Breathe Read online

  Breathe

  By

  Jessica Phoenix

  Copyright © 2019 by Jessica Phoenix

  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 prior written consent of the publisher, except in the case of a brief quotation embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Resemblance to actual persons, things, living or dead, locales or events is purely coincidental as this is a work of fiction and a product of the authors imagination.

  Breathe

  Edited by: Rita Johnson

  Cover Design by: Linda Gold

  “When you feel life is out of focus, always return to the basic of life. Breathing. No breathe, no life.”

  ~Mr. Miyagi

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Epilogue

  Gia’s Playlist

  A letter from the author

  About the Author

  Prologue

  I can’t help but wonder what a person has to do in a past life to deserve the life I’d been given. I’d been beaten and broken to the point I’d given up on it ever changing for the better. I thought I was a fool to ever hope for anything different.

  I was born in Hamilton, West Virginia; the product of a white mother and black father. I had an older sister and a brother. Neither of them is biracial. I’m the only one amongst us who is. In fact, I’m the only black person in this whole godforsaken town.

  I’ve never met my father. Hell, my mother barely met him before she got pregnant with me. I’m pretty sure she only slept with him to spite my racist grandfather and her cheating boyfriend. Two birds, one stone, and all. Who the hell knows what was going on in her head?

  What she didn’t count on, was getting knocked up with me during her rebellion.

  Was it hard growing up the only biracial kid in a family full of bigots? Hard would have been a welcomed walk in the park compared to what I was subjected to. It was cruel.

  My mother was a waitress and a drunk. She’d waste all of her money on booze instead of paying the bills. We’d gone to bed hungry and cold countless times because she’d neglect to buy groceries or pay the electricity until after the fact. When that would happen, my grandfather would come and collect my brother and sister, Kyle and Erin, until they turned the lights back on. He’d leave me behind with mom.

  When mom was intoxicated, I was usually the target of her abuse. It was mostly verbal; sometimes physical. I preferred the physical.

  I got to hear how she felt about me, not that it was ever actually a secret. She’d rant about how I had ruined her life and how I was the reason for her constant ridicule throughout the town. Apparently, sleeping with a black man and getting pregnant with his bastard colored child was my fault. According to her, everything was my fault.

  My mother was just the tip of the iceberg. My brother and sister often teamed up to make me feel like the literal black sheep of the “family”. They’d point out all the ways I was different from them. Both of them were fair-skinned, blonde haired, and blue eyed.

  They’d tell me I didn’t belong and that I wasn’t their sister. Although my complexion is considered relatively “light”, my dark curly hair and features make me distinctively biracial.

  The most vicious with his words was my grandfather. The man dubbed me “the abomination.” Heard that one as far back as I can remember. As a toddler, I even mistakenly thought it was a term of endearment or nickname. How twisted is that? The man hated the very thought of me. And I hated him.

  The worst of them all came in the form of the most horrible kind of monster one can imagine; at least to me. To everyone else, he was just a loser drunk named John.

  When I was seven, my mother’s brother, John came to live with us. I still get nauseous when that creep crosses my mind. Even at that age, I hated the way he looked at me. It made me uncomfortable.

  Erin and Kyle’s dad had been in and out of the picture but eventually took off for good. So John came to “help out” but all he’d do was help himself…to me.

  My mother would leave us at home with him while she was at work or out whoring around.

  He would wait no longer than it took for the taillights of my mother’s car to disappear before sending me to my room as “punishment” while bribing my siblings with candy or let them do whatever the hell they wanted to if they promised to stay in the living room and away from mine.

  Once he was satisfied they weren’t moving, John would sneak into my room, lock the door behind him, and come to my bed. He’d stroke my cheek and tell me what a pretty little colored girl I was before touching me in ways that even at seven, I knew were wrong.

  The first time it happened I naively told my mother thinking she’d stand up for me. Instead, she called me a liar and said her brother would never do such a thing. That it was in my DNA to tell lies and be deceitful. Whatever the hell that was supposed to mean.

  The very next time Uncle John watched us, I paid for what he called a betrayal with a beating that he later told my mother I’d earned by being disrespectful. It was total bullshit, but again, she did nothing. And why would she? She didn’t care.

  When I was twelve, John had pretty much moved into our home permanently. He eventually got bored of his usual sexual molestation and abuse. I guess in his mind I was old enough, so he progressed and started raping me. Every chance he got.

  By my thirteenth birthday, I’d fallen pregnant. My mother called me a whore and took me to get an abortion that John so generously paid for. Mom never inquired about how or who, although I’m sure she knew exactly how and who.

  The pregnancy didn’t deter John from his plan to continuously strip away every ounce of dignity and innocence I had left. The day after my abortion, he was back in my bed.

  I became numb to his touch. I learned to tune out what was happening while it was happening. Fighting him only seemed to fuel him. At least by not resisting, I could avoid the severe beatings, and denying him the fight he craved gave me a small, false sense of control. So I’d lay there; disconnected and unmoving with tears streaming down my face, internally humming hopeful melodies; letting the lyrics of inspirational songs run through my mind like end credits of a movie.

  I focused on the words. That was my only escape. Words. Hopeful words. My words. My writing and my love of music.

  I was eight when I started writing. I’d often write sad poems or just about how I was feeling at any given time in a notebook I’d kept hidden under my flimsy mattress. I’m positive it was the only thing that helped keep my sanity intact. Writing kept me from cracking. It was all I had because no one ever could take that from me.

&n
bsp; It was all I had to hold on to because no one came to save me. No one ever would.

  My brother caught John once and did absolutely nothing. When he walked into my room his wide eyes, met my crying ones that were wordlessly pleading for him to help make him stop. For a split second, I thought he just might. But he didn’t.

  John yelled at him to get out, and he did. He just backed away, closed the door, and never said a word.

  After that though, Kyle’s taunting ceased. He could never look me in the eye after that. I’d probably have a hard time looking at me too if I were him. My sister kept being a bitch, but she was the very least of my worries.

  At sixteen, I got a part-time job to start saving to get the hell out of that shit hole town the second I graduated from high school. It was tough trying to save since my mother would ransack my room and steal my cash. Once I’d caught her looking for the money she knew I was saving. she told me I owed it to her for allowing me to be born. Like being born into this family was some sort of privilege. I told her she should have done us both a favor and had an abortion. And I meant that.

  I was able to fight her off and stop her from taking it that time, but I had to start keeping my money on me at all times. I even slept with my purse under my pillow.

  As a bonus to working, by the time I got home from work, John would be passed out drunk most nights. Unfortunately, sometimes in my bed. In those cases, I’d crash on the couch and be off to school the next day before he even woke from his drunken stupor.

  My last night in Hamilton, I’d gone home positive I wouldn’t have to deal with my so-called uncle since I’d gotten out of work even later than usual. To my unpleasant surprise, he waited up for me.

  That night, I just couldn’t take it though. I wouldn’t. I’D HAD ENOUGH.

  He ambushed me the moment I walked through the front door, gripping my arm so tight it left an instant bruise. I attempted to pull away making my purse fall from my shoulder to the living room floor. His grasp tightened causing me to wince from the pain, but I fought not to show it. I was defiant that way. Always determined to make him feel powerless in some small way.

  John was silent. Probably, so he didn’t alert anyone to what he was doing. What was the point? They all knew what he was doing; that he was a monster. They just didn’t care. They didn’t care about me.

  He forced me into my room, shoving me on my bed. He immediately started undoing his belt buckle and pants as my mind raced, trying to think of a way to stop this. I couldn’t let him take any more from me. I refused.

  “You think you’re slick, don’t you? You thought you could avoid me by staying at that bull shit diner instead of coming home like you’re supposed to. I’ll put an end to that. Tonight was your last night there. You are not going back there, do you understand me?”

  I didn’t answer him, too busy still hoping I can stop this from happening.

  After he removed his pants, he climbed on top of me the way he did many nights before. The stench of alcohol, cigarettes, and his disgusting body odor sent a wave of nausea through me, causing me to swallow down my vomit.

  I was sick to my stomach, and if he touched me one more time, I’d finally crack and end my own life. I couldn’t handle it anymore. I’d rather die than let him keep having me. It was sick! It was wrong!

  His weight pressed down on me making it hard to breathe. His erection pressed against me causing my stomach to roll.

  No more!

  Without thinking, I reached for the table side lamp and smashed it against the side of his head as hard as I could. Stunned, he pulled back enough to where I was able to push him off me and jump off the bed.

  With him staggering and caught off guard, I ran out of that house as fast as I could with nothing more than my purse that had dropped in the living room earlier, the clothes on my back, and the shoes on my feet, never looking back.

  At seventeen, I was now on my own. No high school diploma. Virtually no money and no place to go. Anybody else would have been in panic mode. Me? I ran full speed towards the bus station with something I’d never had in my entire life; Hope.

  Chapter 1

  Gia Davis

  “Georgie, Table two needs their check hon.”

  “Okay. Thanks, Trish. I’m headed that way. And stop calling me that,” I exasperate for the millionth time.

  Trish is the only one that gets away with calling me that. I don’t think anyone in the state of Georgia other than her and our boss, Mitch knows my real name. They only know because I had to put it on my job application and Trish was the one I handed it to when I turned it in.

  I hate that nickname. That’s what he called me. What all those people back home called me. So when I came to Atlanta, I shortened my name to Gia.

  I finished cashing out the tab I’m working on and grab the check for table two to drop off on my way to give my only other occupied table their change.

  “Slow night,” Trish says when I make it back to the counter.

  “That it is,” I agree. “I’m barely going to make rent at this rate.”

  “That makes two of us sweet pea,” Trish sighs.

  I’ve been working at the diner for about a year now. Before I got a job here, I was working at a hole in the wall bar. It was decent money, but I got tired of all the drunken idiots that came in there. So when I got offered a job at the diner, I jumped ship from that cesspool and needless to say, I took a bit of a pay cut.

  Being a runaway high school dropout, my options are extremely limited on the job front. At this point, I’m just grateful I have one. I just wish it paid more.

  After I ran away from West Virginia, I made my way down to my namesake…Georgia.

  My name is Georgia Rose Davis. My mother was not overly sentimental, especially where I was concerned, but one day when she was drunk off her ass, she told me she named me Georgia because that’s where my father was from.

  I hardly think they were anything more than a one night stand at best. So I was surprised she knew that much about him, to be honest. And since I don’t share his last name, the state he’s from is all I had to cling to where he was concerned.

  When I made it to the bus station the night I left home, the window clerk asked where I wanted to go and that conversation with my mother immediately popped into my head. I took it as a sign that I should head here.

  I knew I’d never find my father, yet somehow, it made me feel connected to him, even if I wouldn’t ever meet him. So I bought a one-way ticket south. Five years later, here I am.

  Life has been rough. I work a dead end job, have no clue what to do with my life and until I got a roommate, I was on the verge of eviction monthly. But I’d take the life I have now over the hell I endured growing up any day.

  I’ve been attending night school to finally get my high school diploma. I’m struggling to hone in on a career choice, but working at this diner until I’m seventy like Trish is a no go for me.

  I live in a shitty apartment, in a shady neighborhood in West Atlanta. I share it with my friend Sophie who I met at the bar I used to work at.

  Sophie left the bar too a few years ago. She now works at a popular strip club called ‘Sin’ in the city. She makes considerably more money than I do and is constantly trying to get me to come and work with her since I struggle to make my half of the rent every month.

  The money seems great, and I pass no judgment on anyone who chooses to work in those places. I’m just not comfortable with it for myself.

  Other than Quinn, a girl I met in night school, I have no other girlfriends. Unless you count Trish…which I guess I do.

  I have a boyfriend I’ve been with for about eight months. Sean is an aspiring music producer, so he says.

  Who isn’t in this town?

  He seems to spend more time talking about making music than actually making it. But what the hell do I know?

  I know a hell of a lot more about music than he does.

 
Music and writing were my mental safe havens when I was young. It helped to keep the demons at bay. They still do.

  Anyways, at least Sean’s handsome, with his dark skin and tall, lean stature. He’s not overly muscular, but he’s definitely in shape. His killer smile is framed by a well-kept beard. Esthetically, he is a treat for the eyes. And he’s fun to be around…so there’s that.

  Sean is my first real boyfriend. I started trying to casually date about two years after I arrived in Atlanta. I have a hard time connecting with anyone intimately, so dating was hard, until Sean. I could never make it past kissing. Most men don’t have the patience to wait or deal with my issues. Nobody knows what happened to me. They never ask. All the guys I’ve dealt with just think I’m a prude and bail.

  Sean has been the only one to endure my awkwardness about sex. I understand it’s a natural part of relationships and I don’t want to be alone, so eventually, I gave myself to him. I’m still very hesitant and totally not comfortable with the idea of it. I usually have to get wasted to relax enough to do it.