Facing Justice
- 4 years ago
- 22
- 0
The Spirit Of Justice free porn video
The Spirit of Justice
By Heather St. Claire
Terry Martin was drunk.
That wasn't much of a surprise; he was drunk just about every night, and
most days as well. As a college senior and the child of privilege, he
could do just about anything he pleased. He flung an empty Jack Daniels
bottle out the window of his Porsche and slammed his foot down on the
accelerator.
Martin was due to graduate in three months, and he knew he hadn't earned
the Bachelor's Degree he was going to receive, that it was a sham; it had
been purchased with more than $250,000 in donations to the university by
his father over the past four years. Not that the diploma really mattered
anyway; he knew that a "job" would be waiting for him in the family firm
once he graduated. He used the term loosely in his mind; he knew there
would be an office with a nice view and his name on the door, but he
wouldn't ever have to show up if he didn't want to. He doubted that he
would want to.
Martin started fumbling in his lap for the phone he had just picked up
and then dropped. The Porsche was still racing through the residential
neighborhood at 65 miles an hour when it approached the intersection
where Mariah Washington's eight-year old Honda Civic awaited. It was
shortly before two a.m.
Mariah was 20 years old and the mother of five-year-old twin daughters,
Tasheka and Chanita. She had just picked them up at friend's apartment,
where she had left them after being called in to another last minute
overtime shift at the Q-Mart where she worked. She was relieved that both
her angels were sleeping peacefully, but was still annoyed at being
pressured to work extra hours for the third night in a row.
Mariah saw the Porsche barreling toward her, but had no time to act, not
even time to scream. The next thing she knew, there was a sickening
crash, and all was dark. Then she felt herself being drawn toward a
bright light....
The shock of the crash had snapped Martin out of his fog. He could see
the badly-mangled Honda, which sat at an angle in the middle of the
intersection. He could see the driver, a black woman, slumped in the
driver's seat. She was covered with blood, apparently unconscious, maybe
dead.
"Oh, damn," Martin thought. "This is going to be an expensive one for dad
to fix. There's going to be hell to pay for a while."
Martin was startled by a resonant male voice that declared: "No, there
will be Heaven to pay, Terry Martin." He wondered where the voice was
coming from, and why he suddenly felt no effects from the alcohol he had
been consuming for the past several hours, but he didn't have time to
dwell on the questions. He was astonished to feel himself rising up from
out of his body.
He seemed to be floating in the air, moving with the wind. Something
carried him over to the Honda, where he had a very clear look at the
dying form of Maria Washington. "Oh boy," he thought to himself. "This
could be bad." He saw two scared little girls in the back seat of the
car; they appeared to be unhurt. He then floated up to a vantage point
several feet above the accident. "Oh crap," he thought. "Am I dead?"
The male voice spoke again: "You are not dead, Terry Martin. At least not
yet." This time Martin sensed the voice was coming from behind him, and
turned, astonished to see an imposing male figure with long flowing white
hair and beard, clad in a loincloth.
"Who are you supposed to be?" Martin asked. "God?"
"No, Terry Martin, I am not the God of the Heavens...let's say I'm one of
his agents. I am the Spirit of Justice."
"Justice? How about some justice for this bl?"Martin stopped himself.
"For this bitch who creamed my Porsche?"
The spirit being shook his head, as much in sadness as in anger. "Terry
Martin, you were the one who slammed into her vehicle. You are the one
who was speeding. You were the one who was driving drunk. You must be
called to account for your actions."
"What do you mean? If you're a spirit, or whatever, just fix her up and
we'll all be on our way."
"It is not that simple. Mariah Washington has already gone to her
Heavenly reward, and it is beyond my powers to call her back to this
realm. I could consign you to the fires of Hell right now, but that would
leave those poor children without a parent. The solution I've come up
with will keep that from happening, and give you a chance at redemption."
Martin was hearing the words, but not comprehending their meaning, and
asked: "What are you talking about, you crazy old man?"
The Spirit cried out: "Silence!" and Martin found he could no longer
speak. He then watched in disbelief as the wounds on the body of Mariah
Washington were healed; then he turned in horror to see injuries similar
to those suffered by Washington inflicted on his own body. Then, for a
moment all was darkness again.
Martin suddenly felt groggy. He could hear two young girls calling:
"Mommy, mommy, are you all right mommy?" He slowly opened his eyes. As he
did so, he glanced up at the rear view mirror of the Honda?and saw Mariah
Washington's face staring back at him. First, the new Mariah screamed.
Then she exclaimed: "Holy crap!" For the last time, she heard the voice
of the Spirit of Justice: "It is not crap, Terry Martin, but it is indeed
holy." As the realization of what had happened began to sink in for the
new Mariah, she began to sob and wail, "Oh God, Oh my God, Oh my God, no,
Oh God."
"Are you hurt mommy?" came the cry from the back seat.
Her eyes were closed, but she saw a bright light shining in front of her.
Was she on her way to the afterlife after all? No, she opened her eyes to
find a policeman shining a flashlight into the car.
"Ma'm?" he said. "The ambulance should be here shortly. It looks like you
and your children are going to be O-K...which is more than I can say for
the drunken fool that hit you."
"What do you mean?" she sniffed. "Is he....dead?"
The officer just gave her a sad look and shook his head, before stepping
aside to allow a paramedic access to the vehicle.
All was a blur for a while; the trip to the hospital in the ambulance;
the wait for a CT scan, the further wait to be examined by a doctor, the
reassurance that she was okay except for a bad bump on the head, the
repeated message that her children (her children? When would she wake up
from this nightmare) were okay, dealing with questions from the police.
She was given a bottle of prescription strength Ibuprofen and told to use
an ice bag on her head if it hurt. She sensed most of the people she was
dealing with wanted to be rid of her as quickly as possible. The fog
finally began to lift when the discharge nurse asked her if her husband
could give her and the girls a ride home.
"I'm not married," she replied. (How did she know she wasn't married?)
"Parents?"
"They're dead." (Again, how did she know this?)
"Other relative? Friend? Neighbor? Co-worker? Anyone?"
"Uh, you can call my Aunt, Tonya Stevens." As she recited a phone number,
she realized that she could somehow access the memories of the original
Mariah. She hoped this would always be the case, or this difficult new
life could become even more difficult.
About ten minutes later, Aunt Tonya came running into the emergency room
in tears. She grabbed Mariah and hugged her tightly. "Oh child, oh
child," she sobbed. It was just the latest in a series of strange
sensations, the weight of another woman's (ample) breasts pressing
against her own bosom.
Soon Tonya was depositing Mariah and her daughters in front of a dingy-
looking apartment building near the edge of the poorest section of the
city.
"You sure you're OK, child?"
"I'm fine, Auntie, just fine, all I need is some rest."
"Thank the Good Lord your precious babies are O-K."
"Yes, thanks to Him for sure." She waved as she watched her aunt drive
off into the night. (Aunt? Why do I know this woman, she wondered. Why is
any of this making sense to me?)
She turned her attention to the girls standing on either side of her. She
knew that Tasheka
And Chanita were twins; they had been born five years earlier, which
meant she would have been 14 at the time they were conceived. Fourteen?
She shook her head in wonder. What kind of life has this girl lived?
Her feelings of puzzlement gave way to a flood of images and she was
quickly overwhelmed by sadness. She realized that Mariah's?her?father had
disappeared shortly before she was born, and she had no idea whether he
was alive or dead. Her mother, just 19 at the time of her own birth, slid
deeper into addiction after that, and had died of a heroin overdose when
Mariah was 11. Aunt Tonya had raised her after that. No wonder she felt
such a strong bond with the woman. She realized her eyes were closed and
she was crying again. She felt the girls tugging on her denim jacket.
"Mommy? What wrong, mommy?"
She looked at Chanita and felt a sudden flood of tenderness and concern
unlike anything she had experienced in her former life. "Nothing's wrong,
honey. We're all O-K. That's the most important thing." She took the
girls by the hand and escorted them into the building.
The hall of the structure was a scary place. Half the light bulbs were
burned out or missing, and trash and debris littered the halls. The same
instinct that had guided her in the past few bewildering hours now
steered her to a door, and prompted her to reach into the purse over her
shoulder (purse?) to extract a set of keys.
"We're home now, girls. We're home."
She unlocked the door and swung it open to see a small, threadbare, but
spotlessly clean apartment. The furniture had to be thrift store
acquisitions; the small kitchen looked to be barely big enough to turn
around in. Taking a few steps inside, she saw there was a single bedroom,
which apparently was shared by the girls, and a single bathroom. Where
did she sleep? Why, on the fold-out couch, of course.
Somehow, she knew she should each give the girls a cup of juice, have
them change into their pajamas, and brush their teeth. She also realized
she would have to stay with them until they fell asleep, as they were
still processing the scare they had all been through together. She held
each of them for a long time, stroked their foreheads tenderly, and sang
to them. With a mix of fear and relief, 'Mariah' came to realize that
although the real Mariah was gone, some memories and instincts had
remained behind in her body.
When the girls had dropped off to sleep, Mariah took some time to explore
the apartment that was now her home. She found a bookcase in the living
room filled with books?children's books, books about parenting, and books
on African-American history. Mariah took a moment to reflect on what she
saw, and thought, "This girl was very proud of her heritage. That shows
in the choice of names for her daughters. What on earth do I know about
black women? Oprah, Michelle Obama....oh yeah, Rosa Parks, Harriet
Tubman...Aunt Jemima? Oh God, there is no one on earth less prepared for
this than me." She collapsed on the couch in tears.
While she still felt deeply sorry for herself and her strange plight, she
also felt the first pangs of conscience over taking a loving mother away
from her children. She cried until no more tears would come; then,
without even bothering to pull out the bed, she soon feel into an
exhausted sleep.
Pokes and shakes from the girls brought her out of her slumber. She
opened her eyes to the realization that it hadn't been some kind of
horrible nightmare; 'he" was now a black woman with two small children to
take care of. She had a moment of insight as she realized the girls
seemed none the worse for wear despite last night's ordeal. "They are
resilient," she marveled.
Her instincts took over again, as she managed to give both girls a bowl
of cereal, make sure they dressed, braid their hair, get showered and
dressed herself, walk the girls to their nearby Kindergarten, then catch
a bus to her job at the local Q-Mart. She knew she had a long shift as a
cashier ahead (although the store grandly styled her a "junior
associate," which meant she wore a red vest; she would graduate to a
green vest if she stayed on the job another two years) and she wasn't
looking forward to it.
She felt slightly ill from the residual effects of the accident, the
bumpy ride of the bus, and the diesel fumes she was forced to inhale. She
missed Terry's Porsche?the comfort, the speed, the sense of control. She
reached into the purse that was slung over her shoulder and took out a
compact. She flipped it open and studied her new face carefully.
Though her skin was clearly mocha-colored, she had a straight nose and
relatively thin lips; she was no doubt of a mixed heritage. With her
large, liquid brown eyes, the overall effect was quite pleasing; she
thought she might even be attracted to this were she still male.
Before long, she found herself behind a check stand at the Q-Mart.
Nothing in her previous life of wealth and privilege had prepared her for
anything like this. Terry Martin's family hired people to shop for them
and prepare their food. Their clothing only came from the best stores.
Who were these people buying pancake mix and frozen dinners, 12 dollar
jeans and bottles of detergent?
As the hours passed, it began to dawn on Mariah that the world treats a
poor young black woman far differently than it treats a wealthy young
white man. A lot of people in her line, regardless of age or race, were
quite friendly; but others seemed to regard her with wariness; she
watched more than one shopper get into a line to wait for a white
checker, even when her register was open.
And as for men, especially young men? Black or white, they seemed to have
one thing on their mind. She knew, because it had been the main thing on
her mind until last night. She had dressed for the day in khaki slacks
and a black polo shirt; nothing low-cut or particularly revealing of her
breasts. Nevertheless, she was exasperated, then infuriated, but the
number of men who couldn't seem to make eye contact with her, even when
she was directly speaking to them. Their gaze was fixed not on her
face...but slightly lower.
Mariah stumbled through the routine of her life over the next few days.
She was brought up short, though, to be leafing through the newspaper in
the store's to find her, or rather, Terry's obituary and funeral
announcement. The service was set for the next afternoon; she wasn't
scheduled to work that day.
Getting around was a little easier now that the insurance company had
issued her a check for $800 for the Honda. Mariah had only carried basic
coverage on the car, but Terry's insurer was eager to avoid any claims
and processed the check quickly. Check in hand, Mariah had gone to a
used-car lot to find that the best she could manage for $800 was a
nineteen-year old Ford Taurus with 170,000 miles on it. The left rear
fender had a ding in it, and the broken tail light lens had been repaired
with cellophane and tape. As she drove the Taurus off the lot she shed a
tear for the Porsche she had destroyed.
Inside the battered trailer that served as the dealership's office, the
car salesman shoved his cigar back into his face and fumbled for a match
to relight it. He carefully slipped Mariah's eight 100-dollar bills into
a small safe. "Funny," he thought. "The n***** bitch didn't even try to
haggle on price." (In Terry's world, of course, everything was purchased
at full retail.)
Mariah drove to the church where Terry's funeral would take place, but
couldn't bring herself to go in. She knew a simply-dressed black woman
would stand out in this wealthy white crowd.
She watched with growing distress as her?Terry's?parents arrived for the
service. His mother seemed to be overwhelmed by grief, and his father had
visibly aged in a matter of days. She felt tears of guilt and shame
welling up in her eyes. She waited until the service was over and felt a
wave of nausea as she watched the casket holding the shattered remains of
her male body being carried to the waiting hearse.
Mariah followed the funeral procession to the cemetery and watched from a
distance as the remains of her former self were lowered into the earth.
She slumped back into the car seat. The reality of what she had done was
sinking in at another level. Once more, she found herself contemplating
suicide rather than continuing to live in this prison she had somehow
created for herself.
Two feelings stopped her. The first was fear. Fear that something worse
would await her after death.
The second was something akin to love. A feeling toward Tasheka and
Chanita that could be described as a protective tenderness. She couldn't
abandon them. They were...her babies. "Oh God," she muttered to herself.
"I'm developing a maternal instinct."
Saturday night of her first week as a female arrived. She climbed into
bed feeling bone-tired. She was grateful she wasn't scheduled to work the
next day; she fervently hoped the girls would allow her to sleep in.
That was a wish that wasn't to be granted.
"Mommy! Time to get up Mommy!" they called.
"Oh, what is it? What do you want, girls?" she said groggily.
"We'll be late for church, Mommy!"
Church? Terry hadn't been to church since he was a child. Religion was
something for simpletons...at least that was what he had believed until a
few days earlier. Now, Mariah thought, she probably should go to church.
She obviously had a long way to go on any path to redemption.
As she stood before her closet after showering, she inspected her
wardrobe carefully. Most of what she owned were simple things appropriate
for work and casual times; but there were four nice dresses at one end of
the rack. She put one of them on; it was blue silk with a colorful floral
pattern. It was the first time she had ever worn a dress.
And though she had worn tennis shoes all week, she realized that wouldn't
be appropriate with this dress; she stepped into her one good pair of
heels. She applied her lipstick and pronounced herself ready to go; she
went to check how the girls were progressing in making themselves
presentable.
Shortly, they were in the sanctuary of the neighborhood's Baptist Church.
Mariah looked around at the all-black congregation; quite the contrast,
she thought, with the upper-crust Methodist church she had attended a few
times as a male child. She had dim memories of somber, people going
through rituals mechanically; but this was a very different experience.
The men, women and children around her were full of life, happily
greeting each other as they filed in. Even when the service started, the
hubbub didn't completely subside; the preacher (he wasn't a minister, he
called himself a preacher, and he was quite the showman) was orchestrator
of a passion play filled with singing, dancing, and worship. It was as
much about the heart as the mind. Mariah found herself, for the first
time in her life, actually listening to the words of the sermon.
"We are called to a new life in Christ..." the preacher shouted.
("Tell me about a new life, brother," Mariah thought to herself. "I'll
show you a new life." She actually chuckled to herself. It was the first
time she had felt anything like joy since the accident.)
It rained heavily that Sunday night, and not long after the girls had
fallen asleep, a thunderstorm began. Both girls came running out of their
bedroom and asked if they could sleep with their mother. She turned back
the covers and invited them to climb under with her. The sensation of
their bodies against hers was both strange and comforting at the same
time. "There, there now, girls" she said. "Don't worry. Nothing's going
to hurt you. Your mamma's right here." All three of them soon fell asleep
together.
Gradually, it got easier. Day by day, the routines of her new life seemed
less foreign, more natural. It was never easy. She was always tired,
always worried whether her meager paycheck would stretch far enough to
cover the most basic necessities, wondering what would happen if her car
broke down or she lost her job or one of the girls got sick; no, it was
never easy, but somehow, it got easier.
Mariah was spending less time worrying about how she would get through
each day that she was able to open herself to other emotions?like
loneliness. She was in the break room at the Q-Mart one day when the
store manager walked in to introduce her to the new assistant manager. He
was tall, dark (very dark) and handsome.
"Paul Evans," he said, offering his hand for Maria to shake. "Wonderful
to meet you." Mariah couldn't help but look at his strong jaw, flashing
smile, and kind eyes and feel a little flutter in her stomach. When her
hand touched his, she felt a little electric jolt. "Oh my God," she
thought. "Can I actually be attracted to a man? To this man?"
In the parking lot at the end of her workday she learned that she could
be attracted to Paul. She was about to climb into her car when he stopped
her. First, he wanted to talk to her about work.
"Miss Washington?may I call you Mariah?"
"Yes, please do."
"Mariah, I don't know if you're aware of this, but Q-Mart is really
putting an emphasis on promoting minorities and women. I'm living proof.
If you ever want to talk about getting your pretty self onto a management
training track, just come see me." He flashed a grin.
Mariah heard herself asking: "You really think I'm pretty?"
"Sure do. And if it's not being too forward, can I spend some more time
telling you how good you look over dinner?"
"Yes, I'd like that. We just have to find a night when my aunt can watch
my girls."
"Girls?" She thought she saw him momentarily stiffen, but the relaxed
charm quickly returned.
"I have twin daughters, age five, Tasheka and Chanita. They're very sweet
girls."
The date was made for the following Friday. Mariah couldn't believe she
was looking forward to it with anticipation and excitement. ("I'm a
man?or used to be. Why am I attracted to this man? I'm not queer....but I
guess I am a woman now, and women are attracted to men...well, at least
most women....oh hell, just go with the flow girl, go with the flow." It
didn't consciously dawn on her that it was the first time she had thought
of herself as a 'girl.'
She put extra effort into making herself look as attractive as possible
for the date. Her dress, hair and makeup had to be perfect. She had even
thought briefly about buying a new dress at the store, it wouldn't be too
bad with her employee discount, but she then remembered she was saving
every spare dollar for the girls' birthday celebration in a few weeks.
She dropped her daughters at her aunt's apartment ("Stay out as late as
you want, child. You've been working so hard and been through so much
lately. You deserve a good time.") and waited to be picked up by Paul.
It was an upscale steak house with tablecloths and waiters in vests and
ties. Mariah felt a shudder of recognition. She hadn't been in a place
this nice since....since before. They quickly fell into animated
conversation. Mariah experienced a phenomenon common to single parents of
toddlers?discovering that she hungered for an adult to converse with. Not
that Terry had ever been much of a conversationalist?his main interests
were in when he could get drunk or high, with what substances, how much
sex he was going to have, and with who?but Mariah was actually finding it
interesting to get to know this man better.
He had been born into poverty, but had gone to a small college on a
basketball scholarship (his height, six feet five inches, and muscular
build now made sense) and while he didn't have any realistic expectation
of making the NBA (too short!), those dreams died forever when he
suffered a serious knee injury toward the end of his junior season. He
dropped out after that, leaving his business degree unfinished, and
drifted for a while before his mother steered him into a job at Q-Mart.
Mariah listened with interest, but from time to time her mind kept
drifting to one question: were all the stories about the size of black
men's 'equipment' really true? The part of her that was still Terry was
horrified by the thought, but the new Mariah genuinely wanted to know. So
it was no surprise when she accepted his invitation to come to his
department for an after-dinner drink.
As they sat on his couch, he put his arm around her and drew her close
for a kiss. As her lips met his, she felt her nipples stiffen and a
tingling sensation in the groin. The part of Terry left inside of her was
still crying out in protest, but what she had come to think of as the new
Mariah asked herself, 'Do I really want this?' and she responded: 'Yes, I
want this.'
And she got it.
And she learned that, at least in Paul's case, the stories were true.
The following Monday at work, Paul sought her out to thank her for a
fabulous evening and make a second date for the following Friday. But
when Friday came, he cancelled at the last minute. He promised to
reschedule, but kept making excuses. Mariah was angry and hurt and in
some ways, more confused about her identity than ever.
Paul did seek her out in the break room one day to hand her a folder with
the application for the management trainee program already filled out.
"Turn this in," he urged. "You could be a store manager before you're 30.
I can see that you work hard and care about doing a good job. And
frankly, you're a double."
"A double? A double what?"
"You know, a double check mark. Black and female. Don't be afraid to use
it to your advantage, Mariah. It's been held against us for so long."
Mariah had decided she would enter the program, though she couldn't help
being overwhelmed by the irony. She had once been in line to inherit
millions. Now her greatest aspiration was to manage a Q-Mart.
She forced a smile and said. "Thanks. But what about?us?"
"I've been busy, baby, just really busy."
After Paul broke another date at the last minute, Mariah decided to
follow him as he left the store. She watched him drive into the downtown
area, where he stopped in front of a sleek office building. He bounded
inside and soon emerged with a tall, elegantly dressed black woman on his
arm.
Mariah confronted him at work. "Who the hell was that? Your sister?"
"Look, Mariah, you're wonderful, but two kids...I'm just not ready to
take on that kind of baggage!"
"My girls are not baggage!" she wailed, then began to cry.
"Not in here! Do you want to make a scene?"
"Yes, damn it, I do want to make a scene....but I won't...for the sake of
my job, and my girls."
After that they went out of the way to avoid each other at work. Life
resumed its normal rhythms, until Mariah ran into a bout of illness.
It was the third morning in a row she had thrown up. She washed her face
and headed to her bookshelf to pull down one of the well-thumbed volumes
on pregnancy and childcare. Mariah knew a trip to the drugstore would be
necessary to be sure, but a sickening feeling inside told her she was
pregnant.
It was abundantly clear to Mariah now that she had been put into this
situation to learn lessons and atone for her past mistakes. What she
hadn't factored into the equation until now was her opportunities for
poor judgment in this new life. It seemed like the lessons would keep
coming for a long, long time.
Lauryn
- 16.10.2020
- 32
- 0
