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YOUR STORIES

08
Dec
2009
Under the Bridge
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Under the Bridge

In humanity’s compassion there was a time when there was no compassion. That thing happened under a bridge of sighs and grievous spirits. There was a girl, me I think it was. She was held hostage of a sort. She knew a man; he had been her hero at one time in her life. She had even had a child by his genes. “Angelique” who now hated her mother with all passion. But that is another story. A story of today and I am trying to take you back to another time a time in the late 80’s. She only wanted to go to her parent’s home and take a long, warm bath. But lo, it was impossible when her daily tasks included digging out of the Carl’s Jr. dumpster to find some food to put onto the fire for the night. It didn’t last that long but she was taken as a kept woman and his friends even had their way with her when they wanted. There under that bridge a woman was stabbed at least 15 times, Amanda was her name. She was married to this man’s brother but had stolen from the wrong people this time and had to pay for it with her life. You know that could have been me. I could have been the one that was injustice wrapped within the knife of death. That the ones that did it I even partied with later on at least it was his girlfriend...Well its funny because I have another daughter that lived under that bridge later on in the ninety’s. She with her “Fubu” boyfriend. Had walked the steps where I had walked, talked with a few of the people that I had talked to and little did she know it at the time she was homeless just looking for a bed to lie in. She talks to me today but then she was just a child living with my mom and dad. I finally made my break one morning when I had slipped away to get a cup of coffee from the famous Carl’s Jr. I stepped down into the hole and down the rocks and over the path and then it happened. “Is that that fucking whore” I heard. And a shrill feeling lassoed my entire body that I was filled with the courage to run and break those chains. Yes I ran to the top of the bridge and stuck my hand out in an everlasting cry for help, and a van stopped to pick me up. A futuristic like van with a high top ceiling and it seemed a medical emergency vehicle but it was not. I asked if I could take a shower wherever they were going and I was given the approval. Yet I could not speak of where I had come from and what I was running from. I ended up in New Orleans, from California to New Orleans and it was tormenting rain down when I arrived. I stayed out of the rain the best I could and I heard stories from strangers that saddened me and though I was put at peace because I had gotten away.

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