Authors: Dwayne S. Joseph

Eye for an Eye (3 page)

BOOK: Eye for an Eye

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For the first six months of their relationship, Jamil Parker had been a dream she'd never had. But in month seven that dream became a hellish nightmare that she would awaken from and then revisit time and time again over the course of eighteen months.

Two years total.

That was how long Lisette Jones endured love before she would die and be reborn.

The nightmare first began on a brutally hot Fourth of July. It had been ninety-five degrees without the humidity. With the humidity, it felt like Satan's bedroom. They'd been at a friend of Jamil's for his annual pool party that Jamil had been going to since he'd been a freshman in high school. This was her first time attending. It was also the first time she was going to get to be around any of his friends for a prolonged period of time.

She'd only ever questioned him a couple of times as to why they could never stay long at hangouts or why they always seemed to be going when his friends had been coming. Each time Jamil's response had been the same.

“I hate sharing you with others for too long.”

Her vision blurred by love, she hadn't been able to see through the bullshit. Jamil Parker liked to be in control. She'd known it because he decided everything they did and everywhere they went. But the pool party would be the first of one too many demonstrations of the level of control he had to have.

Days before the party, she'd gone shopping for a new swimsuit. She wanted to look good for herself and, more importantly, she wanted to look good for her man. She wanted his friends to envy him. He had what they couldn't. When she walked out in her push-up bikini top and string bottom, heads would turn, women would suck their teeth, and the men would, undoubtedly, call Jamil “The Man.”

She wanted that for him and she'd been determined to have that happen. Unfortunately for her, Jamil cared less about being the man and more about everyone staring at her. He hadn't seen the outfit prior to her putting it on, but when he did, all hell had broken loose.

“What the fuck is that?”

They'd been in his friend's guest bedroom, changing. Earlier plans in the day had prevented them from being able to show up already dressed.

“What do you mean?” His harsh tone had caught her off guard.

“What the fuck are you wearing?”

“You . . . you don't like it?”

“You're practically fucking naked.”

“Naked? Jamil, it's just a bikini. Relax.”

“Relax? With you trying to parade your ass and tits around for my boys to stare at?”

“It's just a bikini, Jamil. Were you blind when we got here? I'm not the only female wearing one.”

“I don't give a fuck about the other bitches here!” Jamil yelled, his eyes dark with anger. “You're not walking out that door in some shit like that!”

“But, Jamilâ”

“Bitch, what the fuck did I just tell you! Take that shit off. You ain't wearing that.”

“Butâ”

She hadn't been able to say anything else because before she could, she was backhanded viciously across her mouth.

As she stumbled and fell back against the dressing table, Jamil said, “Bitch, don't you know how to follow directions? I told you to take that fucking thing off. I didn't tell you to say shit else!”

Her bottom lip split, she stared in stunned silence as she tasted her blood, while the man she loved stood menacingly, his eyes slit, his nostrils flared, his teeth bared, and his hands balled into tight fists. She didn't know what to say. She didn't know what to think or to do.

He'd hit her.

No one ever had before.

For the first time ever, she was scared and that fear knotted up in the middle of her throat.

Tears began to well up and fall from her eyes as Jamil's chest heaved up and down.

“I can't believe you were trying to embarrass my ass, looking like a fucking stripper.”

She shook her head slowly as the tears cascaded down her cheeks. She could barely utter, “I . . . I wasn't . . .” before she was cut off again.

“Get your ass dressed, Lisette, and then go and wash your fucking mouth. We're leaving. And quit with the fucking tears.”

Lisette Jones wiped at her eyes and pushed away from the dressing table, but her legs felt like rubber and she had to place a hand down against the edge of it to keep from falling down.

He'd hit her. It didn't seem real. He wouldn't do something like that. He just couldn't.

She gathered her clothes and began to get dressed. As she did, she trembled, the shocking reality of the situation chilling her to the bone.

He could hit her.

After making a silent and quick exit from the party, they drove home in silence. Without a good-bye, Jamil dropped her off and then drove away, not bothering to make sure she'd gotten inside as he usually did. That night she lay in bed, wondering how she could have been so wrong in the way she wanted to please him.

He'd hit her.

For him to have flipped out on her, she surmised that it had been her fault. It had to be. She cried herself to sleep, certain that she'd lost the only person she ever truly connected with.

But things were different the next day.

They always were.

“Baby, please forgive me. I didn't mean to hurt you. I didn't mean to lose control like that. It's just . . . it's just that I love you so much. I've never loved anyone the way that I love you. No one has ever made me feel the way you make me feel. I can do anything with you in my life. Please . . . I'll stop drinking. I'll learn to control my anger. You've got to believe me. You're my world. My everything. I love you with all my heart. I . . . I don't know what I was thinking. I just didn't think.

“I swore I would never be anything like my father. He . . . he used to hit my mom so much. I hated him when growing up. I still hate him. Just give me one more chance to prove that I'm different from him. Give me another chance to show you how special you are. You'll never have to go through something like this again. Let me prove it to you. Let me show how sorry I am. I love you and I need you.”

Over the course of eighteen months, those words or different variations of them were spoken to Lisette Jones. It all depended on how Jamil lost control in order to control.

Slaps, punches, kicks, choke holds, verbal abuse. Then came the apologies with roses or expensive gifts, with promises to do and be different.

After that, there was the sex.

Mind-blowing sex. Sex that made her knees weak. Sex that caused God's name to be called over and over. Sex that made her body overflow. Sex that was repeated in multiple positions. Sex that had been better than the time before. Sex that accepted the apologies and made everything all right. Sex that made her believe there would be no next time. Sex made her think that she was special, that he did love her, that he did need her.

Eighteen months.

She was a fool devoted to love and trapped by fear.

She was weak, pathetic, pitiful. Different words, all meaning the same thing. She was a sorry excuse for a woman, controlled by a man who was far weaker than she had ever been.

Eighteen months.

One too many wake-up calls, until one too many became just that.

One. Too. Many.

One night. Lights dimmed low. Luther Vandross, singing “Always and Forever” from the CD player. Lisette Jones died and was reborn.

One too many.

Jamil had been promoted to assistant editor on the set of the soap opera he'd been working for when he graduated. He was still determined to become the Spike Lee/Steven Spielberg love child, but he had to earn his stripes. The promotion had been a very positive step in that direction.

He was thrilled and wanted to celebrate. They'd gone out to dinner. Italian food and red wine. They toasted, talked, and laughed. Love actually felt like it did during the first six months, and for short while, she found herself relaxing ever so slightly. But then they went back to his place. Well, it was their place, but nothing in it represented her. Not unless you counted the toothbrush and tampons in the bathroom.

He put on Luther. It was his favorite singer when he wanted to fuck. They danced, and as they did, Lisette Jones's heart began to race and beat heavily. Earlier that day, Mother Nature had delivered her monthly gift. Before the dinner and the red wine, they'd had Hennessey at the bar, waiting for their table. While Luther sang, they began to kiss, and as they did, she began to shiver. The alcohol fueling his fire, Jamil started to work his hands up beneath the skirt she'd been wearing.

Before he could go too far, she said, “We can't, baby. It's my time of the month. You can't have me that way, but I'll make sure you have a happy ending.”

Jamil pulled back and looked at her for a moment before palming her ass. “I don't give a shit about a happy ending. I want my pussy.”

He pressed his lips against hers and tried to force his way back up her skirt.

She pushed him away. “We . . . we can't, Jamil.”

Her heart was stammering. Anxiety made it difficult for her to catch a breath. She felt the blow before it came, hard across her mouth.

She stumbled back as Jamil told her again that he wanted his pussy. Luther was just reaching the breakdown in the song, holding the word “forever”. As he did, everything around Lisette Jones slowed down and then froze.

For seconds that seemed like minutes, she stared at the Denzel-P. Diddy-50 Cent combination, and within those precious seconds, she saw in the highest definition of clarity the monster she'd given her soul to. He'd been the perfect director, who'd had her starring in the perfect horror film for eighteen months.

In that moment of clarity.

Lisette Jones disappeared.

I took over.

I caught my balance and with all of the anger, pain, and hatred I'd had built up inside of me, I let out a throaty growl and attacked.

I hit him with a solid punch in his mouth, causing his lip to bleed first.

“You fucking bitch!” he yelled out after the shock had worn off.

He swung out and hit me in my jaw. I staggered back. Nearly went down. Lisette Jones would have. But I wasn't her. I wasn't putting up with the shit. I regained my footing and attacked again.

I punched.

I kicked.

I kneed.

I spat.

I attacked him with a rage that Lisette Jones would have never been able to attack with. Everything came out with my fury. The bitterness I held toward my mother and her abandonment. The disgust toward my father and his perverted lessons. The anger I had for the boys and men and their disrespect. The hatred that had been building up inside, for Jamil and his perfect deception, for Lisette Jones and the goddamned weak bitch she was.

Everything came out.

I scratched at his face and dug my fingers into his eyes as he tried to fight me off. We fell down to the ground. I bit at the top of his ear, taking off a piece of flesh the way Mike Tyson had done to Evander Holyfield.

Jamil screamed out and rolled off of me.

I reached out for his paperweight in the shape of a Black Power fist, and grabbed it, my grip damn near strong enough to shatter it.

He called me a “Bitch!” and as he held his hands to his eyes and ear, I brought the fist down on his head over and over and over again, telling him with each blow how much I hated him. How much I hated the sight of him. How much I hated his sound, his scent. His mother for giving birth to him. His father for showing him how to put his hands on a woman. His ex for not doing what I was doing now.

Eighteen months worth of hate.

Two years total.

That night, Jamil Parker died.

As he lay unmoving, I stood up and looked down at him, and wondered how the hell I could have ever fallen for him.

I said, “Direct that, motherfucker,” and then let the weight fall to the ground.

I took a breath, held it in, and let the rage simmer down.

I was in control.

No one else.

I exhaled.

Then I called the police.

Jamil's family tried to have me put away in jail. They said I murdered him in cold blood. In court, my lawyer had me play the role and shed tears about the abuse I'd suffered. I deserved an Oscar.

There were more women than men on the jury. They all saw it my way. I walked out of the courtroom exonerated of any wrongdoing.

I've never looked back.

BOOK: Eye for an Eye

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