The Life of Delly
- Reads 14
- Votes 4
- Parts 1
I remember standing there on the bare wood floor of our dingy little apartment, watching as she stood on tiptoe on an old metal folding chair tying the rope to our ceiling fan. A head-sized loop hung at the end of it, frayed threads sticking out here and there like pricklies on a cactus.
"Here honey, hold this for mommy," she said, handing me a half smoked roach she'd been puffing on as she worked.
"Wait, wait, wait, give it back a minute."
I handed it back and she took a long drag, closing her eyes and holding it in for a moment. She coughed once and let it back out in a slow stream, her whole body relaxing as she did.
"Bad shit, honey," she said a moment later, shaking her head and stretching her eyelids. "Don't you never start it, okay?"
I nodded as she handed it back to me.
She brushed a loose strand of hair from her eyes and rubbed her hands together like someone trying to get warm.
"Okay, stand back, honey. I don't wanna kick you or nuthin."
And so begins the life of Delly.
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I was walking to work one morning when a bag gets thrown over my head and I'm jerked back by two arms encircling my waist. My parents always told me this could happen as my father is the judge and put a high profile murderer behind bars. He set the bail at 1.2 million dollars and I honestly don't know why my father is still alive. I was in the courtroom but the little girl who was sitting next to me- maybe thirteen, so not really little- said there's no way he did it. Kids are a pretty good judge of character but I had to agree that some things looked off when the evidence was shown. The next thing I know the bag is pulled up some and a rag is put over my mouth and nose. I cringe inwardly at how cliché it is but hey chloroform does the trick and I'm out before we started moving.
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