BREATH

By Brionna Nijah

Alexis struggles to find peace and purpose while navigating through the effects of broken parenting. As questions arise about the purpose in pain-filled living, she sees a glimpse of light that ultimately gets taken from her.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jan 17, 2024
• ISBN: 9798887515540

Book preview

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BREATH

Brionna Nijah

ISBN 979-8-88751-553-3 (paperback)

ISBN 979-8-88751-554-0 (digital)

Copyright © 2023 by Brionna Nijah

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Christian Faith Publishing

832 Park Avenue

Meadville, PA 16335

www.christianfaithpublishing.com

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

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Suicidal thoughts are a severe epidemic in today's society that no one is talking about. Many youths go through periods where they desire to kill themselves to stop the pain running through their minds. This isn't always because of school, but in many cases, it is because of the environment set in their homes.

My desire is for this book to provoke much-needed conversations not only about mental health but also about forgiveness and parenting.

Me

Perception

History

Escapism I

Compression

Virginity

Escapism II

Soul

Forgiveness?

Change

Choose

Leaders

Expectation

Vultures

Escapism III

About the Author

Suicidal thoughts are a severe epidemic in today's society that no one is talking about. Many youths go through periods where they desire to kill themselves to stop the pain running through their minds. This isn't always because of school, but in many cases, it is because of the environment set in their homes.

My desire is for this book to provoke much-needed conversations not only about mental health but also about forgiveness and parenting.

Me

If I Told You I Am But A Shell That Can Speak Void Of The Revelation Of What Caused Me To Be,

Would You Believe Me?

See, I Am Like A Building Full Of Empty Rooms That Details The Abstractness Of My Conscious.

The Doors Of Vulnerability Have Been Closed By The Strength Of My Pride.

I Hide

Behind The Expectations Of Others Who Cannot See Me.

Can You See My Locks?

They Flow From My Head And Bind Me On My Neck.

Can You See Me?

My Identity Is Comprised Of Rumors Told When People Play Telephone.

Blown In The Wind Are Their Words Like Darts And I Am Their Target.

This Tar Fills My Mind

And Manipulates What I Believe To Be Me.

I Cannot See Me.

My Self-Esteem Is Too Frail To Put The Air That I Breathe To Use.

Death Began Before I Exhaled.

Summer is almost over, and I have not seen my Sperm Donor. Yet every month, he has left me a piece of him, reminding me of my worth. Today is no different; the mailman came earlier to drop off another one of his letters. I grabbed the wrinkled square envelope two hours ago, and I have not been able to open it. Instead, I sit on the edge of this old twin-sized bed, creating squeaky sounds as I rock back and forth.

I live in a four-by-four cage with off-white chipped walls. I have one dingy, black nightstand with a broken door handle and a bin for a dresser. On the bright side, there is a window. It is a small window, but it welcomes the sun. The blinds are broke, so I have to put up a black sheet at night so that the sun won't disrespect me in the morning. I don't mind the size of my cage nor the lack of materials within it. I do, however, hate everything this cage represented and how this cage makes me feel. No one ever told me you could be a captive in the place you're supposed to call home. Every day I scream for help with words never said and actions that are too decrypted.

Do you want to know how I feel? I am but a ball of rejected cells formed together to showcase God's dissatisfaction with mankind. I am what you get when you become blind to your pain. I am a combination of pain and emotions that have developed since birth. I am not intimate with any other emotions. I have yet to meet them, if they exist. I only know what's in front of me, I am only aware of what's inside of me, and even with that, I am not entirely sure. You can say that I wasn't correctly developed, that I was conceived and abandoned as a defective seed, long before I wailed out of the vagina.

Maybe I will agree.

I grabbed the envelope from off my flat, brown pillow and felt the weight of my expectations land on my shoulders. I stared at his name written sloppily on the corner of the envelope—Judas Graham. Ironic. He is a foreigner to me, though I am a citizen of his. I can't help but think that I didn't ask for this. He owns me. I can feel my beating heart steam up inside of me, causing my tears to march down the warmth of my cheeks. Emotions are building up within my soul, erratically pulling my mind into the comfort of darkness. My family is oblivious to my suffering. I never let them see it, but if their eyes were as wide as their mouths, they would see me. Broken and drowning in dark and polluted water, fighting for oxygen. I raise my hands, but they think it's an invitation to pull them up. I scream for help, but they think I'm disrespectful. Family is a waste of a word—when it comes to them.

Though my fears aren't allowing me to open this envelope, I am filled with a curiosity that pulls at my hope. Hope is something I am losing, for it is like a fairy tale with a predictable ending. However, I am putting all my faith in this envelope. In its possibilities. I am massaging the corners of this envelope as if it is the softness of his skin. His skin is a faint memory, but it's the one I hold on to. The worst part is, I have to pee, but I can't leave this bed until I find out if hope is worth hoping for. I want someone to show me that love is real. That it is not a fantasy. That it is not a novel. I want someone to show me that love breathes. So maybe I can breathe too.

The alarm from my phone goes off and breaks me out of my trance.

Slowly, I turn my head to look at the cracked black clock on the nightstand: 12:00 p.m. The alarm stopped, and I shifted my focus back onto the envelope. Suddenly, I was interrupted by loud and excited footsteps running up the stairs, mimicking the beat of my heart. The cracked cage door swung open and hits the wall. Standing there, dripping in excitement, is my brother. He has on a dingy pair of off-black basketball shorts, a black short-sleeve shirt, and a couple of worn-out black sneakers. His wide, innocent grin is plastered on his oblivious face. I wish I could return his sentiments, but I cannot fake a smile today, not even for him.

The smile on his face left when our eyes ours met. It was as if at that moment our twin senses aligned, and he felt everything I was feeling. He shifted his eyes from me to the envelope in my hand and then back to me. My eyes begged him not to ask me what was in my hand, but I knew his curiosity is stronger than my will.

What's wrong? What is that? Alden curiously said.

It's from Judas, I responded. His eyes lowered to the ground, searching for hope in a place where there is none. I knew his name exposed the wounds he tried so hard to cover up with cheap Band-Aids. We were both masters at pretending to be whole so that no one would view us as inferior.

Who? Alden said, pretending not to recognize the donor's name. What does he want?

He folded his hands behind his back as he leaned on the wall. The atmosphere turned brisk as I looked at him. His head slightly tilted up as his eyes focused on the envelope.

Nothing, like always. I'm sure, I said, shifting my focus to the envelope. I haven't opened it. The tone of my voice slipped into the little girl that cried for her daddy.

Aww, you were waiting for me, Alden said while walking and sitting next to me.

There was an awkward smile on his face. He was reaching for hope. Hope that maybe this letter will be different. Maybe our father will accept his role in our lives. Maybe we will have a normal family. I hoped too. I believed that his presence was the cure to our anger, our depression, and our grief. If only he understood his value to us. If only he cared that he left us in an infamous black hole full of emptiness that could only be filled by him.

I began to open the letter slowly.

To my wonderful children, I hope all is well.

I am giving $10 to each of you.

PS: I should be getting a phone soon.

See you soon.

Dad

That's it? Alden said in disgust while snatching the letter away from me.

His breathing rapidly increased as if this letter has robbed him of his oxygen. To me, this letter was predictable. It was a nail in the coffin laid for us when he left about eight years ago. Knowing that the donor's absence affected my brother didn't stop me from trying to help him, even at the expense of abandoning my grief. I had to be my brother's strength when he couldn't find his. I had to be his counselor and his right hand because I am emotionally stronger and more robust than him. I am more than just his keeper; I am his sister.

Well, it's more than last time. I awkwardly chuckled, trying to lighten up the mood, but my feelings weren't returned.

I'm not playing, and I am not talking about the money. I am talking about what he said, Alden said. He couldn't even address us by name.

Water filled both of our eyes, but we could not cry. It wasn't that we didn't want to cry but that we couldn't. We have wasted many years being fools searching for gold in a dead tree. Tears have done nothing but left our hope dehydrated.

Without indication, Alden left. I yelled for him, but I knew he wasn't going to come back. I wanted to help him, but I couldn't even help myself. I don't know what hurts me more—not being able to help my brother or not being able to help myself. I kneeled on the cage floor and pushed out a scream from the depth of my soul. As tears began to fall, my pride caused me to jump up and do jumping jacks to get my mind off crying.

I balled up the piece of paper, threw it on the floor, and proceeded to walk out of my cell toward the bathroom to relieve myself. While wiping myself, I noticed blood on the tissue. My bloody massacre has started. I didn't have any more pads, so I wrapped a wad of tissue around my hand and placed it in my panties. Quickly, I washed my hands and headed toward the kitchen to grab some medicine and a bottle of water. Mother kept all the bloody massacre medicine in a cabinet above the kitchen stove. I chucked down two pills and sprinted out of the kitchen.

I slipped on my black sliders that were by the door and hurried outside.

Slamming the door behind me, I inhaled the fullness of the environment. The fragrance of tears, sweat, and complacency swooshed through the air, resting on every receiving soul. I looked around at the neighboring homes, and to my surprise, no one was outside. There was, however, eight black vultures sitting on top of six of the houses. I looked back at Mother's duplex and saw that two black vultures were sitting on top of the roof. Shrugging my shoulders, I reached into my distressed jean pocket and plugged both earphones into my ears, not to listen to music but because I didn't want anyone to speak to me.

As I walked down First Street, I tried to fight every thought about Judas, Alden, Mother, and myself. The weights of uncertainty and fear pounded on my shoulders causing my head to slump. I stopped walking, closed my eyes, and begin to massage my temples to alleviate every memory of the past hour. As I opened my eyes, I stared awhile until my vision became clear. My ears were invaded by the sounds of boisterous parents polluting our neighborhood by screaming at their children. They thought they were yelling at their kids, but it's the neighborhood that got disciplined.

The art of escapism has given us the opportunity to separate our house reality from our social fallacy. We become lost in the hope of extracurricular activities—drugs, sex, alcohol, social media, relationships, television, and whatever else that could distract us from our problems. The household is the first battleground that impacts not only your mind but also the totality of your life. It is, for most people, their introduction to mental bondage—the old age prison.

Attitudes and frustration steamed off the rooftops struggling to find purpose in our hearts. We allow our environment to dictate our perception because purpose and destiny are only for those who were given a chance to be free. My neighborhood is full of could've, would've, and should've individuals.

All of whom never tried to better themselves and by their actions taught their children to do the same.

I walked down our litter-filled streets, kicking small black rocks and watching them shuffle in front of me. Everything about this place resembles neglected trash kicked around willfully. About two blocks down and to the left was an old dingy park called Dream Park, which was perpendicular to MLK Jr. Blvd. I walked up to the empty park and decided to sit on the warm wooden bench. The sun was lightly resting on my bare arms and face as I stared at a patch of grass underneath my feet. As I scanned the ground, I noticed a four-leaf clover isolated by the bushes and decided to pick it up to pluck its leaves.

He loves me. He loves me not. He loves me. He loves me not.

With each withered leaf that fell to the ground, I became separated from my strength and numb to what I perceived to be a reality. I threw the stem down and took out my cell phone to scroll through