Redemption

Dear Diary,

Last time I tasted honeysuckles and put up feeders for the hummingbirds that swarmed my

backyard because my garden full of succulents, roses, petunias and a

smorgasbord of flowers seems like eons ago. I can just approximate that time

period because I remember I was born in 1918. And almost 23 years later I

married a soldier. Together we bought a house, had a son and the small backyard

we had, he let me build my Eden. However, my life wasn’t always bliss. The

daughter of a sailor, and an alcoholic. An attraction that is meant to be. I

say that sarcastically as mother and father did nothing but have multiple

quarrels. And early on I knew I had to get out of that wretched house before it

killed me. I remember most of my childhood. My most vivid memory is September

1929 as if I was constantly watching the same film reel. The stock market

crashed, and all of a sudden just about every American lost everything. Mother

and father fought more than ever. Being only eleven years old, that’s when I

realized I had to help mother, and took on all the domestic jobs.

Mother cried

and would quiver like a dying leaf on a tree every time the small hand inched

closer to five; when father would come home. Smelling of alcohol and ready to

fight. I took pity on her and did everything to help her. I had a little

sister, but she was sickly and I refused to make life any harder on her than it

already was. I grew up faster than most other children. I even learned how to

cook all the basics by the time I was twelve. While taking care of mother, I

would help my sister. But god damn, when I was able to move out of that house I

was relieved. I hoped to start a new life for myself. Until my husband left me

and that’s when I began drinking myself, ignoring my son’s needs. I knew I had

to protect my baby at all costs, and living in that home alone with my child

kept me at high alert, until I put myself in a drunken stupor, and left the

door unlocked. To this day I think God was watching over me because my boy was

at his friend’s home that night. But what he came home to would be the end of

it all.

My child had

to be 13 years old at the time, so the year had to be 1961. America was in a

racial civil war. It was truly as if we went back almost 180 years. I do

consider myself a progressive woman. As I saw on the television screen what the

white man was doing to the black man. So when I saw how little Ruby Bridges who

was only five years old had to fight to go to an elementary school closer to

where she lived, and the only reason she couldn’t was because of the color of

her skin. I never understood the problem with desegregation. However, knowing

when all this happened helps me approximate how much time I spent here. I’ve

since lost track of where I am since the incident which I still have nightmares

of today. I still remember using that knife and after puncturing the body I

believe five times (I was told I stabbed the man thirty times) I pray every

night that the reaper would come for me, as I believe that being here has been

my redemption for my sins.

My son caught

me when he walked in. He saw me cleaning up the blood and dismembered body

parts. “Mama what did you do?” He asked in terror. It seemed as if my growing

child who was slowly becoming a man became a child himself as he saw the devil

inside his mother.

“I..I thought

it was an intruder. I forgot to close the door. And mama drunk a bit too much.”

I stammered and tripped on my own words.

“Mama, that’s

the milkman! Why are you so scared of anyone coming in!? Do you really think my

father will come back!? Are you still mad at him for leaving us!? It has been

ten years! From all your venting as I grew up, I can only think he fell in love

with another woman. I am sorry mother but you have to move on!” I could hear by

the tone of his voice that fury was building up inside of him.

“Please help

me, son. Please?” I begged him. He seemed to agree and said he had to run out

to fetch a new shovel to dig a hole. But when he returned there were two men in

blue who cuffed me and took me away and placed me here. They questioned me

about what I did, and only recently did I learn that I was entitled to a

lawyer. I never got that. They pressured me to tell me what I’ve done, never

even asking me why. After they put me behind bars and a doctor came in to see if

I was sane enough to stand trial. When I told him of my alcohol abuse, and that

I wasn’t aware of what was going on that night because I must have consumed

more alcohol than I should have. He reported that I was criminally insane. And

that’s how I got locked up in here.

This place

must be my punishment for what I did. I am locked in a musty room for hours if

I say something wrong that angers the nurses or refuse to take my medication.

When I am able to come out and socialize with the others I see more horror than

I can take. Men that remind me of my husband, and women who seem to only be the

skeletal versions of themselves as if life was sucked right out of them. My son

never visited me, neither did my friends. I knew time was passing faster than I

could count. They had a television in the dayroom, but it went from Black and

white to when I first came here, an organization donated a television set with

color technology. The library which only a few of us were allowed to access had

new books, and not too long ago I discovered the fact that I could find the

publication date on the first few pages of the book. The newest one we got was

printed in 1983. I know for fact it's not an illusion as I am aging and walking

is becoming increasingly harder for me. I just want to fall asleep and never

wake up. I want to be back in my garden planting flowers and listening to the

songbirds sing, maybe baking a cake for the neighbors to eat. Have the last

soiree. They're only dreams now, concocted by thought but impossible to reach.

I wish the

night I murdered the milkman was a dream. But it has become a shadow that will

forever cast down upon me. As I pace now in this room alone, all I can do is

reflect on what I’ve done. Maybe this is payment for my sins. Sometimes I even

question why my son wouldn’t protect me. Now I realize that he is the exemplary

model of what it means to be not only a man but a human. Even though society

tells us that we have to protect our kin, he did what is right. Something I

wish someone in this place would do knowing that what they are doing is wrong.

But to the workers, we have no meaning in society. So even though I am alive,

and the constant isolation is causing me to want to do more harm to myself than

anyone else now, is helping me come to terms with what I’ve done. I used

alcohol to run away from my problems instead of dealing with them, and that

caused my downfall. There isn’t a day that goes by that I wish that I can turn

back the clocks and redo that day. My gut tells me that day was inevitable. I

learned my lesson, and I am ready to free myself. So whoever finds this letter

that was meant to stay confined within my thoughts, and go with me to the grave

as I often hated telling people my true feelings. I never wrote a journal entry

such as this one. It is easier to confine your own thoughts than letting it

out. I can’t verbalize how I feel on the subject matter, but I know I can write

it down. I think this is my last attempt at redemption. So as I stare at my

bedsheets that I will turn into a noose, and commit murder on myself, I pray to

God or whoever is beyond the clouds. If you still feel I deserve punishment

since suicide is a sin, please forgive me.

This horrid place has taught me my lesson and I am ready to go. I am ready to be free once

again.