Page 14 of Rayzor: Tell Me It’s Mine II

I headed to the door, my hand twisting the knob.

“I’m gon’ say this shit and leave it alone. If you got anything to do with what the fuck happened to me in any sense or form, Ma, whether good or bad, I’m on yo’ ass. I mean, it’s gotta be something because you woke up one day hating me. Yo’ own son. You must’ve done it for a reason. Don’t let me find out why.” I left out, leaving that with her.

Hate.

That word has been recycled, heard and used many times. Through darkness, pain and sorrow, but I never used it towards my own son. Now, I may dislike some things he’s done, how he got to where he was, or the person he’s become, but damn it, I don’t hate him.

I still loved him, but I couldn’t allow myself to be his mother. It’s too complicated.

I was left standing in the void where Courtland had just stood. Remembering the strong man he’d become, battling the hurt of his mother’s words. The way his chest never deflated, that armor shielding him closely as he prepared himself to leave my house after an exchange of threats.

It would’ve been easy to heal the pain, but it’s deeper than any of us could fathom.

My phone rang inside my bag, snapping me out of my thoughts. My head snapped in its direction like fate had finally come knocking. I emptied my bag and grabbed the phone before the last ring.

“He was there with you tonight,” the dark voice said on the other end.

“Stay away from him!” I bellowed.

“Tsk. Tsk,” he mocked. “Buttermilk,” he called me, sending a shock to my system. My stomach soured at the name.

“Don’t.” I swallowed. “Don’t ever call me that.”

“You still think this is your call.”

“He’s my son,” I argued. “Haven’t you done enough?”

A thick, hollow chuckle rumbled in his throat– the kind that pierces your spine and makes it coil.

“I haven’t even begun. It’s my world. Always my world.” He ended the call, leaving me breathless as my knees grew weak and I collapsed to the floor. The tears burned in the corners of my eyes.

My phone sat inches away from me like it was on fire, and I needed to get away from it.

My hands went up, crossed together, and I closed my eyes. Something was heavy on my spirit. I needed forgiveness, not saving. I needed repentance, not redemption.

“Whatever happens, Lord, whatever may come of this, protect and forgive. This burden, this pain and guilt, it’s too much. But I must finish what I started.”

I prayed, feeling the weight in my stomach dissipate but not fully disappear.

The hardest part about secrets is remembering who you were before they existed.

I got up from my knees, grabbed my purse and put my bag back together before locking up the house and going to my room. I checked in on Maleek; he was sound asleep even after all that commotion.

I locked myself inside my room, sat on the side of my bed and pulled out my bible, going to Isaiah 49:15. “Can a mother forget the baby at her breast and have no compassion on the child she borne?”

I pulled the picture of a younger Courtland close to my heart.

“Create in me a clean heart, oh, God…” I prayed while the tears covered the portrait. They didn’t cleanse my sin. They harvested the hurt. Stains like this, you can’t pray away. Sometimes that sin is yours to bear.

* * *

“Good morning. The food is ready,” I greeted with my back turned while I moved around the kitchen fixing breakfast.

Even after a night like last, the day always moves on. I couldn’t wallow in self-pity when I was too busy trying to raise and protect another child. Sometimes, that’s the hardest part, living with leaking wounds.

“Morning, Ma,” he replied flatly.

I gathered the plates I’d made and turned around to serve them when the wind was knocked out of me at the sight of his face. I dropped the plates and grabbed his chin.