Escaped Demons

There were’nt always dragons in the valley. There used to be a time when I had control of these thoughts… these demons… these dragons in my mind.

Well, atleast I thought I had control of them. I remember when my fainting spells were periodic. Only occasionally, would I wake up somewhere in a cold sweat, with my mind still fresh in the middle of a dream, where I was the hero, just like one of the legends who was always “mysteriously” on the scene, and always saved the day.

My parents first realized these strange behaviors from me when I was six years old. I personally started to remember some of my first episodes of transcending behaviors, when I was eight, as my father jokingly reminded me one day. In that moment, everything seemed to come back all at once. And, many years later, the thoughts would be so visual and fresh. Sometimes each memory felt like the same day that it happened.

My father was poking fun at me one day, when he started to notice me acting uneasy; calmly but erratic. “ Vince, do you remember always standing guard at the front door, or your first spanking for shooting my gun, he asked with laughter? Immediately my mind began to think about one time in particular, as he recanted those events. I was eight.

I believe the time of day must have been between 5 am and 7 am in the morning, the sun was not all the way up. Everyone in the house was still sleeping except me. And, for some reason, I don’t remember anything leading up to the moment when I heard my mother’s brother, Curtis, bangging on the front door of my grandparents two story, brownstone home.

“Ahhh, Vincent, open up the door, now”! Bang, bang, bang, he hammered on the door, frantically. “Vincent!,” My uncle cried out in agony, “open the door.”

That scene would take me many years of playing in my mind before I relized that my uncle had gotten shot at twenty five years old, on the mean streets of Chicago, Illinois. My uncle survived the .38 caliber gun shot to his right shoulder, but my life was changed forever.

The year was 1972. And, now, that I share this story with you, I realize that I was a different child growing up. To this day, I don't fully understand why I was standing at the front door in complete darkness, at the exact moment when my uncle was in desperate need of help. Where did my premonition to foreshadow events and transcend myself into those situations originate? There weren’t always dragons in the valley.

From that point on, at least from the way my mother and father tell me of the many events that happened in the years after I observed my uncle nearly die, my life wasn't the same. How did I really change? I am not surprised that my parents noticed those very drastic changes in my behavior. Parents are very watchful over their children.

My mother said it was around that time I started having nightmares. She said I would wake up in the middle of the night, either sitting in the bed screaming my uncles name, or I would just be staring at the wall in the complete darkness, sometimes when she came in to check on me.

The stories were similar from my father. He said there were many nights that he would wake up from his sleep in his easy chair, and I would be standing at the front door, not making a sound. And, some nights, he said I would be sleepwalking, and suddenly awaken at the front door, then begin screaming or crying uncontrollably: “please don’t shoot my uncle.”

My aunt Verna seemed to be the worse. She would always tease me. "Ahhh, the boogie man was after you again last night," That was strange, because I rarely remembered those frightening encounters until she teased me.

My mother said that this was also the time that I started having terrible nose bleeding in the middle of the night. Wow, one tramatic experience in my life caused all of this. I stopped focusing when I was doing something like helping her, or watching tv. My attention span had been effected, and I became a little paranoid about things in my environment. This was not the case before. I even started becoming more aggressive during my play periods. This is what she told me.

I believe things all came to a breaking point when my father found me standing at the front door one day, in the very same spot where my uncle Curtis, arrived after getting shot. I was holding his .45 caliber piston, in a dreay sleepwalking trance. The first time it occured, my father thought nothing of it. The second time that it happened, I was still six years old, and I fired two shots through the front door. All I remember from that incident is my father’s huge hand coming out of nowhere, and snatching the gun from me.

My mother had seen enough. So, she asked my father to take the guns out of the house. For her there wasn’t much to figure out. Even Though we lived on the westside of Chicago, and the violence back then was not as frequent as it is today, most people like my father, still had some protection. I know telling a vietnam veteran to get rid of his guns was absurd, but my father was concerned about my safety at that point, so he moved his guns.

As I just gave a clue, my dad was a veteran and United States Marine. He was a gentleman giant with me, yet he could be a strict disciplinarian in certain situations, almost methodical like a robot. However, shooting his gun was something he couldn’t pass off as a youthful learning experience, and discipline was a must. This was the first time that I ever got a whipping from my dad, at vage six. The second time I seen his wrath, I was sixteen. My dad was truly a role model, and rarely gave me a tanning.

Our experiences and how the brain processes things in our lives at an early age, is truly amazing. It’s Like we are somehow programed to forget nearly everything, and then like magic, we suddenly remember an event later on. The good experiences seem to be the source of our early sense of happiness. As we get older, those images become thought provoking, and shape our true character. And, of course the bad experiences, we unconsciously repress and desperately push to the back of our minds, until we are almost forced to remember.

The years seemed to pass after I observed my uncle with a gunshot wound. And, I would soon forget my first spanking for shooting my father's gun. But, my premonitions to feel something about a occur, and my ability to predict things before they happened, only got stronger. Like the time I vividly remember the garage catching on fire, and destroying my father’s 1932 ford and a volkswagon bug, he was remodeling.

I believe it was around the summertime, or late spring. Growing up in Chicago, during the winter months is something you don’t easily forget. I remember the back door being open all day, and I don’t recall seeing snow on the ground. So, I am almost certain that it was late spring or a Chicago summer evening.

Anyway, I remember that it was dark, and my mother was in the kitchen cooking dinner. She was finishing up because I remember that she was busy putting the dinner plates and hot food on the table. My mother asked me to go outside and tell my father that dinner was ready. I recall happily jumping up out of my seat and walking out the back door to the garage. The door was open, so I walked in.

“Dad, Mom said it's time to eat.” My father rolled himself from under the car, looked at and me and said “ok, I will be right in, i'm almost done,” he ended. I smiled at him, then I turned to leave. Moments later, my dad appeared in the kitchen, looked down at the food on the table, and walked straight to the bathroom to prepare for dinner. I could always feel the love in my parents presence.

My father always had something humorous to say, and had a penchant to make people smile. When he sat down at the table this night, things were no different. He immediately got started with his antics.

“Baby, he said to my mother, did you remember to put the baking powder in them biscuits tonight?” he ended with a laugh. Yes, biscuits without baking powder.

It had been a joke for a couple of days, after my mother got my grandmothers flaky biscuit recipe, and she tried to make the biscuits herself, but she forgot to add the baking powder. My father laughed hard about that one. Then, he got started on me. Why are you sitting there with your nose turned up, looking like your grandfather, on yo momma side, my father ended holding his side.

My father was busy starting conversation with my mother, but I kept sniffing until I realized what it was that I was smelling. “Dad, I smell gas,” I said. “That stuff stinks,” I ended bluntly. My father looked strange for a moment, smelled his shirt and stood up. “Shh,” he mumbled, and walked away from the table to remove his soiled clothes. When he returned, a few minutes later, my father smiled at everyone, said a quick prayer and we began to eat.

Our family was tight knit, and we did everything together. Even Though we were black, and facing some of the hardships of poverty, my parents still planned family gatherings, short road trips, and we went on vacations out of town, at least 5 times a year, so doing chores was no problem for me. This made me feel useful around the house, and was my way of contributing for everything my parents did for me. But, my mother still paid me two dollars, every time I did the dishes. She said that it was her job, but she hated washing dishes. I guess this is where I learned to wash as you go, when in the kitchen, plus I loved getting that two or three dollars a couple times a week.

My dad leaned back in his chair and said "honey, now that's what I call chicken, biscuits and gravy." Dad stood up from his place, grabbed another biscuit from the center of the table, and smeared it on his plate that still had a glob of jelly on it. And, in two manly bites, that thang was gone.

“Daaang, dad,” you didn't even chew it ten times before you take it down," I said laughing. My dad lightly grabbed me by the ear, and said: "what if I pull your ear off, what they going to call you"? “Ok, ok, dad, I'm sorry," I said laughing, ending "let gooo.” “Naaaw, it's too late to call for peace.” “What they gon call you”? he asked again, wanting a response. I was laughing hard and my father's grip got tighter. "Ok, I don't know dad, what they gon call me," I asked? "Yo name gon be missing uh ear," my dad said laughing. He let me go, and walked out of the kitchen.

My mother was putting all off the food away, and when she was finished, she ran the dish water for me and neatly stacked all of the dishes next to the sink. This was an after dinner ritual for her, even if I wasn't doing the dishes.

Ok, son, everything is ready for you, can you handle the dishes from here?" she asked. I grabbed the step stool from the side of the refrigerator, and placed it in front of the sink. I looked around and everything that I needed was there. My mother grabbed a new scouring pad from the supply pantry, and set it on the sink basin. She touched me on the top of the head, kissed me on the cheek, and she too walked out of the kitchen. "I'm going to bed." She said walking down the hall. "Ok, night ma," I said. And, I started my two dollars hustle washing dishes.

VOCAL READING FANS SHOULD I KEEP WRITING?