Quenched from Within

By J.M. Harris

J. M. Harris encapsulates the life of a young adult, Samaria, through her perilous experiences as a strong-spirited woman who feels she is ready to take on the world until vivid dreams elude her mind. Visions of a single thriving red rose grab her attention as the petals transform into a blackened state and then begin drifting away into turbulent winds. In reviewing her past, she finds the rose is a haunting representation of her own existence, realizing she is becoming dried from within. Parched, but the waters she drinks leave her thirstier than before. The emergence of dreadful scars appears from her thorny reality as she continually moves forward in life without healing. Frightened by her drying existence, she runs from yet another failing relationship, but this time she stumbles upon a mysterious abandoned mansion finding Mr. Harrison in a forlorn state, leaving her wondering who this man is and how he knows her troubled past. As her petals flow faster into the winds, he offers her the solution to restore her soul in exchange for her fallen petals. Join Samaria as she faces major decisions to live a life beyond pain or to keep running as she takes life into her own hands. Time is running out as her final petals threaten to fall. Will her decision allow her soul to bloom again or lose her lingering petals, thus becoming a rose no more?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 28, 2023
• ISBN: 9781669871583

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Quenched

From

Within

J.M. Harris

Copyright © 2023 by J.M. Harris.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Scripture quotations marked KJV are from the Holy Bible, King James Version (Authorized Version). First published in 1611. Quoted from the KJV Classic Reference Bible, Copyright © 1983 by The Zondervan Corporation.

Scripture quotations marked NIV are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®. NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved. [Biblica]

Rev. date: 04/26/2023

Xlibris

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CONTENTS

Grace and Mercy for a Beautiful Rose

Thorny Memories

Fallen Into Dormancy

A Wilted Spirit

Morning Dewed Petals

The Renewal in the Pruning

Stolen Blooms

Thorns and Stained Blood

Surrendering to Sweet Scents

Drying of a Rose’s Soul

Sun Kisses After Dew Drops

Rainbows over Crushed Petals

Rose Mosaic Dreams

Heartache-Forced Blooms

Springing Rose Beds

One to a Dozen

Bare Roots and New Beginnings

Encouraging New Growth

Let Long Stems Rise

Bee Stings and Butterflies

Arose of a Miracle

He who met me at the well, quickened my dried soul. He breathed

the Truth into every area of my life taking me from the darkness

into an incredible light. I can never thank or praise Him enough for

I was the rose who was quenched from within at the well. Forever I

will love Him, my eternal provider and Rock, Jehovah – Jireh.

Our powerful testimonies lead others to believe. In this troubled world,

let’s be brave and bold in telling our stories to break free God’s people from

shame, past mistakes, and the lies the enemy spews that holds nations in

bondage. Show others what overcoming feels and look like. Always let

kindness open conversations that can break barriers just like Jesus did

with the woman at the well. Never turn from offering someone spiritually

deprived the opportunity to drink from the Living Waters turning many

to the One who promises they’ll never thirst again. Thank You Jesus

Holy Spirit, you’ve showed me how to live like Jesus, you

didn’t have an easy task, nor is your works complete in

me. Thank you for how you love and lead me.

An extra special thanks to Laura N. Craft-Eummer, Jeffrey Eummer,

and William Eummer, who in my time of need were there. Just

one call brought an amazing blessing into my life that will stay in

my heart forever. Lori, never forget our days under the stars. The

beautiful welcome to the state of Arizona will never be forgotten,

God’s blessings is placed upon each of you. Again, I Thank YOU.

My sons John Stokes II, Sean Stokes (Donna), John

Dorsey (Janelle), and Jacob Harris.

My two precious grandkids, Nathan E. and Katelynn M. Stokes.

Finally, my grandma, who held my first book close to her heart;

she’s gone to her heavenly home on this one but

guided me every step of the way.

Her love has always been amazing: Dorothy Richardson.

Grace and Mercy for

a Beautiful Rose

W ho sits at an old, battered vanity with a mirror shaped like a shield and writes in the middle of the living room? Clanking my fingers on the glass top, bringing on memories of my only adventure of ice skating. I was horrible at it. He grabbed me. Baby girl, repeat after me and believe it. I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me. The whisper of those words has never been forgotten. That was ten years ago, yet I hear it as if it was said yesterday.

I shook my head at his remembrance. He was my mom’s brother and came to spend time with us every chance he got. With no kids of his own, we reaped the rewards of his generosity that he would have given his own kids, wondering why he never had any. I went back to thinking of the event. A guy rolling past me shouted, What’s that supposed to mean?

When he heard those very words, Uncle shared with me.

I ain’t talking to you, crazy man—gone on, he shouted.

Uncle James gripped tighter as my body wobbled less. He commanded, Say it again, and I did but this time with greater confidence. One mo’ time, he said, and then he let me go.

I flew past a few people before I noticed the confidence those words gave me. They were powerful words. Sliding one foot forward and then the next, my stature straightened up, then I was rolling like a pro until this small kid fell at my skates, and I flipped over him, working like a jointed mannequin wanting not to roll over him. Looking back as I slid into the wall, I noted that he was getting upward and skating again. Then I realized that my leg had a heated coal-like sensation radiating from my butt to my thighs. Massaging the highlighted areas, I laughed like I’d lost my mind. I can skate, I shouted.

My uncle ran over, grasping my arm, dragging me to my feet. Dang, this ice hurts.

You think? He laughed. You are no baby—right?

Sure ain’t, dusting myself off.

That’s what I wanted to hear, pretty girl. He laughed.

Thank you, I said smiling.

Remember, don’t let those words go to your head. It’s true! Rebuke vanity.

What?

You heard me. Now get to skating.

Those words of encouragement didn’t stop the limp that came from the famous slide. That happened days before he passed. I am reminded that the things I enjoy most in life never last, but I haven’t forgotten the scripture he shared that gave me strength many times in my life.

Dang, there go the neighbors again. My body shook fiercely. Their robust thirst for loud shouting matches forced its way through the thick plaster through our marbled, yellow-stained ceiling. Quickly the broom made its way into my hands and then the chair. Searching. I found the perfect spot to throw the chair, hopping on top and then thrusting the broom into the spot from where the annoying screams came. Quite a few times I tried to stop their madness, only hearing them argue more as to how much of a jerk face I was. It never fails that their bickers left me dreaming of freedom from this horrid place. Then my fingers tapped the glass again, reminding me of the question at hand. Who sits at a vanity in their living room and writes ‘I do’? I yelled, giving off a sound of laughter that even stopped the bickering above me.

It only lasted for a minute, and then they began as though they only took a breather. Then my mind took me to the day I saw this vanity. Its beauty was enough to buy it instead of a desk, obeying my flesh, which talked enough smack that it drowned out all the sanity left in me that day. Its huge exitance takes up too much space, yet I love the glass drawer that’s situated in the middle. Running my fingers across the edges, fondling the curves, brought out the strong feminine side of me. Not just a woman but one who loved being all the things that were grand about being one. My dark slender legs stretched far. Using this space produces potent emotions as I write because I’m using much time, becoming vain. Besides, who has a vanity table and doesn’t wear makeup? It’s dreadful because it makes me want to wear something that has no use for me. Caking on creams, powders, and oils have become appealing to the other side of me and have taken over the one God made me be. The lights illuminated brightly, so I broke every other one to relieve the pain in my eyes. Moved to tears, and the burning sensation made it hard to focus, which became a good excuse never to write. This has happened even after I shattered them. Besides, the imperfections that reflected made me insecure at times when I needed as much security as I could get. Frankly, that was needed every day of my life, but I’ve struggled to feel safe even with the absence of love. It absorbed much of my time in figuring out my distinct faces in response to my writings. Was I happy or sad as my pen stroked the paper? As the words emerged, they formed my desire for the answer I sought most: What makes me happy? What will make me feel good inside again? Finding that even my own words gave no genuine answer, just ideas that strike an emotion that only lasted until the next thought came. My desire for words was increasingly disappearing to the lover of self. I was barely getting anything done. Many days I just want to cast it out onto the street. I know I’ll go fetch it and pray it works the same. Funny how one who does not wear makeup would have such, but I always wanted it, and now I have it.

Then the conversation of madness begins, and productivity really comes to a halt. That’s when the support begins even when I didn’t want it. But she kept me on track, and I drove her crazy. Mad because she always had more courage than me even though I soaked it all in and usually gave her nothing in return but wicked laughs. Her irrational behavior began when I asked her to quiet down the noise inside my head.

Absolutely not! I won’t apologize, and it should shame you for asking me too, like you asked the last time. I don’t come that often, so enjoy me.

Agh, you’re irrationally impossible.

I’m not. After all, I am equal in your world.

Not true. You’re just an imagination of me. How do you think you’re equal to me?

I resent that statement, and I won’t give time to it. I make you better. How does it feel sitting here gazing at yourself? Yeah, you’re cute—but who do you think you are, really? Never seen beauty as a requirement to heaven. Besides, it makes one vain to look at themselves too much.

Nothing is truer. I am more than what I see on the outside.

Really?

Yes, really, she said with an attitude.

But who makes you perceive this is truth?

Why do you do this?

Do what?

Make this into a game that I do not wish to play.

She laughed wickedly and kicked her feet on the bench in which the other thought a queen would rest, but in her mind, it was nothing more than a place to rest her feet and it anguished me terribly. I did, there!

Take your feet down. Who do you think you are?

Oops, holding her hand to her chest while batting her eyes, she said, Feeling the role of the boss again, are we?

No?

Ah, yes? You’re angry as usual—stop it.

Drawing a deep breath, she said, What is this essence I smell? Poverty? Is that what’s bothering you today, the will to play with fear?

No, I am thinking on a higher level today.

You’re not telling the truth, my dear. I sense and smell the aromatic scent of your mind playing in the land of lack.

Please stop. I have much to do today and you! Listen to you. If I didn’t love and hate you so much, I wouldn’t bother with you.

Chuckling, she said, Sorry to say, but inside, you’ve dried to a pile of ashes, as she blew the dust off the side of the vanity.

My face went back to the mirror, searching for my reaction. There was none.

"Look at ya, sitting here ’bout to join the regular pity party of what all you’ve been through—so! But—I’ll let you, as usual, I will save you from the hell of a breakdown, as you know no one else will. I’ll be there before they sweep your dried soul into the garbage."

Enough! Enough! You’re being unusually cruel today, really—

Maybe—you know destruction has followed you all the days of your life . . . don’t you? And so young.

Dropping my head into my hands, I said, Sadly, I have to realize that I am allowing myself to destroy who I am.

You have choices. As you know, only you can answer that . . . have you given it any thought?

I’ve been doing so many wrong things.

Girl, stop it right there. You ain’t none of that mess. Yeah, you went to it and through it—as soon as you embrace any of those labels all those therapists gave you, you might as well throw in the towel. All you need is Jesus. That’s it. He’s the answer to all your problems. Period.

You are right in your words to me. Thinking I may have done too much for him to care about me anymore?

Never! Just be you, the rest will follow. He will always love you, no matter what. Plus, girl, you got skills and prayers that can move mountains. I’ve seen and heard both.

I hear you but look at me. I’m a real mess right now.

Come away from that mirror. It lies. Many have sat in front of it, looking for the truth. Has anyone found it staring at their broken images? Not at all. Besides, this isn’t a fairy tale or such. Baby, this is real life. No mirror is going to speak to you and tell you nothing. Those who look for reflections lie to themselves in what they want to see, and what good is that? Not one person has focused into a mirror and seen what’s the truth of their inner beings.

You always say that.

What—you don’t think your inner being is the truth?

I do, but—

Look, I told you before, but as always, you don’t listen. Please listen today, will you?

I will. Tell me again.

Man looks at outward beauty. However, the Lord looks at your heart. It isn’t the height, strength, stature, or resume that God looks at because he rejected those qualities of the world. Instead, he seeks your heart (Acts 13:22).

Thank you again for that reminder. I listened and have taken heart to it. I strive to be like David, a woman after God’s own heart.

Well, news flash, lady, clean up your mind and start thinking like a queen, not a—

No need to go into one of your rants. I got the message.

Unless you are fixing your hair and clothes or checking for spinach in your teeth, it’s of no use.

What are you speaking about now?

The mirror.

I know. I feel like I’ve missed out on what folks say are the best things in life.

Yeah—that part sucks, so they say, but clearly, I say differently. I heard you in the past, saying you miss the party life, playing around, your old friends who loved empty chatter and gossip.

Dang, don’t say it like that.

Well, that’s what it was — it’s the truth and will set you free if you let it.

I’m just bored with life. It must be more than this—right?

If my memory serves me correctly, you dislike the worldly life. As we have seen, it did nothing for you . . . or did I miss something? Real talk . . . what do you want?

I know, I don’t fit in and—

As always, you try to—

And I lose.

Eventually, you’ll learn, be who you are, and leave the worldly things to those who love them. You have always had a fond love of the Lord. However, when you get into your moods, you thirst for the world. You can’t go both ways. In the end, you will lose the one you love most—God.

You’re right. I think you get like this when you look at what you have today versus His promises of tomorrow, you must trust Him. Besides, the people whom you yearn for have all been losers.

Hey!

Just saying.

Remember that dream I dreamt recently?

The house?

Not just a house, but a huge one.

Rolling her eyes, she said, I do. What about it?

I think of it often. It’s broken but beautiful in every way. I would love a home . . . you know, one of my own.

Boisterously laughing and trying to hold her composure. Do you really think you can own a house like that? Are you kidding me?

No—I’m not. I realize it was only a dream, and the house was a complete wreck, but there are many others like it.

Do you know the cost of those houses?

Millions, I whispered.

The laughter halted.

If others can live that way, so can I!

Girl, that house got you acting like you’ve been sniffing glue or gas.

So, my dreams make me sound crazy to you? You don’t think I will be successful? Bet you won’t laugh when I do!

No. I will live. I’m you silly—and just maybe I’ll admit I was wrong.

Stop it, you liar. You will never do any such thing.

Liar? How dare you?

You would never apologize for anything. It’s sad, but it’s true. I have learned to live with who you are. Admit it, and it will set you free.

Okay, truth—I believe you can have whatever you want and desire. Besides, I was just teasing. I see it worked. Got you seeing it too . . . gotta have faith.

Well, you’ve proved me wrong just now. I’m sorry.

Forget it. Tell me about the house again. Didn’t sound appealing to me the first time. Maybe a second hearing will give me a greater insight into what has you all bothered about this house.

Not any house, a huge one—

Just start already.

It was cold and dreary out, briskly walking to I do not know where—

Leave out the extras, please. You’ll bore me to life, and really, is that what you want?

Clearing my throat as I flickered my eyes in annoyance, I said, This house sat away from the street, farther than the other houses on the block. It had great privacy, which I love with the houses scattered far apart. But this one had a vast amount of land around it. Standing in front of it, noting the crackled circular driveway with a wide porch with pillars that stood tall. At least ten windows or more were on the front, with the shutter’s half missing. The main room had an enormous window, which I would imagine lets in loads of sunlight.

How cool, Samaria. You love sunlight, that’s for sure.

Oh, how you know me, sunrises, sunsets, and dazzling stars. I smiled.

Please go on.

Standing in front of the old ragged, dilapidated house, it was huge, with many rooms. You know, a mansion. I could tell it was once alive with a family who thrived there. Can’t imagine what would make them leave such a beauty to fall apart from the vicious attacks of Mother Nature herself? Instantly, I loved it fiercely. Without taking another breath, I wanted it. But its brokenness left me feeling helpless to do so without the proper resources. An orange label blaring the words keep out condemned in bold black letters took away my desire to go inside, but—I didn’t let it stop me.

This house is in terrible shape, yet like you, I’m intrigued. I love big houses too.

I know. Like me, you have no choice. I laughed.

Whatever, keep going.

Peeking toward the back, I grabbed my collar and pulled tight, bracing myself from the wind and started walking down the side of the house. It was amazing, with more windows gracing the side. I walked over and rubbed a space to peek through and it was in real disarray. But over the fireplace I saw a picture of what looked like a black lady."

A black lady? That’s rare, but again this is a dream. What would you date this house?

About 1800s?

Yeah, it would be rare.

But—not impossible, maybe it was a portrait of you?

I don’t think so, but I can place one of myself there when I get it.

There you go.

The house was a mess. Antique things were mixed in amongst the garbage. Wanting to go in badly, I continued to the backyard until I came upon the white wooden gate that was barely holding on, yet it had strength because it didn’t give way easily. With some force from my hips and a swift jab, it fell open and swung to the ground. My eyes widened as it would be the last time it held anyone out, and it was at the mercy of my hands.

Look at you, tearing up the place.

Yeah, it pained me greatly, but moving into the yard was soul-shaking.

What do you mean?

I couldn’t move a muscle looking at all that land. Acres just sat in front of my eyes as I dreamed it into everything, I wanted it to be, and it wasn’t yet my home.

That’s you for real.

Yup, I would have cleared all those old half-dying trees barely sustaining life, along with the weeds that grew wild and green, making it into a garden of every vegetable and herb imaginable. Funny, no matter how dry that cracked soil was, the weeds were green as ever.

Are you sure they were weeds?

I’m sure. Plants couldn’t grow in those conditions.

Did you plant a seed?

Are you serious? It was a dream, silly.

I know you remember the Bible verse Zechariah 8:12?

No! What about it?

Look it up.

Grabbing the Bible off the vanity, flicking threw, finding the verse. It says ‘For the seed shall be prosperous, the vine shall give its fruit, the ground shall give her increase, and the heavens shall give their dew. I will cause the remnant of these people to possess all these.’ That sounds powerful.

Told ya.

Yup, but it was just a dream, though.

"I don’t believe it would matter. it was your dream."

Yeah, it was, but anyway, rambling deep into the yard, I noticed an old well that the sides had crumbled away, with a rusty pale sitting on the side with a frayed rope knotted on. Afraid to go near of possibly falling inward and that wouldn’t have been good.

Smart thinking woman.

The wind blew strong, and the pale toppled but fell back in place, as I pulled my coat around me tightly, shaken as I glanced at the yard one last time before I turned to leave. A tiny sparkle caught my eye from under a sheet of wood propped against the wall. Putting force on it, it didn’t budge an inch. Without a second thought I’d dropped to the cold ground squinting hard. Focusing in on the most beautiful single black rose, with a tickle of water running toward it from the gutter. I reached for it and fell short of grasping the fragile flower. The radiance of it encouraged me to thrust my body inward, but my efforts left me with a thorn-pierced finger. Not sure why the pain caught me off guard, I quickly made my way to my feet and then bruised my head on the overlying wood. I then shoved my finger to my lips after seeing the speck of blood.

Interesting . . . you said it had a sparkle to it?

It did . . . could it have come from the water?

Not sure, funny it glared even brighter as I reached for the rose.

Awe, you said it was a black rose . . . have you ever seen a real one?

Look in the middle drawer.

You do know the drawer is clear. I viewed it a time ago but just didn’t get a chance to speak of it. Honesty, I wasn’t believing it was real. You know you’ve been fancying those fake plastic florals lately.

Overlooking her silly comment, knowing full well I would never have fake flowers. We continued our conversation over the black rose. Grabbing open the drawer revealed the dried blackened rose with a reddened center, which laid perfectly until I disrupted it.

Oh my, where did you get it?

One of the neighbors left it at the door, found it funny that I had just had the dream and a few days later there it was.

Pulling it gently from the nestled space, I held it for viewing. I never imagined a black rose could be real.

Me either, ran by the florist the next day and got some info on them and was blown away.

What did they say?

She explained the rarity of them, and they are named true blood black roses. She found this one interesting because of how dark the outer petals are and deepened red the inner portion is. Of course, it was fresh at the time.

Surely, it’s black on the outer petals, but what color red would you say it is?

Hmm, guessing I would say deep crimson?

I agree. Stunning though, truly mesmerizing. You say someone left this on the doorstep?

No on the door ledge. I’ve been waiting for someone to say they left it, been two weeks now and still nothing.

As I twirled it in my hands, we noticed the brilliance of the inner core; with the final twist, a petal fell to the floor. We both gasped. That’s why I knew I should have kept it in the drawer, so foolish bringing it out.

Don’t be hard on yourself. It was bound to happen sooner or later. Save the rest, hurry, and put it away. I shoved it back into the drawer, pushing it hesitantly closed.

I’ve heard roses are a symbol of God’s hand in whatever situation may arise. Reminds me of how the delicate petals unwind in such an array, displaying spiritual wisdom one can accumulate in life.

Really—I’m thankful for that. It eases the feelings I had over what the lady at the shop stated.

What did she say?

It has a gloomy meaning of death and mourning, especially a single one.

Then she continued, You say someone left this at your door? with her Italian accent.

Yes, I said.

She looked at me with widened eyes and spoke with an even stronger accent. Oh, let me tell you this, she said.

I do remember my dear old friend who always looked at the positive side of things, who worked at the local church. He says it is for those in despair and in need of a rebirth of their lives. Bringing those with hurting souls into a brighter future, never to return to their old selves.

I thanked her and left.

The latter half sounds interesting. Glad she remembered her dear friend. Reminds me of how I feel you have a soul of ashes.

Stop saying that. Words are powerful, and I don’t need my soul doing any such thing.

See, someone’s upset, she snarled.

Yeah, but still, maybe someone thought that of me, or they thought nothing at all and just figured it to be beautiful sentiment they wanted to share with me.

I guess, I don’t like creepy gifts from folks. Besides, men always give you roses.

Creepy? And please don’t act jealous. You get them too.

Stuff people leave with no explanation, leaving us guessing on who and why—not cool.

I asked Cain—

You asked him?

I did and we argued about it. You know him.

Yup, wouldn’t have done that, but okay. See, you been brave lately.

Throwing my hands up at her smart remark, I said, Well, I also wrote a poem about it, and I’m going to say it on poetry night at The Musing Hole. You know they have high school night, and Mr. Alford, my English teacher, signed me up months ago . . . how do you think I’ll do?

You know how you are with going outside, you think a quint setting is something you can handle? More so, what did Cain say about this?

Dropping my head low, I said, I can if I pray hard enough. I haven’t told him yet.

I believe you can. Faith has never failed you. Now dealing with that man, you will have to pray hard on that one.

Thank you, I have been praying, I whispered.

Oh, I forgot to tell you. The next morning Cain questioned me about the bruise—remember?

Please with reminding me of the likes of him . . . I do, and it was strange. But the truth, I can’t stand your husband.

Giving her an eye roll, I said, I’m marrying him, and trust me, he is a grave hurting to my heart. But it couldn’t be so, ya know—the bruise because it was only a dream. But then the black rose at the apartment door was just as strange, wouldn’t you agree?

I thought it was, but I also think it’s amazing. Maybe, after all, you might be on to something bigger than you think. Pray on it.

I am. You are the better side of me.

I know, but sometimes I feel the same way about you.

Are you ready for tomorrow? Read it to me.

No, you seem to know everything . . . figured you’d know that too.

Forget it. Thought it might do you good to practice.

It would, but I don’t want to. Still tweaking it here and there.

The prize must be big?

Nope, just a hundred dollars, which I need badly.

Well, today, I say this is only the beginning. You are a billionaire, claim it—okay?

I will . . . I love me.

Wiped the crisp from my eyes and then stretched myself past the limits of comfort. Picked up the feather duster whisking it across my vanity, shooing the roaches from the pages of my poem. They scattered with intensity as they began running into each other. Frustrated, I threw the duster into the basket, praying for the day I no longer had to live like this. Glancing the clock noting it was early enough to wash out my pants and the cute top I’d picked up at the resale shop. Everything in that place smelled musty and old, but I had to. Dang. Pushed the Murphy bed into the wall and slammed the door. Gathered up a few more pieces and headed to the bathroom, throwing the clothes into the tub. Poured a heap of detergent into the water and grabbed the plunger and began the motions of beating my clothes. Man, it’s hot in here, wiping my forehead of the dripping sweat that ran into my burning, reddened eyes. Feeling like I was going to melt if I plunged one more time, I lifted the window for a dose of air and took in a deep swig of fresh air. The cold winds that rushed in gave me a boost of energy as I noted the men toting brown paper bags filled with their regular drink behind the apartment as usual. Leaned against the window, moisture gathered as I played with the water droplets with my finger forming my name. I wanted everyone to know I was once here and was never coming back. Maybe they’ll know when I become famous that my name was on their bathroom window. Crazy as it sounds, no one will ever wash these windows, so it might happen. The men below began getting argumentative, which always led to someone getting hurt. Avoiding being a witness, I went back to beating the clothes. Remembrances of once the convivence of a washer and dryer made me appreciate living back with Ma. She took us in when my mother passed away and adopted us immediately. She’s an older lady who doesn’t show much affection, but she promised my mom she would care for us when she passed. There was no doubt that she quickly grew to love us and did the best she could. Still plunging, feeling my back cramp up as something smacked into the water. Two roaches on the edge of the water, one swimming and the other trying to flip over. Splashed my hand in the water as they floated around until I caught one and tossed it into the toilet and did the same for the next one and then proceeded to plunge until the suds disappeared. After I let them soak. Drifting down the hall, I bumped the heat up so they would dry quickly. Thank goodness, the water and heat were included in the rent, which made it free to wash. I’m grateful for that. If I win this money, I can wash my blankets, sheets, and towels in the washroom, something else to be grateful for. Cain had stuff everywhere as I went picking up socks, underwear, and his work clothes; washed dishes; and vacuumed before wringing out the clothes and tossing them over the shower rod, sink, and toilet. Opened the vent and closed the door to ensure everything would get dry by this evening.

Looking at the bench in front of the vanity reminded me of something Cleopatra would sit on. Elegant with burgundy and cream strips with a slight sheen became inviting as I took the offer. Grabbing the pages, I began to go over the poem with every effort to pretend that I was in front of an audience holding a mic. It was hot enough to feel like I was on stage with bright lights. Sweat was consuming me to the point that I was feeling sick to my stomach, but I needed my clothes to dry. Challenges I created for myself always put me in the right frame of mind. Got ready for the poetry engagement tonight, knowing how hard it was to get in because of my age. Just eighteen but about to get married. Taking in a deep breath, I think I got my mind straight.

Cain arrived, mumbling something under his breath as he threw some items on the bed.

What you been up to?

I washed and—

Is that why it is hot as heck in here? he said, tugging at his collar.

Yup, clothes got to dry by . . . I said, looking at the clock and rushing into the bathroom to check them.

Where are you going? he yelled.

Remember I told you a few weeks ago about poetry night at The Musing Hole?

I don’t remember, but anyways that shabby place ain’t cool. You’re going by yourself?

Yeah, it starts at six o’clock. I shouldn’t be gone long.

Not happening.

What? You don’t tell me what to do.

I’m not going to that hole in the wall, and you are not either.

But I told my teacher I would go.

Did you hear me? That’s the end of it. Period!

Looking down at the vanity, he noticed my papers, So this is your little poem you thought you were going to read? By the way, you been talking to yourself in the stupid mirror again?

What’s it to you?

You are crazy, that’s what it means to me, he said as he flicked out his lighter, placing it on the papers.

My eyes widened. Cain, don’t you dare, I said as I lunged at him to retrieve the pages.

He raised them higher and pushed me back, making me fall to the floor. He instantly released the papers as I watched them float like a bird’s feathers gracing to the ground. I could care less what you do. I’m tired. I’ve been working a real job.

Walking away, his shoes twisted, wrinkling the papers as he proceeded to the kitchen. Tears swelled like bubbles forming in my eyes, refusing to let one fall as I crawled around gathering each page. I pulled myself to the bench and sat looking ghostly. Finally, I swiped the remanence of my pain from my eyes and then darted to the bathroom. Grabbed my clothes, smashed them into my duffle bag, grabbed my purse, and ran out the apartment, slamming the door behind me. Looking back, his head appeared out the door, he yelled something, but I didn’t listen as I walked faster toward the end of the dark, musty hall. Then I ran down the staircase, making it to the end, and a panic attack hit me as someone slapped me to the floor. Grasping my chest, I held on to the banister, sweating as I released my body unto the stair. Sweat moistened my forehead as it became harder to breathe. No one will hurt you. It’s okay . . . don’t let this stop you from what you have been working on for so long. You can do this. Get up and breathe. Remember they told you? You won’t die from this. Pulling myself upward, a tall, slender guy ran down the stairs, picked up my bag, and handed it to me. Are you all right?

Yes—I’m—fine, thank you, I said as my labored breathing forced my words out with gaps.

Looking at him, weakly I smiled. Panic attack.

Oh, okay. Is there anything I can do?

I shook my head. But thank you.

He quickly disappeared out the door. I watched him, determined to follow suit. Gathering the nerve to walk toward the door. With labored steps, I made it to the door and pulled it open; the air relieved me instantly. I was outside and paused, and then I began moving fast toward Third Street, cut through the vacant lot and down the side alley. Vaguely I could see the sign but made my way