black things sticking to them. I leaned over to inspect the stuff that was sticking to my foot and then I saw them. Blinky’s eyes. I shook my foot violently, trying to remove them from my feet. I jumped up and was headed out of the room when Raven stopped me in my tracks. She laughed and said, “I saved you the best part…didn’t you say that you like his eyes?” I was about to scream when she said, “You better not…you don’t want to end-up like your friend.” I muffled my cries. Regan walked passed and said, “The rest of him wasn’t bad either,” and she began to lick her fingers while she sucked her teeth. She rubbed her stomach like she’d just finished eating a hearty meal. They both laughed and walked away. I walked back into my bedroom and just stared at the empty fishbowl. When my Daddy found out, he punished them all – made them save their allowance to buy me a new one, but I didn’t want any more fish after that.
My other sister, the quiet one was named, Ivy. According to my parents, she was not a cute baby. Ivy was the inspiration behind the joke about the baby that was so ugly that the doctor slapped the Mama instead of the baby. They used to joke that when she was born, the doctor wasn’t sure if my Mama was delivering a baby or if she’d just “shitted” on herself, but to me, she was beautiful too – in her own special way.
If you weren’t there to see her born, you wouldn’t even know that she ever existed. When she walked in the room, she blended in like wallpaper while the others stood out like a puss-filled pimple on the tip of a teenager’s nose. Even now as I look back over the years, I can’t really say much about her. Other than her being evil too, she had a weird fascination with picking her nose and eating everything that came out of it. She was not the prettiest one or the smartest one. She was just Ivy and Ivy really didn’t want any trouble. Although, she was always involved in it, she kept her degree of involvement to a minimum. She knew better than to get in their way, or get hurt for doing so. When they called her name, she ran like her life depended on it. She moved like someone had set fire to her feet. Her share in the mess was more of a matter of survival. She was just buying her time until she was old enough to move out.
And then there was me…