Fragments of a Tormented Soul

She was still there. I knew once she was in his property, paying off his mortgage, she wasn’t going anywhere. He caught himself a fish.

She saw him as a big money pot, like she was gonna cash out. He had money, and she thought she was about to live well—but he was pimp petty.

He wasn’t handing shit out; everything came with a hook. Sure, he’d buy dinners and drinks, but he wasn’t frivolous. Whatever she did get from him, it came with a price—her soul, just like mine.

I was still there. I never asked about her or anything involving her—not while sober, anyway. I didn’t really care what he was doing with her. It was about what we were doing together. Or at least, that’s what I kept trying to tell myself.

Once the liquor hit, I started running my mouth. That was inevitable. You’d have to be truly soulless not to feel or react to the kind of shit that went down.

It was always there—the angst, creeping out whenever it felt like it. We’d fight, but never physically. I’d always be drunk. He never hit me.

He even said to me once, with that look on his face, half-joking but not, Ouuuuuuu!! I’ll never hit you, you know. 'Cause I know you’ll hit me back—and then there’s gonna be a big problem.

He wasn’t wrong.

Ya, one of us would’ve ended up dead—and it would’ve been me. I was no match for him physically—not even close. He could've snapped me in half without blinking.

The most violent thing he ever did? One night after dinner, after too many drinks and probably sex—or fuck maybe even during—I said something smart. Something he didn’t like. He just lost it.  

Scooped me up like a pile of clothes off the bed, carried me to the front door, unlocked it, opened it, and threw me out into the hallway.
Naked.

The door opened again—to toss my TNA bag out. Then once more—to throw my rings and earrings out. It was around 3 AM. I was naked, crying, shaking. Somehow, I got dressed and I made it home.

After that, it just kept slipping. I’d hear the calls. See the look on his face when her texts came in. Felt that sickness in my gut when he cancelled on me—and I always knew why. I didn’t even have to guess.

Still, I started asking stupid questions. Nothing direct. Nothing specific. Pussyfooting around it all because... fuck, I was hurt.

I remember him telling me once, in all seriousness, how stupid he’d been—thinking he could pull it off. That he could have both of us. Me and her. One life. One fucked-up "family."

That was the dream he had for himself.

In midst of the bullshit he said “ if I pull this off, I will be in the fucking Guinness Book of World Records.” Or some shit like that.

I remember him saying he almost wished he never said a word. That if he’d played it better, years could’ve gone by and we wouldn’t have even known about each other. And he was probably right.  

What I didn’t know wasn’t hurting me. Like getting cut without realizing it—no blood, no pain—until you look down and see it. And then it hurts like fucking hell.

He was getting attituded all day long from her—and when he tried to get away from it, he was with me—and my mouth was running, rude as hell. He was fully aware of the damage done—on both sides. 

Shit was all fucked up now, but I had new tits and I was feeling good, happy, my body was banging and we were going to Jamaica.

I pushed her—and all those thoughts—to the side.

Q was going to Jamaica for six months, and I was going down with him for the first ten days.

We flew into Jamaica on November 25, 2006—and I showed him the time of his fucking life.

At that time, my cousin Jen was living with me. She and Kayla were pretty much the same age, a year apart. Her parents were going through a divorce, and she was pretty much on her own—or at least, that’s how it seemed.

There wasn’t much guidance at home, so I reeled her in. She was staying with me—actually, Jen lived with us for a few years. While I was gone, she and Kayla had Trent.

That was the longest stretch I was ever gone. I did end up going back and forth to Jamaica over the next six months—but those first ten days were the longest I had ever stayed away from Trent consecutively.

We had plans to stay at St. Elizabeth, Treasure Beach—Jack Sprat. But a few days before we were supposed to leave, Jack Sprat had a power outage. We couldn’t stay there, and we only found out the day before we were supposed to fly out.

Q had a cousin who lived in Kingston, Calvin. He drove all the way up to Sangster’s Airport in Montego Bay to meet us—five hours, one way. Calvin was hyped to see Q.

He picked us up, and we hit the road, not even knowing where we were going. Calvin was a Kingston yardy. He didn’t know much about Negril. But I did. I’d been watching Jamaica for a long, long time, ever since Bobby. Specifically Negril–that 8-mile beach.

We drove down the main drag—ocean on one side the whole way down—prettiest drive you’ve ever seen. I love it. Two, maybe two and a half hours, depending who’s behind the wheel.

We rolled into Negril. I knew I wanted to stay there—that became the plan. Find a spot there. We popped into one place first—a Beaches resort. It was like some Sesame Street, Big Bird kiddie shit. We were like, nope. Back in the car.

Drove a little further, and Calvin was like, "Yo, I know a spot." It was dark when we pulled up—Footeprints. We parked. Q hit up the front desk. All I could hear was the ocean—loud. Couldn’t see shit, it was pitch black.

I was like, "What the fuck is that?"—the sound. Turned my head—and boom—we’re right on the beach. It was the ocean. The hotel was directly on the beach.

I lit up like a kid. "Let’s stay here. Please. Please, can we stay here."

He didn’t know where we were. He tried to act cool, like he’d been doing this shit from time. I knew better. We were both strangers in a new place.

He’d been to Jamaica many times before, but he’d never been there like that. Not Negril. He never had a time like the one we were about to have.

I’d been vacationing for the past four years. I knew what time it was. I’m an excellent travel partner, if I do say so myself. Easygoing and fun.

We unloaded, had a few drinks at the beach bar, and his cousin left. I was so happy.

Connie knew we were in Jamaica, and I knew she was fucking sick. Had to be. I put her out of my mind. I was in Jamaica, with Q. She was out of sight—out of mind.

Q and I spent the next ten days up and down that beach—Margaritaville, Alfred’s, Bourbon Beach. We rented a bike and rode into Sav. We played couples games at Margaritaville and went to all the parties.

He was different. He was on vacation. Relaxed. He let loose. Not a mode he was used to. I could see him feeling the same way I did when I went away.

Nobody knows you. It was like he let his guard down—well, as much as someone like him could.

Footeprints—Negril—November 2006

We were in the ocean together every day, all day, hugging up.

Once we were away from the distractions of the city, away from Connie and away from that negative energy, the fire between us was hotter than ever.

It was my first time in Negril, and I’m pretty sure it was his too.

We navigated it together. It was one of the best experiences of my life, and I’m well aware it was one of his too. He’d never done anything like that before—and it showed. Big difference being in Negril and not just ya yard.

10 days flew by. It was time for me to go home. He was heading to Mandeville for the rest of his time in Jamaica. That’s where his Aunt Flawz lived, as well as the property he was going to inherit when she passed. That’s why he was there—to clean up and help out, amongst other things I’m sure.

Q was looking at women, talking about which ones wanted to fuck him. “She wants to fuck me, oh she wants to fuck too…” I said, “What are you, the fuck detector?”

That’s how full of himself he was. And that’s how he talked. I laughed that shit it off—Mr. Insefuckingcurity. It was so pathetic, it was funny.

The time came though, when shit wasn’t funny anymore. Nothing was.

I went home from that trip feeling like I was saying goodbye to him for good, even though I knew I’d be back.

After everything that went down, I could feel it in my heart. She’d be there within a week, maybe a month at the latest. We were never the same.

After six months of back-and-forth—me going, and her going—we were changing. I could feel him slipping away over those months.

Q was a big man in Jamaica.  

Everybody on that 7-mile beach knew Q and me—Buttafly. We were the hottest couple on that beach. The chemistry between us was ridiculous.

A photographer even approached us one day, asking if he could snap some shots for his brochure for a hotel he was opening the next year. I still know people there from that trip, 2006. When they see me—Buttafly!

He even commented on our chemistry. Fuck, that fire, I’ve never felt anything like it. The photos were sexy as fuck. 

Those photos—all ashes now, at the bottom of Vanessa’s fire pit.

When I returned, Q would pick me up from Sangster’s and take me to Mandeville, to Aunt Flawz’s house. That’s where we’d start, but we were all over Jamaica.  Christiana, SpurTree Hill, Bluefields, Negril—Kingston, even.

We even went to check Calvin one time, in Kingston.

Check it– Q and I drove from Mandeville to Kingston in a Chevy pickup. Machete under his seat, me in the passenger’s seat, windows down, blonde hair blowing everywhere, wearing a white bikini top.

It was a ride. Q could drive. If you’ve ever been to Jamaica, you know—driving down there is fucking nuts. Scary as fuck. You have to know what the fuck you’re doing on those roads, or crossing them, or you’re dead. The traffic ain’t no joke. I don’t even think there’s a speed limit.

There weren’t too many big-tittied blondes in bikini tops running around Kingston, haha. Q’s cousin was a big man. I was learning as I went. Big man in Jamaica for those that don’t know, is a boss, making big moves.

I was chilling on the corner of Chisolm and Maxfield, pulling on the chalis, with spectators watching me like they’d never seen a blonde white woman up close before. And I’m sure some of the younger ones never had. Especially not in that hood. If ya know, ya know.

I brought the kids once—Kayla, Trent, and my cousin Jen. We even drove up to May Pen-Clarendon to meet some of Kayla’s family.
That’s where her dad’s side is from. Q showed them a good time. We did the whole island. Regular tourists don’t do that shit, it ain’t safe for one.

I remember Q saying that to me—the shit we do, regular people who come to Jamaica don’t do. Ya, I know! Always talking to me like I was fucking new. It was cute in the beginning, but by Jamaica times, it was just fucking annoying.

We had epic travels. I was social, friendly—not overly friendly, but I know how to talk to people, especially Jamaicans.

I grew up around Jamaicans. I can understand patois and I can read the vibe. I vibe with Jamaicans. We sync. Jamaica is a whole vibe. I got on well.

I’d never call myself a gangster, but a Jamaican would, once we got to talking—Gangstar Gal. Around all bod mon! Hahaha.

There’s something about that place, something different from anywhere else I’ve been. It’s like Mother Earth lives there. I can feel it, smell it, as soon as I land. It almost feels like home. I’ve been up and down the whole of Jamaica. I love it there.

Every time I came back, we’d hit up the usual spots, from Mobay all the way down. We’d see the same people over and over along the way. 

He was doing that same shit with her. He ruined it for both of us—him and I, the whole vibe. How did I know? Those people we met on our travels would fucking tell me! Ugh!

I never wanted to ask, but I did one time, at Footeprints, with Cheryl. Bartender. 

When we’d leave that spot, I’d leave her with a few things and whatever liquor we had. That didn’t happen when he was down there with Connie.

I could tell how Cheryl was around me after the first two times I was there; she wasn’t the same. Eventually, after a few trips, I made a comment to let her know I was aware. She opened up like a bag of chips on an airplane ready to pop.

She said, “It’s not the same. She doesn’t talk to nobody. She doesn’t even sit here like you are right now, and they don’t leave anything. Doesn’t even look like they’re having fun.” That’s that control shit.

Bartenders and servers used to say the same thing to me when I’d pop in, long after that dinner at The Red Tomato. They were shocked as fuck that we were there, sitting at the same table together like that. 

It was almost like they couldn’t wait to see me solo and ask, What the fuck?

They’d say the same thing…she’s not you, all quiet sitting there all stish like she was too good for that spot. Ya, she wasn’t allowed to talk. 

She asked me once about our incidents. I was like, Huh? What incidents? We didn’t have incidents—outside of him tossing me out that one night, fucking naked.

I knew they were on some different shit, I knew he put his hands on her and then some. He was a street motherfucker, and she was a prissy bitch…

I never asked her what exactly happened. I didn’t want to know but she wanted me to know.

He would straight-up tell me things about her after the second or third time going back to Jamaica. We were not the same people not at all. 

I had that first 10 days with him, and he never had days like that with anyone else ever again in his fucking life. I’d bet money on it.

He told me she complained about everything. It’s too hot out. It’s too wet out. It’s too dark out. The music’s too loud. The club starts too late.

Shit that was beyond his control. All she did was complain. He told me he shook up the Smirnoff cooler and sprayed it in her face.

She needed bottled water... even in the fucking city. She hated the house in Mandeville, but it’s fucking Jamaica life, not a resort.

We were pretty much opposites. I loved being on the road on his bike—her? Not so much. I loved the little spot in Mandeville too. It was good enough for me.

I could just picture her in the Chevy, air conditioning blasting, all hot and bothered, six layers of makeup melting off her face, just complaining.

Me, I could sleep on the fucking ground. Shower had a little trickle, no problem—at least there was water. We were in Jamaica. What do you expect? It is a third world country.

That type of shit doesn’t bother me. I grew up rough. So did Q.

It was right there—all the times they argued, fought, all the things they disagreed on.

He never realized what he had in front of him the whole fucking time. Me.

Even though she complained and they had their shit obviously he liked her—a lot. She was educated, some sort of counsellor and I used to call her that—”You tell me counsellor!”

She came from money. He liked that. He didn’t want an unrefined survivor like me—like himself.

He wanted a woman he could control, a woman who needed to drink water out of a fucking bottle. He wanted her.

It wasn’t who he was. He was somebody else, lying , pretending just to be with her.

I was there, right in his face. The connection was there. Everything was there, but he wanted fucking her.

That’s the shit that made me sick inside. Not her—him. Out of everything, that’s what did my soul in. It was him—so fucking superficial he thought I wasn’t good enough for him.

And we grew up the same. But he didn’t want the same. He wanted a bougie bitch. A damsel. And I wasn’t it.

I remember her calling me before her last trip to Jamaica. They were coming home together. Oh, she fucking loved calling my phone.

That girl was in my ear again, trying to compare Jamaica notes. She tried to get a little sassy, but her sass couldn’t top my fucking mean.

Nearing the end of the six months, things had changed. I felt a shift. And them coming home together—made me feel fucking sick.

That call she made to me, I’d like to say was the last call, but it wasn’t. She was basically telling me that now I was gonna see what’s up.

That couldn’t continue, not for me, not with the three of us. I couldn’t take the mental or emotional abuse anymore. My soul was aching.

From that call, I got the impression that she saw this all as some kind of competition. Over the past couple of years, she was trying to earn some street cred.

She upped her drinking game. When I first met her, 2 or 3 drinks had her hugging the toilet for the rest of the night.

She met me, saw the sparks between Q and I, and knew she had to up her game a tad. Come down off her high horse.

I was tired of it. The first ten days we spent in Jamaica, fuck, the first three or four times I was there with him, were pretty fucking amazing.

Best times of my life. Up and down with Q. But by the last two or three times, it wasn’t the same.

The dope he once was for me had turned into baking soda.

There was some teeter-totter bullshit happening with the three of us when he got back and I was ready to just fucking go. I was done. Pick one, motherfucker.

She saw it as a competition, she wasn’t going anywhere. I had no interest in competing—whatsoever. She was gonna tough it out, this three-person back-and-forth bullshit. I mean we were both doing it for at least two years.

After romping around with me and seeing how fucking cold and hard I was, no question she tried to simulate that. 

My soul was worn out—two years was two too long.

We were on the phone, maybe a week after he got back, and I said, “I can’t do this anymore. You need to pick—right now.”

As hard as it was to say, I said it. “You need to pick.” And he went quiet. There was a pause. Then he said, “Her.”

I hung up the phone and cried like a baby. He called back immediately. I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. I could barely fucking breathe after hearing what I just heard.

We were done.

Then came the texts. Right away. “I made the wrong choice. I’m so sorry I chose wrong. I don’t know what the fuck I was thinking. I’m sorry.”

The next day he sent roses to my work. I threw them straight in the garbage.

He severed the edges with one word: Her.

My heart was done for. Crippled. That rejection ultimately broke me. He blackened whatever was left of my soul.

There are no words to describe that kind of pain.

I walked away and made it a point to tel her, “There you go, he’s all yours now. You won the big booby prize.

He carried on texting me for months. I painfully, ignored him. I didn’t want anything to do with him. After a few months he eventually stopped. All was quiet.

I was still hurt; he had dragged my heart through the dirt. He kicked the shit out of my soul. I remained hurt for the next 10-15 years, easily.

Almost a year passed, and then I got a text message from Connie, asking me how I “do that thing that I did in bed.” It was late at night. I looked at the phone and I was like, this bitch. I replied, “Google it.”

I knew something was up with them, like they had to be on the outs. Why the fuck is she messaging me?! But I didn't really study it.

Then, out of the blue a month or so after that text message, she messaged me again, saying she was fucking done with him and that I could have him. That all they ever did was fight about me—that Q and I were the same and we belonged together. "I can't do this anymore."

I was like, Oh wow, that didn’t last. Hahaha. Big fucking surprise. But I was surprised she told me she walked away.

Weeks later, one random day, he started on my phone. I swear to God, I changed my number like three or four times. That’s what you did back then.

I was changing it, knowing I wasn’t serious though. Because I'd call or text him when I was drunk, and he’d have it again.

I liked him coming after me, until he chose her. I also liked that she, one of them, probably both of them, finally owned up to seeing what the fuck I had seen all along.

A lot of time passed after her text, and then he was coming for me heavy—trying to catch me in the area doing my hair. I’d been going to John Steinberg for the longest time.

He popped into Pravda, trying to catch me there. And he was with it all: I love you. I love you forever. We were meant to be together.

It was just another one of those too little, too late situations. Wayyy late.

All of them, every single motherfucker I was with, took me for granted. None of them realized what they had until they didn’t have it anymore. Ain’t that some shit?

A fucking year later, I ended up letting him back in. But this time was different. He was trying to show and prove—sorry, sorry, sorry. He wanted it to work.

He was either at my house every weekend, or I was at his, back and forth all the time. He was doing things with Trent—picking him up from daycare. We had a big party for the G20 at my house with all his boys. He bought me a barbecue, a fur coat, and Trent a new bed, . That shit doesn’t do it for me.

We were hanging out, on the patios, still having sex, still smoking, still chilling. The difference was, I never had a smile on my face anymore. Every time he'd say goodbye, I felt sick. The only time I didn’t feel sick was when I was in his arms. Sick love.

We did all kinds of shit that year—went to Cuba, went to Montreal, saw Prince. We were fucking everywhere. He tried. He tried hard. But my smile, along with the butterflies, were long gone.

I knew the connection we had, but he fucking electrocuted it, and what we once shared was blown to shit. Painfully dead. Like you're physically almost dead, but not quite—just lying there, suffering.

After about a year of playing fucking house with Q, I had one week off from work. It was early summer, and as usual, my free time was his. We were traipsing around to all the patios on King West as we always did.

My face was all hanging down, and I was speaking my mind every fucking day. It was obvious I wasn’t happy. I couldn’t hide it anymore. 

We broke up. I walked away from brunch, and that was it. We said goodbye.

I can remember his words clear as day. He called me when I got home and said “I’m gonna get out of your life because it doesn’t matter what I do, you’re not happy.” And I wasn’t. He was right. I was like “OK.”

He didn’t like me saying “OK.” There was an ugly, rough, and very hurtful exchange of words—mostly from him to me. His ego freaking out. He spent a whole year trying to make it work between us and failed.

Near the end of that summer, I got a call. It was fucking Connie, again. Asking me all kinds of questions. They’d been apart but after we broke up that summer he went back to working on her.

She was trying to suss out the situation, once again.

I said, “Girl, don’t fucking ask me no more fucking stupid fucking questions. Get the fuck off my phone. Bye.”

Months went by, maybe even a year, and out of the blue, I’d fuck him again. Every fucking time I took him off block and called, he picked up— “Coming to get you or jump in a cab.” And I did.

It hurt to be with him and it hurt not being with him. Torture.

That shit went on for years. More than fifteen, ugh! Every time we hooked up it was a different property. The wisdom he picked up inside panned out. 

Every time I hooked up with him, I was betraying my soul. I’d leave the next day and just cry.

I’d hate myself just a little bit more each time.

Those two eventually got married—Ya! Hahaha. Some hokey pokey quiet, quickie ceremony somewhere.

That only gave me incentive to see just how married he really was. Well, he never once admitted it to me, or ever wore a ring. 

I’d also sleep over in one of his condos or his townhouse, with no sign of her anywhere. I never asked anything, but I knew and it made me sick inside.

Even though I didn't like being me, I was happy I wasn’t her even more.

I won’t lie over the years, Q always on my phone always wanting me back, I considered giving in, like fuck it! She did it. Maybe he is all I’m good for and I should just slide up in a condo, be with him and that’d be my life.

My soul wasn’t having it, I could never bring myself to do that.

He came to the hospital after my heart surgery. I’m pretty sure in a drunken state I texted him in February or March and told him.

He knew from years ago that I had a heart condition but we never really talked about it.

I let him know I was having surgery and put him back on block.

Holy fuck that was the sick routine! Sick!

He ended up reaching out to Kayla, he came to the hospital a few days after my surgery. My surgery was April 11th—his birthday.

The nurses saw him and asked if I needed security! Hahaha.

The years have not been kind to Q. I couldn’t even see in him the person I once saw or knew.

I spoke to him during the six-month fog I was in after surgery. I took him off block and shot him a text. Fucking sucker for punishment, I was.

I can’t remember exactly what I said, but he FaceTimed me from Jamaica.

He was so happy to see me, to talk to me. He told me he wanted to be there for me and that he wanted to take care of me and asked me to let him.

We got off the phone, and I put him back on block. I reached out again just to hear "I love you, let me take care of you"—just to see if it was still there, and it was.

I was alone and all fucked up. Nobody was taking care of me and I thought to myself, why am I like this? Why is life so fucking hard for me all the time? Maybe this is what it’s supposed to be—me and him—and that’s why I can’t get past him.

Why am I fighting it so damn hard? Maybe I should just give in and let him take care of me. Lord knows, I’m tired.

My soul—my rinsed soul—was not letting that happen. Not a fucking chance.

The only reason it’s quiet now is because he’s on block. I have no desire—no interest whatsoever—in reaching out anymore.

If I unblocked him and sent him a picture or even just one word, he’d write me back, and want to get together like today.

I could never get this guy out of my system. That connection we had in the beginning that he couldn’t see because he was too fucking egotistical to even acknowledge it…

That was some once-in-a-lifetime shit. I knew it was. People live their whole lives never knowing or experiencing that kind of connection, it was pure fire. Guess that’s why it burned so bad.

As much as someone like him could—he loved me. Probably still does. Just like Chet. If only he’d seen me for what I was, for what we were before... He dragged my entire heart and soul through the fucking dirt. By trying to be something he wasn’t.

We could’ve done so many things together. We were the same in so many ways.

God only knows what my life would have been like if I had met Q in my teens. Oof. The hold he had on me was something wicked, and that’s exactly what it was—wicked. Q sold his soul to the devil long before he met me.

He got the best of me—up until now. I don’t regret it... well, actually, that’s a lie. The good times were epic, unforgettable. It was fun—but it cost me my soul.

I wore a mask like armor, fresh out the gate when I left home. Every time I took it off, Earl stabbed me in the fucking heart. So I kept it on—until one day, I couldn’t take it off anymore. 

I hid my emotions, my softness, just to survive the life I was in—the life I kept getting drawn into.

For those in the back—I’ve always been real. Raw as fuck, actually. I’ve been telling it like it is since I was a kid—don’t know how to be anything else.

Shit happens as you go through life—stuff that fucks with how you move, how you react. And when the way you react ain’t pretty, you just swallow it down and keep pushing.

Every time you do that, it damages your soul, it changes you.

That ain’t fake. That’s straight-up cause and effect. Fake is acting without even needing a mask. Fake is pretending you’re something you’re not. Period.

Stuffing your feelings down—that shit changes you. Crushes your soul. Period.

That mean mug I walked around with for years—was my mug.

Mean Jean. Scary Sherry.