Brooklyn Chronicles: Save our Sons and Daughters

Chapter Eight

“The emotional, sexual and psychological stereotyping of females begins when the doctor says, its a girl.”  

The voice from the radio spoke out loud.

In the darkest hour, the sun had passed and the night had begun. The midnight hues of the skies covered the city and the glowing bright lights of Manhattan’s attraction stood out from where she was standing. The dazzling shadows of the skyscrapers across the blue waters soothed her mind and the sharp wind blew the curly knots of blonde hair in her face.

The burning lights from the skyscrapers stood tall like big birthday candles. The consistent whizz of sirens and hovering helicopters circulated in the city.

She looked at the dark skies, the bearing of planes in the high altitudes looked like birds flying in the sky from the edge of the window. The scene of their faded figures in the far distance became hard to point out, the dark horizon was lit up by the blazing and dancing shadows of city lights.

Most people see birds as a symbol of freedom, their ability to soar high into the skies, something desirable that man cannot do alone. They are free to fly and they are signs of renewed life, the transition between life and death and a hope of a future. 

She was nicknamed Birdy by her late aunt who had raised her from a young age, the woman who had given her a chance in life, unlike the ones she called her creators, her parents.

She looked the tattoo underneath the sleeve of her grey hood, she kissed the black marked words in italics surrounded by sakura patterns that read Pretty Bird in honour of the life had aunt had sacrificed her life for.

Her sharp pink acrylics marked an invisible pattern around her tattoo, a wet clear and warm liquid fell onto her wrist and slid over another layer of tattoo patterns of broken chains. She wiped the tears falling from her puffy red hazel eyes.

She slid down from the dirty window sill coated in dust, rust and burnt cigarettes. Her feet clothed in worn out white Air maxes met the stone cold and concrete floor boards. 

She had been squatting at one of the notorious trap houses in Brooklyn for days. She hadn’t seen Tank or Blue in days and life was beginning to look a lot more real. Her hands wouldn’t stop shaking, she hadn’t eaten or drank anything in days. The most her body had consumed was the dench of smoke coming from the burning and rolled cannabis from the young men sat in the room.

A young male stood up from the group and walked to were Santanna was standing. He took her hand and said no more, she was dragged by him to a spare bedroom. His grip was rough and the pattern and sequence of events that her occurring to her weren’t any different. It was a repeated, a cycle of her 19 years of life, the life of an abused and broken woman.

But the cycle was different this time, because it affected the next cycle, the cycle of life growing inside of her, for 9 months.

This same man who had abused her was the man she had given her all to since the age of thirteen. He had given her false love, affection and respect and for so long she had become conformed to these things. He didn’t know a thing about her and he could barely remember her name, only the nickname he gave her. She was soul-tied.

His flesh against her body felt dirty and tainted, immoral, all so sinful. Sin was what she felt like and that was all she saw in herself.

She was sick and tired of this cycle of what she thought was “love” in the “man” she thought she was in love with.

In frustration, her fist connected with his face, the crack of his jaw gave her enough time to run to the open window. His roar of pain was followed by loud footsteps racing towards the door, her every move was timed before they all came after her.