Uvajed

And here I was, speeding up my breaths. As I m lying here on my back, watching my vision grow hazy and I feel my breaths shorten. I know what's coming, I know what is inevitable, yet I can't fathom myself feeling everything as it happens. I squeeze the spine and rims of the book. I still feel, at least I still have some feeling left in my rapidly chilling body. Blood started to stain the book's bottom and top edge—a slick yet warm goo from my fingers. I feel my heartbeat pick up and drop as soon as it gains in rhythm. My toes are cold, and my legs are numb. I try to quickly change the thoughts going through my head. My mind goes back to the day I went to Sherman hill with my two cousins during a blizzard.

We raced for hours, seeing who could slide from the fastest and would try to beat one another to the top. We got in so much trouble that day, momma told us to stay inside; it was too dangerous for little girls to be outside in this storm. All I could think then was it was worth it, even if we almost suffered acute hypothermia. Teecee and Lauren caught it the worst. Pneumonia. Pondering how cold my toes were as I tried to twinkle and rub them together slowly and couldn't feel a thing. My mother was so embarrassed at she pried my wet and patchy black socks off my feet. The right hose had two holes near my heel.

Loretta Dawson, if you only knew how much I wish you were here to warm up my little toes. My face cringes up as I force my mind to stay fixated on the faint memory of her worrisome and worn finely shaped brows. Memories hazing in and out. I fight to keep images of my mother in the forefront of my mind; the more I fight, tears begin to well up in my eyes. My baby girl, I will never get to feel this with Abigail. Liquid starts to pool in the corner of my eyes. I wanted moments like this with you. I begin to drift off as I hear a woman faintly screaming for help. I grip the book tighter, knowing this is my final moment, and may the next holder never know this much pain. I can hear the women's boots clicking faster and faster, heading towards where I'm lying. She falls to the floor and begins to check my pulse, and I can barely make out what she looks like. "It's not time you're a little early" my voice is shaking as I try to warn the women. The woman cannot hear me as she still asks if I can contact in an emergency. I can't let go of the book until it's time, that's the rules, and I've witnessed what happens when you break them.

I try to speak again, but all I'm doing is whispering and cough up blood. "my phone ... Abigail" as strained as it came out, she heard me. "Ma'am, where is your phone... is it in your pocket?" The woman asks frantically. "Ma'am, which pocket" she hastily pats my left pocket and pulls the phone out while trying to multitask and call the police. She goes to bring the phone to my face; as it unlocks, she struggles to find the number. "Abigail's sperm donor," She says hesitantly... "Is this it?" I nod my head slowly. I can hear the phone dialing.

My grip tightens. I think back to the day I was granted visitation. The memory floods my subconscious. I spent my entire morning with Juan. I finally allowed myself to feel open, to be vulnerable with someone who understood me. I remember Juan and me arguing after I came back from the bathroom. I rustled the towel through my damp coils. The scent of his skin left in his towel. I reminisce on me feeling the throbbing of a good hour session. Thinking to myself, I finally got everything I wanted. How he holds me and assures me I am still his how I am desired by him.

The butterflies I felt. As I enter the bedroom, I glance over and see Juan with my phone in his hand. "Monette, how come you've never told me you had a daughter?" My heart sank. "Why the fuck are you going through my phone again, Juan?" we argued and argued. He accused me of hiding so much of my life from him. He couldn't trust me; I noticed the small black box on the bed and teared up. "This doesn't change anything!" You're a fuck up, the very last fuck up. The words stinging my ears. We continued to argue as he brought up everything I put him through over the previous two years, no punches held. I remember trying to convince him to go with me to see my daughter, and as I recall the events, my memory gets hazy. I recall me walking into my grandmother's house and seeing everyone there. Uncle Fred big Rob little rob Wonetta and Shawniece. Loyd and his dumb ass goons on grand mommas couch.

I glaze over the room and see a pale and well-sculpted face. Every feeling I ever had hit me all at once. A grown Angelo staring across at me with his girlfriend Aileen nestled at his side. All I can recollect from this memory is feeling like he downgrading and wanting to rub it in his face. "White boy doesn't want no more toffee in his coffee; he'll settle back for his creamer and milk thistle by June." My grandmother says to me as she sitting down at her dining table. I remember giving her a snide look then smiled. A petty old bat she was but a strong woman she taught all of us to be.

I remember going to the bathroom and freshening, reminding myself how much my body has changed. Placing my hands on my stomach and hips. I looked perfect that day, seeing as only 12 hours ago in another state I was just broken up with. I left the restroom and walked over to Angelo. "When was the last time you held her? When was the last time you seen her?" Angelo said with such a sincere grin. His words. I was so scared, as I recall Abigail's birth. So reluctant to touch her. All I remember was the pain. The excruciating needles and tears I felt inside of me. It was so challenging on my adolescent body. I remember momma standing over me, helping me push while in grandmas small vanity tub. Couldn't afford insurance, an ambulance ride, or even telling my mother my water broke. I didn't want to have a child scared of the responsibility.

Scared of the judgment of being another baby momma, scared I had already failed in life. Being another unplanned, wedlock baby. I had multiple nervous breakdowns. I couldn't fathom I just continued this generational pattern of 'aintshitness.' I woke up in the hospital. "Your grandmother called my parents, and we were on the way!" Angelo said as he witnessed me coming. My memory fleets back to Angelo and his girlfriend. "The last time I held her was the delivery room," I said with such a shaking in my tone. I slowly picked up Abigail out of her car seat, and she began to cry.

All I felt was a disconnect from myself. I walked over to the dining table and, with one hand, pulled out the chair. Abigail fought me holding her but eventually fell asleep. I glanced over at Angelo; he glared at me for some time as if he loved me again. He looked concerned but continued to stare in awe as if his woman wasn't sitting right next to him. I wanted to get another chance with him. I remember feeling like it was supposed to be us, and all I ever did was sabotage our relationship. We repeated shit we seen our own parents do to each other we were toxic, but it felt like love, and that's all I knew. I glanced over at Angelo's girlfriend and actually felt grateful. He found his person. She began arguing with one of the idiots on the couch and stormed out. Angelo quickly glaring at her, confused, and then back at me.

I guessed, signaling to get control of the room. The memory shifts from me getting into someone's face about arguing with a little white girl about a tv remote. Angelo and his girlfriend still outside as I walked back into the back room where all the kids were. All I now recall is holding my Abigail. Seeing her face once puffy and wet from tears, now holding my finger and smiling at me. I felt so lost. How could I ever bring her into this world with nothing? All I exhibited was remorse. Yet every time she smiles at me, I sensed loved, unconditional. All I remember feeling was grateful for my little Abigail; oh, you fill me with hope. My stomach drops thinking of her smile. My memory gets hazy; I can slightly hear the woman still speaking with Angelo on the phone. I remember what I had to. If I could do anything, I would break this fucking curse thrown onto me. I can emancipate her from this generation hex, which I willingly participated in. I feel no shame anymore. I did what I had to do for Abigail.

Abigail is the only thing I did right. My breaths are getting harder to grasp. They become unpredictable and sporadic. Clutching for mere 3 more pants of air, I emanate panic. I hearken the conversation between Angelo and the woman on the phone. My grip loosens on its own. As if strings are pulling my grip from the book. I quickly groan to the woman "open the book, Sarah, it's time" my voice seemed monotone, scary, stern, hearing the words leave my mouth consciously knowing I did not form them myself. She tries to moderate Angelo's screaming while also being frightened by my last instructions. I can see her face, and she is alarmed by the mere utter of her name.

After my vision clears, my breath stops, and my heart stills, my vision then blackens. I feel my essence being pulled into the pages of this black book. Weirdly I can still hear. The silence of the street, faint conversations passively going in and out. It's like I felt my body pass on, yet I am still coherent with somethings around me. I still can't feel anything. Some time passes, I can tell. Am I apart of the book now? Is this the cost? I want to cry, but nothing happens, nothing forms, nothing falls... nothing. I can hear a voice. "It's time for you to now leave this manuscript. Your debt is paid. Make sure to write the foreknowledge for Sarah" I knew precisely what this voice was; it was the same one I heard from time to time while reading others' names. I knew what she meant, and without a fight, I obeyed. The ink slowly starting to form on-page.

Monette Dawson Receives Uvajed Book of mavericks January 1st, 2011.

Monette Dawson, deceased December 5th 2011 6:52 PM

Sarah Belvigne inherits the book at 2:36 PM December 5th, 2011 from Monette Dawson.

Abigail Dawson inherit $89,000,000,000

Stephany Woodbine will open the book to page 212 to read said instructions for Sarah Belvigne.

Stephany Woodbine is acting witness of pages.

Sarah Belvigne will select a next of kin to inherit 89,000,000,000 after signing given birth credentials with blood from their scalp.

If next of kin is not selected and rules are broken, Sarah Belvigne will pass the book's following rights.

Regulations:

The book can only be passed to eligible souls.

The book must stay within the possession of the inheritance.

Book inheritor can have mortality rate sped up if manipulation to the book is recognized.

Details will be updated periodically upon life events.

So specific. So vague, with no real explanations. Now how do I warn Sarah? Without leaving her to my same fate. "Give her the same warning we gave you; it will be up to Sarah to follow suit from there on and going forward," the voice bellows from below.

I wouldn't want anyone to go through this if I could feel I would feel disgusted towards myself. I'd feel angry for every woman whose name appeared in this book. I'd feel like burning this shit to crispy pieces knowing I've tried 20 times. I am reluctant; however, the ink finishes and solidifies.