At the young age of seven, Raven found her mother dead on the bathroom floor, having overdosed on heroine. She knew she would never end up like her mother, but it wouldn't be easy to change her life circumstances, especially since she was suddenly and terribly alone at the age of seven. But Raven was always special. She was beautiful and filled with life; sometimes, she would even feel her mother's spirit watching over her, keeping her safe. As Raven grows into a young woman in the inner city of Toledo, Ohio, she eventually meets the man of her dreams, Calvin. As she soon finds out, though, you can't always tell a good apple from a bad one just by looking at its skin. Calvin gradually turns into the man of her nightmares, as their relationship spirals out of control and deep into the depths of physical and emotional abuse. As Raven's confidence slowly breaks, she feels her lively spirit breaking, too. Raven still feels the spirit of her mother, pulling her back to their family tree and the strong roots that raised her. Somewhere, Raven must discover her inner beauty again, hidden beneath the bruises. She must find the will to go on living, despite a broken heart. It is the strength of her core that will keep her alive and dreaming. The good apple that had some bad luck can still be sweet with a little hope, love, and faith.
Is a Rotten Apple Still Sweet?
By Red AngeliUniverse, Inc.
Copyright © 2011 Red Angel
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4620-6065-8 Contents
Chapter 1: How Raven Copes From The Loss Of Her Mother.......................1Chapter 2: Raven Grandparents Gains Guardianship.............................11Chapter 3: Raven Finds Love..................................................18Chapter 4: The Morning After.................................................28Chapter 5: Graduation........................................................38Chapter 6: College Conflicts.................................................45Chapter 7: Raven Life Turns For The Worst....................................52Chapter 8: Will Raven And This Baby Survive?.................................60Chapter 9: Is Raven's Workplace The Path Of Her Destiny?.....................661. "Set Me Free".............................................................732. "The Vibrations of my Creations"..........................................753. "The Feel of Confusion"...................................................764. "Dang daddy where are you?"...............................................775. "Red Sea,"................................................................786. "A Mother's Love".........................................................797. "Is a Rotten Apple Still Sweet?"..........................................808. "My heart Bleeds Ink".....................................................81About the Author.............................................................83
Chapter One
How Raven Copes From The Loss Of Her Mother.
On July 17, 1979 that was the day I entered this world. My name is Raven Nicole Johnson. I was born at St. Joseph's hospital in Louisiana. I lived with my mother and father in a small shoot gun style house in the city of New Orleans. The exterior of our house was of a faux red brick. We had two bedrooms, my room was pink and white. I had a flock of dolls. My favorite doll of them all was my rag doll. I called her Annie. She reminded me of myself. She had stringy curly hair. Her rosy cheeks featured little splashes of freckles across them. I dragged that doll everywhere I went. My mother had recently bought it for my seventh birthday.
Although our home was small it had a basement that my father used for his band to practice. My father Ervin Johnson Jr, was a talented musician. He played the saxophone for a jazz band, the "Knights of Rhythm," in a small town in Louisiana. I often had trouble sleeping. Because the walls would liberate of vibrations from all the sensation of my father's music. His drum set was midnight blue, with a shiny chrome microphone with the stand to match. Boy, I remember how much I got yelled at for playing with that microphone. I thought I was Mildred Jones. He kept his saxophone put up in a brown case. My father would stay up at all peak hours of the day practicing his music. He had big dreams of making it in the entertainment industry.
My parents relationship was like a rollercoaster. Up and down. I have to admit when it was up, it was great! But when it was down my mother was damaged goods. She didn't handle stress well. My mother Gloria Johnson was my best friend. Her pain frequently affected my feelings. When my mother hurt I hurt. At times I felt myself resenting my father for his unworthy nature. My dad was a womanizer. He was a fairly attractive man, light skin with big light brown eyes. His frame was rather petite. He was slim and short. Back then light skin brothers was in demand. He utilized his looks and his talent to capture erotic women.
My mother had a plaintive sympathetic nature. She wore her heart on her "sleeves." She was not good at camouflaging her dis-ease. She was never close to her family. Because she was a poignant victim of in-sex. She allowed her heart to be heavy. She never forgave her grandfather for fathering her. She was looked upon as a disgrace in the eyes of her family. She was always paranoid that people knew her forbidden secret. My mother was a creole women, that embraced her culture. She was a stellar beauty. She had tan brown skin. Her head flowed of black wavy long locks. Her lips was full and distinctive. Her nose was skinny and narrow. She was classified as a brick house. Everybody said I was her twin.
I found great pleasure in her creole dishes. My favorite dish was her Cajun gumbo. My mother was amazed from my tolerable taste buds for spicy food. She thought I was a bit young to process the spicy flavors. I love spicy food thanks to my mother. Because she made it so altruistically good. Not to mention her key lime pie, was gratifying. She lost touch with her family when she met my father. My parents married after six months of knowing each other. Four months later I was born. My mom was eighteen when she had me. My mother was a run away. She was only seventeen when they got married. My grandmother was surpassingly strict on my mother. She feared her being raped, like her. She tried isolating my mother but it made her escape at her first exit. Meeting my father was my mother's ticket to freedom. My dad was my mom's first companion. His appealing appearance, smooth talk and enchanting charm sold her heart. She instantly fell in love. My mother was ashamed of her father. I assumed it was her grandfather. I remember my mother being on the phone with her baby sister Ellen. She was the only relative my mother discreetly stayed in contact with. I only met her through phone conversations. I believe My aunt Ellen was also a product of in-sex. I over heard my mother on the phone with my aunt crying and sharing pain. They shared pain of growing up in torture, shame and physical and verbal abuse from their mother. Their mom made then pay the price for her own grandfather's indecency.
My mother was a very sweet lady that loved very hard. Although we didn't have a lot. I never wanted for anything. She was a jack of all trades. A talented beautician and she had a gift for sewing. She made stunning costumes for my father and his band. Their favorite was a silver and gold two piece pants and vest, made of sequin and satin. Holidays I got to wear my gorgeous siphon and lace dresses with beautiful satin bows. All custom made by no one other than my mother. She'll comb my hair with water and grease and tie satin ribbons in my hair to match my dress. My dad and I was all she knew.
My mother was extremely spiritual. She collected angels. Our living room was filled with angelic knick knacks. Pictures of white horses with wings hung upon the walls. The television stand held white candles in a tall clear glass. Every Sunday she'll burn a white candle for a peace offering. She loved reading the bible. She didn't go to church much, she claimed it was full of the beast. Her grandfather was a minister.
My father was arrogant and self centered. He was an aggressive user. He used women for money, even his own family for money. My father's parents lived in Ohio. They came to visit once a year to see me. They really cared a great deal for me. I was their only grandchild. My dad only had one sibling, my aunt Jill. My grandparents was eagerly annoyed with my dad. He took advantage of their fortunate life style that they earned together. He also was an impulsive liar. He'd even use me to swindle money from his parents. He'll lie and say I need money for school, clothes and etc. Whatever it took for him to get his desires. He desired women, drugs, money and music.
My mother was his personal puppet. She gave him whatever his heart yearned for. She cooked and cleaned the house daily. She constantly made a variety of clothes for him. She made him tailored suits, dress shirts and costumes for him and his band mates. Also back then guys was rocking the perm with pumped waves. Of course my father had her do not only his hair, but also his other four band mates hair every week. My mom traveled with my dad and his band. They'll sometimes book three gigs a night. They even hit up after hour clubs to promote their music.
That's when crack cocaine came into her life. My dad introduced it to her. Because it was his drug of choice to be more proactive, alert and awake for long nights of entertainment. He constantly got into fights with my mother about his music. She often accused him of being with other woman. I'll hear her yell at my father saying," you slut of a man." "You've better not bring nothing home you can't get rid of." My dad always was disrespecting her. His common saying to her was, "woman you better be glad you still get it." He was beyond arrogant.
He spent many nights away from home using his music as an excuse. But when he came home moneyless, my mom would become livid. She looked through his clothes pockets and found crack pipes and dust of cocaine. She knew he was sleeping with other woman and getting high off that "shit," she'll call it. I adored my mother. She read me a bed time story every night. My favorite was five little monkeys jumping on the bed. Everyday I would restyle all five of my baby dolls hair imitating my mother. She'll fuss at me for, wasting hair grease in baby dolls hair. My mother always envisioned me and her owning our own hair salon.
My dad worked for a company driving a truck delivering bread during the day. He hated working for the "Man." He pursued his entertaining career with everything he had inside of him. My mom and I was inseparable. I could talk to her about anything. I asked her what made her name me Raven. She replied, "you're like an intelligent, beautiful black bird." "One day I will get the opportunity to watch your wings grow, and you will fly."
Growing up in my early child hood was very lonely. I remained the only child. My mom said she don't think she could have any more children. My father was satisfied with just me. He didn't care for children that much. In fact I was amongst adults primarily throughout my early child hood. People told me I had an old soul. My vocabulary was acute and spoke of wisdom. Things I would say would spark your internal flame. My internal was glorious. I had my mother genes to thank for that.
My mother always had high expectations for me. She always said, "someday Raven you are going to leave your footprints on the earth's surface." "You will change lives!" My parents friends who did have children never brought them around. They just came to our house to, hang out get high and talk grown people talk. I had a thing for dancing. My nickname was "boogie bones." There wasn't a bone in my body that couldn't boogie. I'd collected many dollars entertaining my parents company.
When my mom and dad both hung out doing music, I had to go to old lady Walker house. She lived just two houses down from me. Ms. Walker was a bundle of joy. She loved to pick apples from the tree and make fresh apple cider. Yummy! I enjoyed swinging from the tire that was roped onto the tree in her backyard. It was near her vegetable garden.
I befriended nature because my street was filled with elderly residents. I played with kids only when I went to school. School was cool. I got to show off my fancy wardrobe in delighted effort of my mother. My fondest memory of school, was riding the yellow school bus. I found it exciting and amusing. Kids loud laughing and playing. Hearing the bus door open, bus stop after bus stop. When it came to my stop my mother was patiently awaiting my arrival. Nature called for my aspiration. What a joy I found in chasing butterflies. Feeding squirrels, watching birds bathe. Listening to the birds chirp. My favorite insect was lady bugs and caterpillars, they were usually found near Ms. Walker's garden. Although I never had anyone to play with at home, nature kept me occupied.
Ms. Walker was like the grandmother I never knew. She was a short fair skin lady, with flowing long grey straight hair. Although her nationality was white, her voice and soul came off as if she was of colour. She had a heavy raspy voice that carried. She wore long short sleeve dresses, with black ankle boots. Everybody respected Ms. Walker. She was a loner all she had was three cats. One cat was black with white spots his name was Cow. Because he ate like one. The other cat was grey, his name was Shadow because he followed her everywhere she went. The last cat was black and his name was Sable. Because he was a black beauty. He was my favorite of them all. Whenever I was sad Sable seemed to sense my distress.
Unfortunately my mom and dad stayed into it. Their fights went from verbal to physical. I noticed bruises on my mother's body. She always took offense for my father's abuse. She would always blame the alcohol or stress to reverence my father's irrational behavior. She prayed so hard for God to make things better. She was in love, blind and didn't want to see. She later became a dead man walking.
I spent many nights with Ms. Walker she enjoyed my company. She felt sorry for me. My mother and I was growing further away. Now that my dad is gone. He left my mother for an older white woman with money. He came around just to check in every once in a while. My mom pain was corrupting her being. She transitioned into a deep depression and spent many nights drinking, smoking and shooting her arms with that poison. She was heartbroken. She literally gave up on life. I told myself, "when I grow up and get a man, I vow to never let a man bring me down!"
Later that fall my mother felled into an even deeper depression. I noticed her complexion was becoming more pale. Her brick house frame, began to mold into a stick house. She was withering away. My father check in's came to an end. Once he signed onto permanent gigs for his music tour, and made a name for his self. I didn't miss him much we rarely communicated. On a fall Saturday afternoon my mother asked Ms. Walker to watch after me. She claimed she had some important errands to make. She said she's not sure when she'll be back. She gave Ms. Walker my grandparents contact information in Ohio.
My mother graciously thanked Ms. Walker for being such a great help and care taker for me. My mother then turned and looked at me with a shake to her spirit from nerves and said, "always know I love you." "And no matter how far we are, we'll always be close in heart." She then gave me an explosive hug and kiss. She began to cry and I heard her whisper, "I'm tired baby, I'm ready to go." "You be a good girl for me." "I love you." My mom felt she wasn't giving me what I needed. All her energy was exalted. Therefore she felt I would be better off without her. I never seen my mother so deathly depressed. I was only seven years old I didn't comprehend what my mother was truly expressing. She was voicing me her last words. That Saturday night my mother never showed up.
Sunday afternoon I was just awaking from a nap. I grabbed my doll Annie. Then me and Ms. Walker proceeded to look for my mom. We walked down to my house. When we looked in the house my mom had her white candles burning. Music was playing the record was "Long Time Coming." We looked in her room. All we saw was her window opened with the fall breeze moving her bedroom white lining curtains back and forth. I then shut the window.
While walking through the living room, I glanced at the bathroom. There she was lying on the bathroom wooden floor covered with blood. She was lifeless. Her eyes was crocked back into her head, and blood gushing from her arms pierced with needles. She had O.D, her head was near the end of the tub. She was only twenty five years old. I cried and screamed while Ms. Walker held me in her submission.
She then called the ambulance and took me in. She called around to people that knew my father. Finally my father's parents was contacted and sent for me. My mother was cremated and her ashes was spread into the waters of a small lake near a creek, Ms. Walker took me to. I was numb for a while.
Chapter Two
Raven Grandparents Gains Guardianship.
My grandparents open their lives up to me. Their hearts was made of gold. They planted love seeds on me like never before. They was so happy to have me. I was like their little girl. They said I will keep them young. My grandparents names was Ervin and Nancy Johnson. They both were in their late fifties at that time. They work as Forman's at a commercial industrial plant. People often referred to them as brother and sister. Because they both awfully favored one another. They were a cute couple. Both had light yellowish toned skin. Nice grades of hair. My grandfather had silver hair with a high top fade. He had small eyes with a round big nose. His lips was extremely thin. He was very laid back. He enjoyed the finer things in life. He wore all kinds of high end designer clothes, watches and colognes. He was a snappy sharp dresser.
My grandmother was light as well with big almond shape eyes, with a pointed nose and thick lips. She part took of the glitz and glamour lifestyle as well. She had diamond incrusted rings, tennis bracelets. She wore at least five different necklaces at one time. She looked like "Mr. T." She was allured by my talent of hair styling. She loved rocking french rolls. I faithfully did her hair every other week. They both had youthful personalities. They both drove fancy cars. My poppy had a black 500 class Mercedes Benz. My grandmother drove a white Jaquar. They complemented each other quite well. The way they treated one another was like the blueprint of happiness, family and marriage. Their house was a two story brick colonial. They lived in a suburban subdivision in Toledo Ohio.
Our block was filled with kids. That's how I met my best friend Alyssa Wilson. She looked black and Chinese. She was darker brown skinned. With smaller features she had a little button nose. She had small bubble lips with little beattie eyes. She lived next door to me. Her grandmother was raising her. We had a lot in common. Her mom was alive but she rarely seen her. Because she was a drug abuser. Her dad, she never met. She had an older sister name Debbie that was five years older than us.
We grew extremely close, we were like sisters. She was always over my house, and I was always over her house. We shared clothes and we loved to dress alike. She was the sheer queen. She'll cut up jeans into multiple designs and shirts. I on the other hand was the hair stylist. I did our hair in the same styles. We both had shoulder length hair hers was just black and mine was medium brown. People thought we really were sisters. We always had each other back.
I remember on a hot August summer day we both had just recently turned twelve years old. Her birthday was in June and mine was in July. We had on black biker shorts with a neon pink stripe going down the side on the shorts. We wore long neon pink t shirts with a knot tied on the side of our hips. Our shoes were some fresh crisp white pumpkin seeds. We both had on pink and black slouch socks to match. Our hair was up in a fan pony tail on top of our heads, surrounding pink and black thick pony tail holders. Our bangs was curled upwards and flipped to one side of our face.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Is a Rotten Apple Still Sweet?by Red Angel Copyright © 2011 by Red Angel. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse, Inc.. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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