I Choose the Ending 1: I Choose the Ending, #1

By Tasha Marie Johnson

Warning: This memoir series contains themes of physical, sexual, domestic, and verbal abuse, including instances of rape and child abuse. Reader discretion is advised.

This is book 1 in the series.

Excerpt:
As we sat sweltering in the car, fumbling with the antiquated window levers, tempers flared amongst us siblings. Despite my attempts to maintain order, chaos ensued as EJ, fueled by concern for Mom, defied my instructions and darted out of the car. In an instant, tragedy struck with the force of a thunderbolt. The cacophony of shouts was abruptly silenced by the deafening thud of impact, echoing through the air like a dreadful requiem. A Volkswagen Beetle, affectionately dubbed a Slug Bug in our childhood games, had been careening towards us, its velocity unstoppable.

• Language: English
• Publisher: TMH PUBLISHING, LLC
• Release date: Mar 31, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224063253

Book preview

Contents

Yellow Street

College Avenue

Grover Lane

Boyd Street

Toothless Bandit

Prairieview Street

Irrecoverable Innocence

Fourth Avenue

A Changed Man

I CHOOSE THE ENDING

I CHOOSE THE ENDING

Copyright © 2024 by TMH Publishing, LLC

All rights reserved

Standing Strong Amidst Life's Toughest Trials

I CHOOSE THE ENDING

1

TASHA MARIE JOHNSON

A POWERFUL MEMOIR IN THE

JOURNEY TO SURVIVAL SERIES

Book 1

Disclaimer

I Choose the Ending is a nonfiction narrative. To protect the privacy of those involved, the author has modified some names, locations, and specific details. However, the core of the story remains authentic. Readers should note that this book series delves into themes of rape, violence and trauma and contains scenes that might be distressing or triggering for some.

Yellow Street

College Avenue

Grover Lane

Boyd Street

Toothless Bandit

Prairieview Street

Irrecoverable Innocence

Fourth Avenue

A Changed Man

Yellow Street

Our family's light-toned skin was a tapestry of colors that left onlookers puzzled. Were we this or that? Their gazes lingered, trying to decipher the cocktail of ethnicities that danced across our complexions. Lorena LaRue Jones, my mother, was a beacon of youthful strength. At a tender seventeen, she embraced the role of a mother, with me, her first, cradled against her chest.

Those who passed by often paused, captivated by her beauty. Her presence was undeniably commanding. Every pound of her seemed crafted with purpose. Her hair cascaded slickly down in a dark brown waterfall, with strands flirting with the shade of black all the way past her waist.

Those arresting eyes mirrored life, set against her light mocha-hued skin. But it was her delicate nose, radiant smile revealing impeccable teeth, and lips that seemed sculpted by an artist that often caught the most admiration. One could easily trace her beauty back to her mother's genes.

I remember the comfort of being nestled in her arms, the world outside fading away as she held me on her lap. Her voice, weaving melodies, became the soundtrack of my childhood, each note carrying a lesson, a piece of wisdom gently laid upon my soul.

Her care, tireless and boundless, fed my spirit, helping me grow. This sanctuary, this circle of warmth and love, was not mine alone to cherish. My siblings and I, we all found our peace in her embrace, like chicks under the vigilant gaze of a mother hen, safe and sound within the circle of her wings. Each of us, in turn, basked in the security and love she offered, a shared bond of comfort and nurturing that defined our earliest memories.

Times weren't always bountiful, but with her, scarcity felt abundant. I recall mornings when a modest bowl of oatmeal would magically serve our hungry battalion of six, each of us relishing our share.

As a child, I was convinced she possessed some kind of magic, her every action seemingly touched by an unseen force. Yet, deep down, I recognized it was God's hand providing for us, a belief she held dear. Her faith, small yet mighty like a mustard seed, was unshakeable.

And with the protective fierceness of a wolf, she shielded us, her children, from the world's harsh realities. This blend of divine trust and maternal instinct made her seem invincible, a guardian whose love knew no bounds.

In the vast fabric of our family, Mom stood out. Sandwiched between two sisters and a throng of nine brothers, she was the third beacon of strength. Among them was Uncle Jesse Michael.

His memory is a shadow from my earliest days, for he was snatched away by a cruel twist of fate when I was but four months old. The vivid story of him standing in a puddle, the jolt from an air conditioner sealing his fate, echoed painfully in our family's corridors.

Though my own recollections of him are absent, woven into the fabric of my understanding were the stories my mom tenderly shared, her voice a soft echo of past love. He visited every day, drawn just to witness the small curve of your lips, that innocent smile that was uniquely yours, she would recount, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears.

It was through her narratives that I came to cherish the idea of such love—pure, unadulterated, a love that sought nothing but to revel in the simple joy of my happiness. Eli Jeremiah Johnson Sr., my father, was eighteen years old when I came into the world. He was a man of captivating looks, characterized by his non-judgmental nature, forgiving heart, and free spirit.

He was tall enough, standing at five feet ten inches, and weighed one hundred and eighty pounds, with an average physique. His black hair, curly and unruly, framed his face before ascending into an impressively tall afro.

Eli Sr. was generally not aggressive but would firmly establish the rules when necessary. He had a penchant for swearing, mastering the art far beyond any sailor's skill, and even coined his own unique expletives.

Growing up, the occasional smack on the behind from my parents was part and parcel of our upbringing. In those days, it was the norm rather than the exception. Looking back, I feel it played its part in sculpting my discipline, and I can't say it cast any shadows over my childhood.

The tales of my ancestors often began in the south, tracing a migratory path that ended in the heart of Indiana, the proud Hoosier state. Both sets of grandparents called sprawling farms home, nestled in the remnants of what was once a bustling coal-mining town.

Opere Bene, affectionately mispronounced by locals as Opry-Ben, was more a close-knit community than a town, boasting a tight circle of less than a hundred souls. Back then, they'd label us coloreds, a term that seemed to echo with a mix of ignorance and familiarity.

Fittingly, Opere Bene translates from Latin to signify that through hard work and perseverance, success will follow. It's in this backdrop that I first opened my eyes to the world on April 6, 1970, filled with insatiable curiosity.

They christened me Tasha Marie Johnson. My childhood memories were painted on the canvas of Prairieview, a city that juxtaposed quaint charm with a constant hum of activity, tucked away in the embrace of Indiana. One of my earliest memories is soaked in the golden hue of Yellow Street.

Our home, a modest bungalow, still had that fresh paint smell and the sheen of newness. Its walls held the aspirations and hopes of my young parents who had acquired it through a program for families finding their financial footing.

At the heart of this abode were my parents: Lorena, her eyes filled with a mix of determination and vulnerability, and Eli, a year her senior, doing his best to wear the mantle of responsibility. Their love story had just begun to blossom, and I, their firstborn, was the embodiment of their shared dreams.

For those initial twenty months, I basked in their undivided attention, cherished as the apple of their eyes. But, like the setting sun, that golden period waned.

Eli Jeremiah Johnson Jr. — EJ for short — made his grand entry into our lives in September 1971. Named after my father, a nod to a tradition of the times, he represented both continuity and change.

As the days turned, it was clear that I wasn’t too thrilled about this new addition. EJ’s arrival, just seventeen months after my debut, seemed to eclipse my solo performance. Mom would coax, Say hello to your baby brother, but I'd turn away, feigning indifference. In my little world, he was an intruder, and for two months, I played the part of the child who wished he'd remained a figment of imagination.

Then came that fateful day. The house was steeped in silence, with only the soft whimpers of EJ punctuating the stillness. Both Mom and Dad, perhaps drained from the endless cycle of nurturing two babies, had fallen into a deep slumber. EJ’s cries grew more persistent, echoing the vulnerability of a baby yearning for comfort.

A strange warmth began to unfurl in my chest, nudging me to finally see the new life that had reshaped our family. Making my way to my parents' room from my bedroom, I tried to rouse them, but they lay there, oblivious to the world; Dad's deep snores served as a testament to their exhaustion.

Nestled on the floor next to their bed was EJ's bassinet. The bed itself was a simple mattress on a box spring, sitting atop the room's unmistakable green-shag carpet. Hesitating for a moment, I leaned over, my tiny frame casting a shadow over him. From this vantage point, he looked almost ethereal—his light complexion making him seem like a porcelain doll rather than a baby.

His soft whimpers filled the room. Hushing him, I placed a finger on my lips. Shhh, I whispered. He responded, not with silence, but with a quieting of his distress, his large, chocolate-brown eyes fixating on me. Perhaps, in his infantile innocence, he questioned why I wouldn’t just cradle him in my arms.

Just as I was about to retreat to my bedroom, a haven of toys and toddler adventures, his cries began anew, pulling at the newfound tenderness in my heart. Without much thought, I returned to his side, wrapping my tiny arms around him in an awkward but earnest bear hug, lifting him as best as a twenty-month-old could.

With a mix of determination and toddler might, I dragged EJ across the hallway's soft carpet, the weight of his body heavy in my arms—almost like carrying another half of me. Gently, I nestled him into the bottom drawer of my dresser, the special spot where I let my dolls nap. Their still faces stared back at us from the confines of the drawer as EJ settled in.

Hurrying back to my parent's room, I retrieved his pacifier, the soft rubber teat still warm. I offered it to him, and he took it eagerly, his little lips curling around it. Mimicking my mom's soothing motions, I patted his small tummy. He responded, not with fussing, but with a calm gaze, his large eyes reflecting the world and me within them.

My fingers brushed over the faint fuzz of his light brown hair; the strands so delicate beneath my touch. I realized he was far more alive and enchanting than any of my dolls. In that silent communion, something shifted within me—a door swung open, revealing a profound bond I never knew existed. I felt love.

My earlier resentment dissolved, replaced by an overwhelming need to protect and cherish this tiny being. To anyone willing to listen from that day forward, I would proudly proclaim EJ as my baby. It felt as though we had found our rhythm, our own little world. It was all biscuits and gravy until the moment Lorena LaRue's eyes fluttered open.

The panicked shout echoed through the house, jolting me awake. Tasha Marie! Eli! EJ's gone! The desperation in my mother's voice sent a wave of unease through me.

The weight of my mistake pressed on my chest, and I hastily closed the dresser drawer, EJ's gentle snores muffled within. My tiny frame stood guard in front of the drawer, heart racing, much like how a caught pup might look when confronted with the remnants of a chewed-up shoe.

Within moments, the hurried footsteps of my disheveled parents filled the room, anxiety evident in their wide, searching eyes.

Tasha Marie, my mom's voice trembled with a blend of relief and fear, where is he?

Feeling the weight of her gaze, I turned my eyes to the window, the outside world seeming so distant from the intensity of the moment. But EJ's soft cries betrayed my secret, their sound dampened but unmistakable from the dresser's depths.

The way my mother's eyes darted to the drawer and back to me spoke volumes. Her maternal instincts took over as she swiftly cradled EJ in her arms, her touch a mix of relief and protective fierceness. Pointing a stern finger at me, her voice took on an authoritative tone, No, Tasha Marie. You never ever ever take EJ from Mommy's room.

I could feel the hot sting of tears as they began to form in my eyes. I'd tried so hard to be the big sister, to care for EJ the way my parents had asked, yet here I was in trouble. Confusion and hurt churned inside me. Sensing my distress, Dad scooped me up, his embrace trying to bridge the gap of understanding. Mom, holding EJ close, shot us a concerned glance. It was then that we gathered for our first family huddle.

Amidst gentle reprimands, Mom laid down the rules of Baby Care 101. And as the days turned to weeks, my initial reluctance towards EJ melted away. I'd finally found the rhythm in sharing my parents' love and attention. EJ and I became more than siblings; we were comrades, partners in the little adventures that our young world held.

But with EJ's newfound mobility came challenges. It seemed like he had this magnetic pull towards mischief. One such day, as the scent of freshly ironed clothes wafted through the air and Mom momentarily disappeared into the bathroom, disaster struck. EJ's pudgy hand reached for the iron's cord. Time slowed as I watched the iron descend, landing searingly on the delicate skin of EJ's calf.

Without thinking, I snatched the blazing iron away, the sharp sting on my fingers nothing compared to the pain EJ must have felt. His cries were heart-wrenching, echoing through the walls, summoning Mom. We rushed to the hospital, where the gravity of EJ's injury became evident: a scar that would stay with him, reminding us of that fateful day.

Just as we were settling into the rhythm of being a quartet, the universe threw us another curveball. Jesse Michael arrived, December 1972, a surprise that came with financial concerns and emotional adjustments. Named in remembrance of the uncle I'd never really known, he marked the addition of the third child in under three years, making our household all the more chaotic and full of love.

In the dark corners of my heart, where hope once sparkled, a shadow loomed with the realization that I might never reclaim my place in the spotlight. Yet, to my surprise, accepting Jesse into our family was less arduous than I'd anticipated. Perhaps it was because life had already schooled me in the art of sharing. The presence of my two brothers reshaped my world, molding me into a more selfless individual.

Jesse, with his captivating brown eyes and soft, chestnut locks, was truly a sight to behold. There was an exotic allure about him, his complexion just a shade lighter than EJ's. EJ couldn't help but feel a pang of jealousy at first.

It was