All rights reserved
By TasteTheDream Publications
Copyright© 2011
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher. This may not be stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, businesses, events are the creation of fictional work by the author. No part of this book or other books of sequence, or by Taste The Dream Publications may be used for duplication of any sort, unless for brief lines for newspapers & magazines.
Taste The Dream
Publications
Presents.......
Diaries
Of
Mrs. Nectar
By
NIKIDA S. TASTE
Love Yourself
FROM
BOSTON
MASSACHUSETTS
The Arrival
My name is Chanel Simon and I want to thank you for keeping me alive. I can't say my attitude has changed much and if you're reading this right now, you must have a few “screws” loose. That's right, I said it and I dare you to do something about it. What do you want me to do? Apologize to someone who dares to read about my life? Matter of fact, do yourself a favor and don't read past this point because only the brave and courageous are built for such material. The way I see, hear, feel, taste, touch is different than any other person on this planet. Why was I given to this place of deception? The way I look at it, it was a mean and cruel prank meant to play on those who think life is simple. Those who think they can work a decent nine to five, raise snot nose children, spend shit loads of other people's money, have sex with whomever or whatever they please and go about their day to day like nothing ever happened. It's a sick joke. Yes, I'm talking about me. The one who, at the blink of an eye, will smile at you, then at the close of another, is waiting and so willing to slit your throat with one clean slice. Do I kill people or souls? What's the difference? My weapon of choice is for me to know and you to do whatever it takes to not cross my path. If they don't care, why should I? Weak people turn the other cheek. They want revenge for things they could not change, situations that happened and made them the fucked up person they are today. Me? I get revenge. I take pleasure in watching them grovel and spit for their pathetic little lives. We were meant to bleed, meant to release and reveal an ocean of our most hidden and sacred emotions, meant to give light to what all of us try so desperately to hide. Tears are for healing whether you're good or bad. Most of us don't deserve to heal. From the moment I laid eyes on them, I knew they deserved to meet the horrid fate that many old people and babies have the “pleasure” of meeting. What did they do to deserve to be flushed down the drain of hell's fury? In the back of buses, cars, yards, sitting in restaurants, watching movies, looking up at buildings, walking in parks, mentally and physically fucking our families behind nasty doors as if they themselves were actual putrid, diseased ridden toilets. Violators and arrogance attempt to assassinate an already wounded emptiness. A helpless being. Violators rejoice with a customized anecdote, a remedy they see fit to make them whole again. Evil is unsettling. It rocks the core of who you are. I come with many faces and leave traces of fear rumbling in your thoughts. I am an unforeseen force and not one to decipher. Don't attempt to worry your pretty little head on why I am here. I am the strife in everyone's life. I am a chameleon. When you're peeking, I'm watching dead on standing in the center of my malevolent world. A world so foul and mute because if there is one thing I cannot stand and that's the screaming of those who've begged and pleaded for me to have mercy on their meaningless thoughtless souls. I'm divine in every way you cut me. I create my own destiny. I'm also a hypocrite and I don't give a shit who knows it. Sometimes, a strong urge compels you to want to turn the normal everyday monotony into a sea of atrocity. Sometimes, you just want to do something so unthinkable and see what
happens afterward. Judging those whom you've never ever walked in their shoes. Your “closet” is filthy like the next man or woman. Over-flowing. Bones stacked so high it would take sixty graveyards to bury them. Walking around pretending like your queen or king of a foreign land. He without sin shall cast the first stone. Watch out, a tornado is coming....and you my friend?...is living in a glass house. The problem is you lie to yourself. Life is simply a reciprocity of disguised events. Lacking, and you, the liar, doesn't want anyone to know. Pain drives a force within us, once you've received every single reaction, never really thinking it was your action that sparked an avalanche of everything you put out into the universe. Fuck a good deed, no deed goes unpunished. For most, redemption is too far away to attain and even when you're on the right path, it calls to you. It whispers its growing need to demolish the very work you put in to be deemed sustainable in society. Are you sure you want to get inside a mind of contamination? A mind of corruption? If I were you....I'd think twice.
I ran out of ice chips, my arms were soar, the room was freezing, the blanket was like paper and I had just about had enough of an old man asking me every question there was to ask, but if he wanted the hellish truth, I had no problem “giving” it to him. I was hooked up to countless monitors and tubes. The ticking of each beep making it painfully known that everything I had ever done had caught up with me. Honestly, I 'd rather listen to the sounds of my declining health than listen to a man who thought he knew me. I don't know what kind of education he had, but if he thought he could begin to comprehend what I was and what I had gone through...so be it. “What do you...think...of yourself?” He asked slightly methodically trembling from nerves while gazing directly at me. “I'm in a hospital bed, what do you think?” I said disrespectfully, my voice groggy and low. I weighed two-hundred and forty-six pounds and wore a mow-hawk with slits on the sides. My features were intense, war scars evident, an unmistakable appearance only fucked with by fools. He paused taken back by my response. He gripped his bible tightly.
“You've been this way a long time haven't you?” He added shifting his scrawny frame in the seat.
“That depends father. Do you mean a long time as in before or after adulthood?” I replied snidely. “You tell me.” He said calmly. “Do you really think you can change me?” I asked staring at him wide eyed. “Do you want to change?” He shot back. “I don't see the point father. Do you realize it's people like you....I eat for breakfast? You come in here with your religious costume and expect people to just easily see it your way? You're wasting your time.” I said mockingly.
“Chanel, it's never too late for anyone to change. You have to want to. I'm only here to help.” He said softly while placing his hand on the edge of the mattress. He looked hysterically funny to me. His black attire, white hair, crucifix in his palm and serious expression as if he cared about someone he'd never in his life sat down and eaten a meal with. I wanted to laugh in his face, so I did and he watched me as if he was afraid of what I was going to do next. “You're not here to help me, you're here to help yourself! Everyone is capable of evil. Everyone...father...has done something they are ashamed of!”
I said snapping at him letting it be known that I could snap his neck in a flash just the same. His eyes widened as he took a deep breath. “You want me to be afraid, don't you?” He said nervously as his eyes beg to differ. “Are you afraid?” I replied with a sinister smile. “No. I'm not.” He added. “Do you know what it's like to have someone hold you down at thirteen, snatch off your panties, force your legs open and shove
their huge, hard penis inside you?” I said clenching my teeth with my eyes piercing his like daggers. It was a moment I should have felt like crying but there was nothing but numbness. “N-no, I don't Chanel. I'm sorry it happened to you. If...” He stammered speaking with a serene tone. I interrupted what I was sure was going to be meaningless pity.
“He looked sort of like you. Clueless, lonely-looking and on death's doorstep. I think you better get out of here while you still have legs to walk.” I said angrily while turning to look away. Suddenly, in a flash, I felt a flush of hurricane-like wind swirl forcibly around the room. Objects were flying and crashing around my bed. My window shattered open as the curtains blew forward. A white light blinded me. I had waken from a dream. I looked nothing like the woman in it. It scared me. But now, I was not in present time. I'm standing there, like a ghost, watching my life. I was there again. Back....where it began.
CHAPTER 1
April 2011
“You have to be kidding me! Somebody pleeeaasse shoot me!...moan...” In labor, Chanel angrily spoke to the nurse as her face grimaced in agony while laying in a hospital bed. She'd been in pain for the last twelve hours with no end to it subsiding. The sound of the fetal heart monitor and everything in the vicinity extremely annoyed her. She was losing patience unable to maintain her sanity. Without answering right away use to patient's whining moods, the nurse stood in front of the monitor gliding her fingers along the graph searching for abnormalities. She didn't give eye contact as she responded with a nonchalant tone of voice. “Ok, Mrs. Simon. The doctor
has to check your dilation before the anesthesiologist can take care of you.” She said. The nurse proceeded to move about the room in usual routine. Chanel trembled from the cold, sterile air while answering attempting to pull the thin white sheet over her large hip and swollen belly. “Well, tell him to..moan..hurry up. I swear i'm going to go crazy if I don't get something for the pain.” “Will do, Mrs. Simon.” Pulling off her latex gloves, the nurse used her foot to hit the garbage bin pedal discarding the gloves, used viles and empty gauze packets. She left the room without another word.
Chanel was completely alone. No one to support her, no family, not even the father of the baby Mike, her long time love and legal husband of four years. She wrestled with the pain as the minutes pressed on thinking of the day her husband left to be back with his high school sweetheart. She wondered what
he saw in her since, in her mind, the woman was very dark-skinned far more unattractive with what seemed of having going to church five days out of the week be her only goal in life.
Many hours later, she pushed to finally bring a 7lb 3oz baby boy into the world. She battled with the decision for nine months and realized her mind was made up. She wanted to wait to tell the clinicians until the pain was gone. “Look at this little fellow! Absolutely handsome, Mrs. Simon!” The early-forty-something female doctor plucked the baby from her canal, cut the umbilical cord and held him up for her to see. Chanel let out a huge sigh of relief while turning her head to avoid getting one peek at her son. Hurting because she wasn't going to keep him, tears began to cascade down the sides of her face and into her ears. She sobbed in such a way that everyone was slightly taken back by her response. The doctor had an inkling so she signaled to the nurse to attend to the baby's apgar status.
One month later. The bank teller carefully read the note as Chanel sexily stood at the window wearing a short, auburn-colored wig dressed like a lawyer in a soft canary designer pant suit, heels and dark brown shades. Speaking while tapping on the note with her shiny, manicured nails to seem as if her visit was legitimate, her emerald and rhodium draped bracelet sparkled hitting the lamps above. “If I were you? I would do as i'm told. I have a pistol and frankly? Haven't used it in a while, if you get what i'm saying. Don't panic, because if you do? I'll panic... and we don't want that, now do we? Give me everything you have, hand it nice and slow.” The teller cleared her throat and began to shake as she did her best to see Chanel's eyes through the glasses. Without words, she obeyed and began gathering tens, twenties and hundred dollar bills pretending as if the transaction was with merit. The teller hesitated remembering bank procedure. Chanel placed a small Chloe purse on the counter and clenched her teeth while speaking as she read the woman's mind. “You see this purse? Two seconds to your funeral. Don't...be....stupid.” Continuing to count the money for no reason as her nerves began to give weigh, the teller answered with slight attitude. “Fine.” Chanel glanced at her diamond watch realizing she was losing time. She gripped the purse indicating to her that she had one more minute before she decided to pull the trigger for destroying her plan. Seconds later, she handed Chanel a stack of crisp bills. Cynically smiling and excited from another robbery gone well, she added a few last words. “It was a pleasure doing business with you.” She politely grabbed the money and placed it in her purse while proceeding to inconspicuously head toward the exit. She always made sure she chose banks that were relatively small. It made it easier to be in, out and on her way to secretly rejoice in substitution for what she really felt she was owed in life. Fear began to set in that the bank was on to her. She hurriedly walked one street over reaching a 2010, tan Nissan Maxima. She unlocked the door, hopped in and started it while keeping composed to fit in with the normal scene. She slowly accelerated from the curb and headed to her home.