Hunt For Her: Black & White by Xyla Turner

Chapter Eleven

Hunt

Kizzyand I were cuddling on the couch when her doorbell rang. We looked at each other with wonder, then I moved her to the couch, so I could answer the door. She wasn’t expecting anyone, so whoever the unexpected visitor was, would meet me first.

Half of me thought it could be Tyrell, but I thought I heard him leave. Which was rare, because his ass was always in the house. Kizzy said he was a hermit-like that. The man literally never left. We were cool now, but he still shouldn’t be knocking on my girls' door at ten 'til midnight unless it was an emergency.

The other thought I had was that it could be Hitto or one of those assholes from the club. I made myself clear and I think Hitto, and I were on the same page. It was like that now. I was out. Period. However, when I opened the door, I was not prepared for what stood on their side.

It was like déjà vu, but just a different color. A battered woman with two black eyes, a fractured jaw and bruises over her arms and shoulders. The shirt she had on was barely there and the woman was barely standing. She was unrecognizable.

I thought she might be lost, but it was Kizzy that yelled, “Mom, Jesus. What the fuck?!? Shit!”

She rushed past me and went to confront her. “Mom, what are you doing here?”

Moving forward, I picked up the woman and brought her into the house and up the stairs.

“Hunt,” Kizzy called to me, but I still put the woman on the couch.

I knew their relationship was shit, but that I couldn’t take. It was my mom all over again. I acted just like I always did. Moving towards the kitchen, I put some warm water in a bowl, grabbed a towel from the bathroom and came back to see Kizzy looking at her mom with tears in her eyes. I knew this shit pained her and I knew what would happen tomorrow, but tonight, she would be safe.

“Hunt,” Kizzy called me again.

I looked at her, bent down in her face and said, “I know what happens next in this story Kiz, but we ain’t letting her out of here tonight. Not on my watch, babe.”

I kissed her forehead and began to tend to her wounds, the dried-up blood around her lip.

“Kiz, get the ice packs,” I told her.

“Who…” The woman tried to mutter, but her mouth was fucked up.

Whoever this asshole was, beat her like a man. I’d love a shot at him because I’d beat his motherfucking ass to the white meat.

“I’m Kizzy’s man, Hunt. Sorry to meet you like this,” I told her softly or as soft as my voice would allow.

“Wh..” She tried to talk again.

“Yeah, I’m white. She knows,” I told her, as Kizzy came back into the room.

She stayed on the other side of the room, but her mom’s eye moved towards that location. It was something truly between a mother and daughter, but I ain’t fault Kizzy. I had my own memories about the shit my mom put me through as she battled her own demons, but those haunt me even as a man. Shit, it shapes you. That’s the shit I’ve been learning in the African American studies class and what Cullen and the crew, I called the race avengers. That’s the shit that shapes you. Your fucking history.

“Mom, you can sleep out here for the night,” Kizzy called.

Her mom nodded and turned over to close her eyes. She mumbled thanks and then Kizzy retreated back to her room. Grabbing a throw from off the love seat, I put it over her mom and turned out the light. I had planned to leave that night to prepare for my upcoming speech. Just as her mom needed help, I knew Kizzy probably needed someone too.

When I came back, Kizzy turned to me, but only partially and asked, “So I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Naw, I’m staying tonight. Tired and shit.”

Pulling off my shirt, I threw it on the chair with most of my stuff. Kizzy was sitting on the bed, half here and probably half somewhere else.

“You don’t have to stay, Hunt,” She tried to reassure me.

Kizzy was no dummy, she knew that I was staying for her.

“My lady needs help or support; I can’t be here?” I asked.

She turned fully to me and that’s when I sat on the bed and pulled her to me, as tears brimmed under her eyes.

“Fuck, I’m sorry.” She tried to hide her emotion.

Without even addressing it, I began to tell her the stories I would tell myself as a kid.

“One day, shit would be okay. Everybody else’s mom seemed okay, but behind closed doors, it wasn’t. One day, she’d realize I ain’t eaten. One day, she’d see the pants were too high up. One day, she’d come to one of my games. One day, I’d find a woman and she’d be a good mama. One day, I’d wish I knew mama’s stories. One day, she’d be free from this life, that she seemed to want to escape. One day. That’s what I used to tell myself as I grew older with an addict as a mom. She’s in a better place now, or that’s the story I say. Maybe because I ain’t got to deal with the shit anymore, but babe, while she’s here. You may be the better place for now. Not always. Just tonight.”

I was holding my girl, as her whole body shook, and she wept. I ain’t never seen her like this, but it was raw, honest and I felt every moment of it, and she let me. She cried herself to sleep and around five in the morning, I hear some noises, then a door clicked close. I knew her mom had left, and I knew the stories that Kizzy would tell herself, even as she shrugged it off.

Our history.

That motherfucker never seemed to vanish.

Only repeat itself.