Page 74 of Ravaged
MIRIAM
“They won’t allow me in heaven and revile me in hell. But you? You’ve always taken me just as I am.”
—Sarafina Rose to North the Woodsman, Ravaged Lands
“The Men’s Ministry is volunteering at the soup kitchen the day before Thanksgiving,” Dad announces, cutting into his prime rib. He slides a look in Levi’s direction, who doesn’t even glance up from his dinner plate. “It would be nice if you’d join us, Leviticus.”
“Why?” Levi forks mashed potatoes in his mouth, not even commenting on Dad’s use of his full name. The name he despises. Something I suspect Dad knows and gets secret pleasure out of using anyway to needle my brother. Their relationship lands somewhere between complicated and toxic as fuck. “I don’t believe in organized religion, so why would I join an activity hosted by one?”
Oh shit.
Silently sighing, I pick up my wineglass and down a healthy swallow. Something I’ve been doing often for the past five days, but Sunday dinner with my parents just offers a different excuse.
Yeah, best not think about why my alcohol consumption has risen lately, or I might steal the bottle of merlot off the table and go cuddle up with it on the living room couch. That’ll definitely give Dad a reason to take my name to altar call.
“Are you telling me you refuse to serve your community and those less fortunate than you?” Dad demands, his eyebrows dropping down in that ominous scowl that heralds a storm of biblical proportions. Literally. Bible verses are imminent.
“No, that’s not what I said. I questioned why I needed to join under the umbrella of man-constructed religions and denominations when I don’t believe in them. The word for that is hypocrisy. The Bible speaks on that.” Levi swallows more potatoes, his gaze still focused on his plate. “Negatively.”
Dad’s face darkens, fury gathering in his brown eyes. His lips screw up, deep brackets appearing on either side of his mouth.Oh boy.When will he learn that Levi gives as good as he gets? And often better?
And why won’t my brother just admit that hedoesgive back to his community? He’s not flashy with it, but he tutors at one of the local community centers and, through BURNED, sponsors a program that mentors young Black men entering business-related professions. But instead of saying any of this, he eats mashed potatoes like they’re manna and about to disappear in a few hours.
And wow. Look at me with the biblical metaphors.
I return my wineglass to the table, peering at it suspiciously. Jesus juice, indeed.
“Oh, for God’s sake, Reggie, leave him alone,” Mom says from the other end of the table. “I swear you do this at every dinner. Can’t you give the Holy Roller routine a rest for one Sunday?”
“Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain at this table, Monica,” Dad snaps. “And maybe if you were more of an example of a virtuous woman, our children wouldn’t balk at doing something as selfless as giving back to others.”
Slope = y2– y1/ x2– x1. Slope formula. It determines the angle of a line that connects two points on a plane.
I begin to sink into my head, slip away into my comfort place that even wine can’t provide as Mom and Dad start to snipe back and forth with each other.
x = –b ± √b² – 4ac/2a ...
You weren’t expecting me, and that scares the hell out of you. And that’s okay, because you terrify me too. But the difference between me and you? I’m not running away from you. I’m running toward you.
Jordan’s voice snatches me back to the present, and like every time I’ve tried to find forgetfulness in the past five days, I can’t. He pursues me, not leaving me alone. Not letting me ... run.
God, I could hate him for planting that in my head.
I could if I didn’t hate myself for finding an element of truth in it.
Pain thrusts itself into my chest, making its presence known even though I’ve tried to suffocate it with wine, work, food, anime—damn near anything that will occupy my mind. But nothing has helped. Nothing has erased my memory of Jordan’s voice telling me he loves me. Has loved me since we met in that parking lot and I propositioned him with being his sugar baby. And a bargain basement sugar baby, at that.
Nothing has wiped clean the image of his face just before he turned around and walked away from me. The sorrow. The regret. Pain.
The resignation.
No matter what I drink or do, it’s the resignation that sets off the clawing panic inside me. I’ve tried and, so far, succeeded in not analyzing the reasons behind that panic too closely. But like the judgment day Dad keeps sermonizing about, I know the time is approaching when I won’t be able to run away from my reckoning.
Run away.
Two words I’ll be happy to never hear or say again in life.
“Zora, I still can’t believe we weren’t invited to your engagement party. I have a very big bone to pick with your new fiancé. Where is Cyrus, by the way?” Mom arches an eyebrow. “I invited him to dinner.”
