The Mornings I Woke up with 2 Men

By Nikki S. Reed

Based off a true story, Hannah and Ian meet in high school at the age of fifteen and fall crazily in love with each other. Very quickly they become the envy of many around them for being the perfect match. However, as they grow older, Hannah meets a very sinister side of Ian that sets the stage for a future of lies, secrets, heartache and tumult and the possibility of losing her life.

She eventually finds herself entangled in a dangerous web of abuse and deception and tries to escape, but with every attempt to break free, she is pulled back in by her charming but devilish captor.

Nikki S. Reed is a Jamaican, single mother of three boys, a teacher of English and a trained counselor. She is a survivor of domestic violence and narcissistic abuse.

Currently, she resides in the United States of America where she continues to write, raise her three sons, while being an advocate and motivational speaker for victims of domestic violence and narcissistic abuse.

https://www.meditationmedicationcounseling.com/my-blog

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Nov 23, 2021
• ISBN: 9781646283828

Book preview

cover.jpg

The Mornings I Woke up with 2 Men

Nikki S. Reed

Copyright © 2021 Nikki S. Reed

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING, INC.

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2021

ISBN 978-1-64628-381-1 (pbk)

ISBN 978-1-64628-382-8 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Come, Morning, Come!

Liar! Liar! Pants on Fire!

The Other Little Liars

Enters Prince Charming

A Promise Is Comfort to a Stupid Bitch

Double Trouble

Faith as a Mustard Seed

A New Beginning?

The Tiger Never Changes His Stripes

Home Sweet Hell

Enter the Concubines

The Straw That Broke the Bitch’s Back

Resist the Devil!

Enters the Angel of Light!

Hell Breaks Loose!

Enters Beautiful Darkness

Darkness Brings More Darkness

One Man’s Trash, Another Man’s Treasure

Goliath Strikes!

The Beginning of the End

The Middle Passage

Sow the Wind, Reap a Whirlwind

Enters James and Gabe and Exits Howie

Reenters Light

The Morning I Woke Up with Two Men

For my two men, thank you for your tiny shoulders to lean on and for wiping away my tears every time I cried. For all victims and survivors of domestic violence: choosing to leave is not a choice but a process.

Chapter One

Come, Morning, Come!

It was a long and hard labor, but night managed to pull through. She finally gave birth to dawn, and I counted my blessings to have survived another time. It was nothing short of a miracle how I could have survived such a near-death experience. Last night had been the hallmark of such horror and potential tragedy, and I was shocked that I even woke up. I had driven two hundred miles to the country to my parents’ house crying all the way in the pitch-black darkness of a moonless night.

The darkness stretched out before me was so symbolic of my present life. While total innocence and vulnerability slept on the back seat of my car. As I drove on, I was not conscious of where I had reached along my journey. I kept thinking one thing: if I could just but crawl into bed and manage to fall asleep.

Finally, I arrived at my parents’ house and knocked at the door. It hurt so bad to pick up the baby but somehow, I managed. I held my head down to avoid being noticed by my mother and just pushed my older son, who was still half sleeping in front.

I have never wanted morning to come so badly in my life because maybe then I would wake only to find out all this was a bad dream. I remember lying there in a daze wondering if the beating was real. It always felt so much like a dream, and each time I wished it was. Not just because every area on my body ached but rather because it placed the future of my marriage in uncertainty for the millionth time. As usual, I didn’t want to leave. I didn’t want to carry out my threat If you put your hand on me one more time, it’s over!

I just wanted him to be the good husband he would promise to become after one of these similar episodes. I lay there still going over the incident blow by blow, unconsciously flinching every so often. I just could not sleep. I chanted the words in my head Come, morning, come! Come, morning, come! over and over again until I finally drifted into sleep.

Morning came sooner than I thought, and I hated her. It was not a bad dream it was even more real than I perceived it to be. She illuminated all that had happened, and I hated her for making my husband look so bad. I woke up with a hand to my left playing with my right breast—his favorite—and to my right, a leg draped over my naked hip.

This was not the first time I was waking up between these two men, but this morning it was significant. This morning felt like this would be the nature of my sleeping arrangement for a very long time. As I stared into their faces, I kissed them both and proceeded to gaze out the window at dawn. I saw confusion, rejection, and the dirtiest kind of shame all rolled up into a big boulder coming toward poor, tiny, and frail me at lightning speed.

All I had left were these two men. I called them men because they offered the most comforting kisses and embraces any grown man could ever yield. They both competed to wipe away tears from my saturated face on infinite occasions and had been as constant as oxygen. And now that I was left with nothing, there was the herculean task of reaching deep within to take from the bitterness he had planted and carefully nurtured for so long and provide for my two men the perpetual love and contentment of spirit they would need to lead moral and happy lives.

Not realizing that my face was now waterlogged, I shifted my head and shoulders to the right to achieve some relief from my cramping left arm that had been serving as a pillow. Totally unaware that I was crying, the most remarkable thing was that in the midst of my grief was the peace I felt—a kind of peace that was so hard for the layman to understand, for it was a reaction to a love of vulnerable default, reciprocated equally between me and the only two individuals that had no choice but to love me and stay with me; also, peace created by a voice within which whispered, Blessed are them that…

Yet still questions such as How did I reach here? How could this be happening to me again? How could love construct and deliver such profound hurt? bombarded a mind that was on the brink of collapse. These questions were all but rhetorical as I could answer them as easily as What is the color of the sky? But still, the disappointment that quaked inside evoked them with simultaneous nostalgia reminding me of a tormented life being ridiculed by shattered dreams.

From my bedroom window, dawn was a soldier on guard duty. There was no newness of light reflected in the navy sky, which was so tormenting. I laid there not being able to sleep but nevertheless feeling beside myself. The left side of my head pounded terribly. He landed each blow one behind the other so rapidly that I was not able to account for how many I had received or exactly where they had connected. However, it was evident that where my head now ached was a contact site for one or two.

I gently tried to roll the youngest from my arm in an attempt to not disturb his sleep. My motive was to touch the aching area on my head to assess the damage. I was successful in my endeavor to shift the baby and went on to touch my head when a sharp pain jolted along my right index finger. It seemed to have been fractured, again, so I had to use my palm to touch the area instead. A very large area to the front of my head seemed to have been swollen, and this only made me sink into more self-pity. I’m sure this could never happen to me again! I whispered tearfully to myself.

The baby turned and clung to my breast even tighter. I felt so helpless, but more than ever, I wanted to protect them from pain of any sort that the cruelty of this world had inflicted upon me. Then in the center of my contemplation, a little voice inquired, Mama, why you cwying? The baby had woken without me being aware. He was always the first to wake out of the two, for his older brother stayed up late most nights watching TV. I didn’t answer him for my grief had swallowed me whole at this point and in his tiny little voice was woven such profound sympathy, which only made my heart ache even more.

Upon seeing his mother fall to pieces and not being able to ascertain the reason, he immediately called for backup. The child advanced to wake his older brother, Wa-Wa, to assist in comforting his weeping mother, but his intended backup had been tranquilized by sweet dreams of bicycles and action heroes. It puzzled me even to this day how he came up with the name Wa-Wa, as it had nothing to actually do with his brother’s name, which was James.

Wake up, Wa-Wa! Wake up and hug Mama p’eas! he begged. James just but lifted his head; with eyes stained with remnants of his night’s slumber, he turned to the cold wall and continued to sleep. With his valiant effort defeated, Gabriel climbed on top of me, took the end of his shirt, and attempted to wipe the tears from my face. Without saying a word, he shuffled down to my chest and rested his head gently.

We both lay there together for a while in silence, then he resorted to his usual morning routine. Want tea, Mama, he requested. I really didn’t feel much like getting up out of bed. In fact, I felt like lying there for the rest of my life. For the first time in my existence as a mother, I did not feel like being much of such. I did not feel like being ambitious or driven, and I did not feel like living anymore. I just wanted to be, be the anything or the nothing that my husband had carefully fashioned.

I tried ignoring the child for the first three requests, but then his soft voice finally managed to find a way through a small crevice in my heart that had not yet been sealed off. The love I owned as a mother took me to the altar once again to do self-sacrifice; I gave in not because I totally wanted to, but more significantly because the love I had for my child and his dependency held a pistol to my head.

I sluggishly rolled out of bed and picked him up carefully, avoiding any form of self-torture. I now realized that my left arm had also been hurt, as it felt very sore when I held the baby close to my chest. I went to the kitchen and prepared his bottle, then returned to the bedroom and laid him down.

Gulping away, he snuggled himself between inner hinge of my aching left elbow. I watched as he enjoyed his milk twiddling his toes while simultaneously playing with my breast. As expected within minutes, he fell right back to sleep, and I briefly abandoned them both to read my Bible and pray. I had just finished praying when I noticed a sticker in the Bible, which read,

Congratulations to:

Mr. & Mrs. Ian Mason

Wedded on October 19, 2007

From: Rev. Guzman Francis

I thought to myself just six years, and here I was in the stillness of the morning burying my marriage. This Bible was a gift given to us by the pastor on our wedding day. In fact, it was handed directly to my husband, who never once used it for its true purpose. He only bothered to open it once to jot down a phone number on one of the front pages with one of my eyeliner pencils. He was quite the sacrilegious type from ever since I knew him. My love for God was an important interest in my life, and our conflicting views of spirituality also rolled a die in the state of my present predicament.

It was now six o’clock, and I knew it was time to put on my facade. My parents would soon be awake, and it was my foremost intention to go a thousand miles if I had to conceal all that was actually going on. Holding back my tears that seemed to have very little discipline was going to be a real challenge if not impossible, but just in case there was an accident I would just go to plan B—tell a lie of some sort. I could tell them that my rheumatoid arthritis was acting up again; that always seemed to go unquestioned while simultaneously earned me much pity.

I had become so skilled at lying under these circumstances that it became so easy to deceive the people around me who were genuinely concerned and who I knew would have surely tried to help me to change this unfortunate situation that I had woven myself into. But my pride could not allow me to let anyone around me know.

Pride trained me to believe that anyone who found out the truth about my marriage and my life would look down on me with such scorn after they found out or take my business around. I thought of just running away from everything and everyone with my two men and solve the problem all by myself.

Even though I was very spiritual and loved God, I did not think about giving Him complete autonomy in helping me. I just thought I could fix this all by myself; I could heal my broken spirit all by myself—an attitude that only served to inflict prolonged suffering, misery, and heartache—heartache I was about to endure for the next ten years of my life.

Chapter Two

Liar! Liar! Pants on Fire!

Oh, hallelujah! Yes, Jesus! Hallelujah! my mother belted out from her bedroom. As predicted, she was up about a little after six o’clock. This morning in particular, her prayer was surprisingly very short. She was one of those long prayer types who had to speak in the tongues, scream out "Hallelujah, Jesus!" several times and do the whole works. A long loud prayer started off her day, then she would waste no time in getting dressed, then head straight to the kitchen to prepare breakfast.

My face was badly bruised, and my eyes were all red and swollen from a night of obvious beating and bawling. I could not allow her to see me this way, or she was sure to find out my little secret—that I played the role of punching bag for him when the need arose. The plan I came up with was a rather simple one. I was going to go straight back to bed before we had any kind of encounter, then pretend to be coming down with the flu.

It was not before long, I heard the scraping of her slippers coming down the hallway, and I ran sluggishly toward my bedroom and climbed back into the bed as carefully as I could because I did not want to disturb the boys. I quickly turned my face to the wall and pretended to be fast asleep. And what has caused you to be so tired this morning? And how come you came in so late last night? she asked. I didn’t respond just shuffled a bit and continued with the pretense of sleeping. She didn’t try to wake me, but she did a fine job of waking her grandchildren and exited the room with them behind her like mother hen and her chicks. This gave me the opportunity I needed to contemplate my next lie.

I had been lying to people about my bruises for so long that really, I could not differentiate between lie and truth anymore. Last year I had gone to work with an eye black and blue. The strangest thing happened this Saturday! While pinning clothes on the line, a swarm of wasps attacked me! To make it worse while fighting them off, I accidentally punched myself in the eye! was what I told all who were curious about my swollen right eye.

Even now that I reminisce, I realize that that lie was downright preposterous. I was a teacher for God’s sakes! And all of whom I told this absurd story were also teachers, and if it sounded so absurd to me, there is no doubt it sounded the same to them. My story went unquestioned, but I do not think it was a result of me being convincing, but rather because they could tell exactly what had happened and pitied me. Then again maybe I did convince them as I never changed not even a punctuation mark in that story.

Then again, I always appeared flawless and well-composed. My makeup was always done to perfection; every hair in my eyebrows was in place, and my lipstick never went outside the contours of my lips. My purse always matched my shoes; my heels were so high, my legs went on for days (I guess to make up for the height I lacked in my drowning self-esteem). Of all the professions in the world, I chose to be a part of the worst—a professional battered woman—and sadly, I was one of the best in the business.

I was quite the artistic type, and it reflected in the way I garbed. I was a sight to behold when I stepped into that schoolyard. The hallway was my catwalk, and I worked those heels like it was a part of my job description. The little girls around me saw me as an idol, and the little boys would rush to the classroom doors or windows when I passed just to have an image to motivate wet dreams. All the male teachers, on the other hand, drooled. Some would often ask, How does your husband allow you to leave the house in the days? If only they knew. To them I was a goddess; to him, I was nothing short of a doormat.

The females were in on it too. I had female admirers. There was this one teacher who made it clear how attractive she found me and spent most of her days staring, then complimenting. Based on the pathetic nature of my life, I would have given her a microscopic thought, but she was very fat, making her far from my type even if I was into that.

On many occasions, I felt rather vulnerable and alone, and anyone who showed me appreciation was appreciated even if it was the same sex. Living a lie has a way of doing that to you. It isolates you from your true reality and forces you to create a false reality of your own. It gives you a mask to wear, and I decided that if I was going to be two-faced, I was going to make one of them so pretty that no one would ever have an opportunity to notice the other. I later comprehended that such is the life of the professional battered woman, which I clearly was.

About a half an hour had passed, then I felt a tug on the blanket I was using to cover with Mama, wake up! I slowly twisted my aching neck carefully to look over my shoulder and was greeted by the most adorable and encouraging smile. He had all of twelve teeth now—four visibly at the top and at the bottom—and he sure loved showing them off.

Gabriel had a contagious spirit that I hated. No matter how I wanted to stay miserable and neck-deep in self-pity, he would not give me a chance. Out of the two, he was always there. Regardless of him loving his titty, he would always realize when I was not up for it and resorted to cuddling instead. It was through this that I understood that God truly gave children a sixth sense to sense hurt outside them, especially toward those they are most attached.

As the child mounted the bed, he ensured that he faced me then clasped his hands around my neck and pulled me closer to him like a man would do his woman. I felt his love and concern permeate my entire body, which only moved me to more tears. How could he have known that I needed a hug? As I questioned this, I resorted to likening it to divine intervention as the encouragement I felt through those two tiny little arms seemed like God himself was making me know that I was not left alone neither was I forsaken.

Gabriel and I lay there, hugging for a while. His warm shallow breaths against my face quickly became a beautiful soothing rhythm which quickly rocked me into sleep. Nobody bothered to wake me up until I heard faintly what sounded like my cell phone ringing. I struggled to reach over to the night table to the right to retrieve it, only to realize it was him. I rolled my eyes, which hurt badly as I had been wailing so much and felt so sickened to my stomach. I had done this so many times that I knew exactly what his call was about.

Hannah, I’m so sorry! I hate myself for what I have done to you, to us, our family. I need help Hannah—like serious counseling. I pray God strikes me down and kills me on the spot if I ever lay a hand on you again.

I had heard this recitation so many times, I could say it along with him word for word by now. I knew one thing for sure that either God was both a very patient and forgiving God or my husband was a cat. Given the number of times my husband asked God to kill him if he ever hit me again, I figured God would have honored this request by now—or my husband was down to maybe his ninth life.

At this point, I checked the time on the phone and realized that it was almost 11:30 a.m. I also noticed that I had twenty-six text messages from him, which frankly I didn’t care to read either.

I turned the phone off, threw it down on the bed, then attempted to make my dismount. Each time I slept and woke my joints and bruises hurt so bad and made me feel like an old person battling arthritis. I managed to get off the bed and made my way to the bathroom. I was walking quite slowly with my head hung low, when I bumped into my dad.

Why don’t you watch where you are going? he yelled. Never the Prince Charming type, normally I would rebuke him for his roughness, but I said nothing to minimize any unnecessary attention.

And what is wrong with you? Are you sick?

Yeah, it seems like I have the flu, I responded faintly with a fake, muffled cough. I slowly proceeded to use the bathroom then went straight back into bed.

Shortly afterward, my mother entered the room with all sorts of concoctions. She brought her own little herbal pharmacy to nurse me back to health. Turn around so I can rub you up, girl, she commanded. My mother had nine children, and I was the youngest. Every so often, she would still pretend as if I was her baby and treated me as such. Her wash-belly, she would call me back when I was a child. I didn’t mind the least bit because there were days I wished I was her baby again, and none of my adult problems existed. I wanted to be as innocent and as responsibility-free as possible like a child with absolutely no care in the world.

I didn’t turn around as I wanted to avoid at all cost anyone taking a good look at my face. Instead, I remained facing the wall and mumbled, It’s okay Ma, just leave the things on the dresser. I will do it when I get some strength. Being the authoritarian she was, she insisted and advanced to turn me around by holding on to my right shoulder. I felt the most excruciating pain ever shot through my entire body. Ooooouch! I cried out.

Are you sure it is just the flu you have? she probed with a tone of skepticism.

Yes, Ma! Just please let me get some rest, and I will be okay, I responded, somewhat annoyed. I heard her put down the bottles of medicines on the dresser then left the room, closing the door behind her.

I could do nothing but cry immediately after she left. I felt so empty, pitiful, and used—like a used garbage bag. I wished so bad that my life was all but a terrible nightmare, so I attempted to fall asleep again and pretend that everything that had happened was.

Chapter Three

The Other Little Liars

My eyes suddenly popped open, and I turned around cautiously to check if I was truly alone. I was determined to lay low all day if I had to until my bruises were less obvious. I had not seen much of James since I had woken up, and I didn’t want him too much around his grandparents lest he got carried away into a conversation and air my dirty laundry. James! James! I called out his name as loud as I could in an attempt to summon him to my room.

My main intention was to ascertain if he had said anything to anyone as it related to the events of the previous night. I only had to call twice, and there he was bursting through the door—only seven years old and yet so caring and thoughtful. Yes, Mama! Are you okay? Do you want some water? he asked while fixing the pillow under my sore head.

No, baby, I replied. I didn’t have to necessarily hide my face from him as unfortunately he was a firsthand witness to the whipping, which was not his first eye-witnessing either. He was used to seeing me beat up and left in this pathetic state by his father. With his eyes searching my face to evaluate the harm his father had done, they finally found my tired, glassy eyes into which he intently stared and whispered, I am so sorry, Mama, then buried his face into my belly, sobbing softly.

I gently stroked his head out of solace and assured him, It’s okay, my baby. Mama will be fine. Stop the crying please. I wasted no time, however, to launch my investigation into how much information he divulged if any at all. My mother was the inquisitive type who loved drama. Even if there was nothing to hide, my mother always probed, leaving no stone unturned.

So did Grandma ask you what was wrong with me, James?

Yes, Mama. But don’t worry I told her that you’re maybe ill from the ackees that fell and hit you all over your head when Daddy shook the tree yesterday. I told her that some hit you pretty hard in the face. And don’t you worry, I told Gabe to say the same thing if anyone asked.

I was stunned. I was utterly in shock and dismay to hear the boy conjure up that lie so well as if he was an experienced defense lawyer. He even took time out to coach his two-year-old sibling, who could barely make two sentences.

As relieved as I was, I also felt a profound sadness deep down inside my belly because I felt responsible for teaching my children an ideal that was so wrong. If it were not for my miserable life, my son would not need to transgress and teach his baby brother likewise.

Simultaneously I felt a twisted sense of relief that he had my best interest at heart by covering up for me. I, however, could not bring myself to not reprimand him for lying; then again, his grandmother had already bought the lie, so I was free to admonish him. Son, has Mama not told you time and time again that lying is wrong? Baby, please promise me something—you will never lie to cover up for me again.

But, Mama—

No! I sharply cut him off. There is never a good excuse to lie, so please not another word, I sternly but gently cautioned. I then reached over and pulled him toward me and offered a kiss and a hug.

I knew he was bought when upon my release, he gave me a huge smile and whispered, I love you, Mama.

I love you too, my angel, I responded then asked kindly to be left alone to complete my rest.

I will leave you alone, Mama, under one condition, he bargained. I nodded in compliance. Call me if you need anything. The offer was one I could not refuse. I nodded in agreement once more. He then flashed me one of those charming smiles his father used from time to time and exited the room quietly closing the door behind him.

As I lay there in my misery-drenched bed, I felt so overwhelmed with grief. I had caused my children to become little liars—I was the big one, of course. James had heard me tell so many lies repeatedly to cover up all the bruises that I got from being beaten by his dad that it should not have taken me by surprise really that he caught on to this devilish lengua.

I felt a blanket of darkness descend upon me as I closed my eyes to block out the reality of what my life had become—a battered woman who had sold her dignity and self-worth for a tainted version of love, grooming two little liars. My children’s lying had been nothing short of learned behavior.

I lay there going over where my boy could have learned to lie so well when suddenly, my memory recalled one day about a year after we got married, I was home cooking and washing. I can remember feeling so tired because I had endured a very long day of work. I was not an ordinary teacher by any means. I was the type that went above and beyond the ceiling of my job description to ensure that learning was not only accomplished but also memorable and fun. I was very enthusiastic and fun, but I was also very firm and tolerated very little indiscipline in my presence. It came as no big shock to everyone around me when I won a national competition for Most Innovative Teacher.

Hence, after each workday, I was very exhausted and