Between Reel and Reality (Lesbian Romance)

Chapter Twenty-One: Guidance

AMEL

With Cierre's thoughtful gift around my neck, the bliss and esteem of my historical accomplishment erupt within me. My journey from childhood to stardom plays within my brain, reminding me how miraculous my existence is.

Once that evil asshole gunned down my dad, it could have easily been me next. Simply by approaching the backseat of the Toyota Corolla, he could've fired into me. Instead, he sped off like a punk, his bumper scraping the uneven streets as he fled the scene of the crime. Though he raced into the fading violet sunset, the law eventually caught up with him, and justice reigned on my father's killer. Although, if you ask me, he was granted mercy. He's in prison for life, with no chance of parole, wasting away on God's timing and citizens' tax dollars. If it were my choice, he would be long dead.

I've searched William B. Sparks' mugshot multiple times, picturing his hideous and remorseless face contorting into a look of horror and repentance. I've had fantasies of gripping his flabby neck, examining his bulging eyes and tear-stained cheeks. In those imaginations, our gazes lock as his body drains its toxic energy, surrendering to his vengeful killer. Before the Grim Reaper slashes and damns him to the pits of hell, the heartless man fears the same eyes he once robbed of life as they bring his existence to a brutal end.

On a fateful sunny day, Momma and I relaxed on our porch, singing songs and sipping ice-cold lemonade in the Houston humidity. Our peace shattered when a scrawny figure sprinted down the street and seized our attention. His terrified strides brought him closer, the rhythmic scrape of his sneakers against the sidewalk amplifying. Before my momma could shout for me to seek refuge inside, a white Impala appeared around the corner, hurtling down our street. In the backseat, a masked man wielding a machine gun leaned out of the window, his focus aimed at his moving target. Momma cried out my name, swiftly tackling me to the concrete, shielding me with every ounce of her being. The assailant unleashed a relentless barrage of bullets at his prey, each deafening shot assaulting my ears and leaving me trembling with fear.

After a successful execution, the Impala roared its engine, vanishing into the unknown. A fleeting second of the most serene silence enveloped me; then, I heard my mother gurgling on her own blood. As concerned neighbors rushed from their homes, attempting to comprehend the chaos, the solemn responsibility of cradling my momma in her final moments fell upon me. Despite the gaping, bloody wound in her chest, she insisted I look into her dark, courageous eyes. When her hushed assurances of "it'll be okay" failed to bring solace, she turned to singing softly, departing this world just as she had lived, with a song in her heart.

I often wish my existence had ended with my dad's or my mom's. Survivor's guilt and grief hold an excruciating mass, randomly and harshly terrorizing my mind. No one understands that agony, how it picks at me until I'm willing to make an everlasting pact with Death. I've sat at the table with Death, looked it in the eyes, made the deal, and damn near shook hands too many times. If it weren't for my parents' souls begging me to stay on earth, I wouldn't have made it to eighteen. Their blood flows within my veins, and their spirits thrive within my essence. As time ticks, our connection only grows more potent. Whenever I'm in need, they remind me of the values they've instilled in me: faith, perseverance, gratitude, honor, and grace. Throughout my journey, from youth to professional fighting to stardom, I've faced countless battles and emerged victorious, always accompanied by a fierce warrior's cry. Some exhales are riddled with physical pain, others with emotional distress, but dammit, I continue breathing. I refuse to be conquered, especially by fear.

Twenty minutes before Cierre and I's date, I had typed a message stating I had a change of heart about giving her a chance again. If I had sent it, I would've shattered her into pieces and made the gravest mistake of my life. If it weren't for my parents reminding me not to act out of fear, I'd be in my hotel room hating myself right now. Instead, I'm on a lovely, exclusive date with a gorgeous Parisian backdrop.