Dysfunctional Part 1: Changes

Dys·func·tion·al

ˌdisˈfəNG(k)SH(ə)nl/
adjective
  1. not operating normally or properly.
    2. deviating from the norms of social behavior in a way regarded as bad.

Part 2 of 2

Monique dashed across the room, and running up on my mom’s man-child-boyfriend so fast, she could’ve given Usain Bolt a run for his money. It was like Clash of the Titans, Muhammad Ali in the ring, the Bloods versus the Crips.

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He took a swing, she took a swing, then bam — Monique got him in the mouth. The kids were screaming. My mom was screaming. And somehow the fight went from the hallway to the living room, to outside in the middle of the street.

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I was panicking. My sister was cage fighting this bum because of me; I had to do something to help! I ran in the kitchen and grabbed a knife. He was going to die today.

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By the time I made it back outside, neighbors were trying to break the fight up, but to no avail. I ran to catch up with them, and when I was close, started fast walking up to the fight — knife in hand. He was going to get everything he deserved, or so I thought.

 

Right when I reached him, my mom came out of nowhere and pushed me on the ground.

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In hindsight, I’m happy she saved me from attempted murder charges, but in that moment, if she was defending him, she could’ve gotten stabbed too.

Me:

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I sat there on the ground, eyes locked, staring at her wildly, confused. I know she could see the anger all over me. I was shaking.

Me in that moment:

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The neighbors finally pulled Monique and the bum apart. My sister called her dad, packed her stuff, and she moved out that same day.

Monique:

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After all the commotion died down, and my sister left, I went upstairs in her room and sprawled across her futon. As I laid their angry and irritated, Asia walked in.

“So you think Monique gone come back?” She asked innocently.

“Naw, I doubt it,” I said, staring up at the ceiling.

“Cool, so you get her room, and I get my own room now, right?” She asked excitedly.

“Yeah, I guess so,” I replied dryly.

Asia was excited about getting her own room, especially after having to share one with a control freak like me. I, however, was getting my own room, and all of Monique’s responsibilities. I couldn’t help but to be angry at her for leaving me in this hell alone. My only comfort was in the fact that my mother couldn’t possibly want the bum after this.

What I thought would happen:

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But I was wrong. He spent a week away, and then crawled his way right back in our house; but this time around, it was both a curse and a blessing.

To be continued….. 

Discussion: If you’ve ever witnessed domestic violence in your household ( or elsewhere) how has it shaped you today? 


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5 comments on “Dysfunctional Part 1: Changes

    1. Lol somebody else also told me that. I want to blog my story and then “go back” to where it all started with my moms story and I want to put that in a book for sure. Thank you for reading

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