15. Alonse Robertson
Alonse Robertson
Fifty.
That’s how many windows were in my aunt and uncle's home. And out of the fifty, only thirty-seven had curtains.
Aunt Selene had this thing about being blessed to live where the Lord always shone the sun and thought it best to let it grace her home. My uncle pretty much did whatever his wife said, so whether he agreed or not, a house made for one hundred window panels contained only seventy-four.
My strife wasn’t with the sun.
There was once a time when I enjoyed it. Enjoyed the company of others. Getting invited to all the neighborhood kids' birthday parties.
I mean, none of them spoke to me or invited me to play any of the games at these parties, but deep down, they knew my presence was needed for their event to be memorable.
Those were the days.
Enjoyable times before I was forced to block out the world and build a fictitious life to hide my truth.
This agoraphobia shit my mother conjured up worked.
Yeah, my social life sucked. My entire circle of friends was an online community of people I’d never seen, and my sex life was a lively expense. I paid for pussy like it was New York parking.
Not because I wanted to.
I had to.
These women I hired didn’t care to know my name or my backstory. They provided a service and, once payment cleared, they performed.
That was the beauty of agoraphobia.
People heard the word, looked up the meaning, and immediately stopped expecting me to be normal. They stopped asking questions about my whereabouts and didn’t press me about friends, marriage, or why I was obtaining my ninth master’s degree online with no lavish career to show for it.
My business was my business.
I sat stiffly on the living room couch, knees together, laptop balanced across my thighs.
My phone vibrated beside me, and the screen displayed an unknown number with a Florida area code.
“Hello?”
“Yes, Mr. Alonse Robertson?” the raspy-voiced woman asked.
“Yes, this is him.”
“This is Gloria Nickles calling from the Florida Department of Health. We’re following up regarding the environmental testing conducted on your property.”
I sat up straighter.
“And?”
“Your property has been cleared, sir. No hazardous chemical levels were found. You are free to return home at your earliest convenience.”
Relief moved through my body so hard I almost smiled.
“Thank you. I appreciate the update,” I said, ending the call.
Finally.
A few nights in Havenbrook had already felt like a few years.
There was no desire in me to spend another moment in this fake bougie Blackness, surrounded by people who supported popularity over talent.
A firmament filled with dumb, fast women whom you take from their poor project-living lifestyles and train to exude excellence. Give them material things their minimum-wage families couldn't afford with two incomes, and what does the bitch do?
She chose him.
I glared back at my laptop, the bile in my stomach threatening to make an exit, my lip turned up in pure disgust. The article still glowed across the screen.
BLACK IN BUSINESS: ECHO EVERETTE ON MUSIC, LEGACY, AND FAMILY
This nigga.
The bane of my existence stood proud in an expensive suit, diamonds decorating his wrist, teeth shining confidently like he wasn’t a selfish, meddling individual.
The article praised him like he had invented sound itself.
Young mogul and visionary genius my ass.
My stomach twisted.
This should have been me.
I should have been standing in that article. The man people looked up to. The one with the fucking power.
Me.
I beat my fist against my chest so hard water rushed to my eyes. Standing, I paced back and forth with the laptop still in my hand, my own voice filling the room as my rant continued out loud.
“Not this thugged-out, girlfriend-stealing punk,” I muttered, shaking my head as I turned and paced the other way.
“He should be the one hiding. He should be the one changing his name. He should be the one looking over his shoulder every time the wind blew too hard, or a floorboard creaked beneath him.”
My steps grew heavier, faster, each turn pulling more anger out of me.
“He should be the one taking pills to fix his mind. He should be the one replaying sleepless nights of his girlfriend breaking up with him and telling him the baby she was carrying wasn’t his.”
The words burned on their way out, but I kept talking, because stopping meant I was suppressing. Stopping meant I was ashamed, as if I did something wrong. And I didn’t.
“Leading me on damn near the whole pregnancy.”
I laughed, but there wasn’t anything funny about it.
“Yeah, she tried to tell me several times. She began avoiding me and even threatened a restraining order.”
My voice faded after that, leaving only the sound of my feet pacing across the floor. The moment I stopped speaking out loud, my thoughts raged recalling the memory as if it happened yesterday.
Restraining order my ass.
Simone didn’t know what was best for her. I did. And I knew it was Echo telling her to lie to me about the baby not being mine, just so he could take my kid away too.
But if I couldn’t have them, he damn sure wouldn’t either.
She deserved every bullet I put in her. Little bitch was really going to try and walk away from me. Leave me? Motherfucking Sloane Roberts?
Hell no.
I come from greatness. The bitch should have considered me knowing her name an honor, let alone making her mine.
I can still hear the tearing of her skin with every bullet that pierced through her.
Still see the blood splattered across the walls, the couch, and coating the floor in red.
I still see the fear and desperation on her face as I stood over her body, watching her fade away.
And instead of apologizing to me, begging me for her life, groveling before me like the king I am, Simone had the nerve to cradle her full-term stomach and tell that bastard baby she loved it.
As if either of them was going to see daylight.
I let loose another shot, aiming for her stomach, but my mother’s scream threw off my aim. The memory alone made a slow, venomous laugh crawl up my throat.
“Hope that little mistake felt everything its mother had,” I said out loud, laughing harder as the words filled the room. “Death included.”
“Alonse!”
The sudden sound of Psalm’s voice made me jerk so hard my laptop slipped from my grasp and landed on the floor.
“Damn, my bad, cuz.” He stepped into the room quickly, bending to pick it up. “I ain’t mean to scare you.”
“You don’t know to announce yourself before entering a room?” I hissed.
“I called your name. Ain’t my fault you down here practicing some kind of monologue with your weird a—”
Psalm paused before finishing his statement.
He lifted the laptop, inspecting it.
“Screen still on. I’ll pay for any internal damage.”
I must have reached for my laptop too fast, giving myself away, because my disturbance of a cousin jolted it back and paid closer attention to what was displayed on the screen.
A slow grin appeared on his face.
“Old Man Echo. A real one, right?” he asked.
My expression must have warranted a continuation of praise because he kept going.
“He got a great instrumental ear, a smart business mind, and he funny as shit. Definitely see why the town praises him so much.”
Although annoyed, my cousin's rambling led me to believe he was more acquainted with Echo than a simple social media follower.
“You know him?” I asked.
Psalm glanced up.
“A little.”
“Personally?”
My excitement crawled too close to the surface.
“I mean... do you have access to him? Y’all friends? Could he come here?”
If my cousin could get Echo here, I could kill the second bird I missed with my stone. Maybe I’d stick around Havenbrook just a bit longer.
“Nah,” he responded slowly, handing me back my laptop.
The drag in his voice made me believe he was lying, and the strange look he gave me told me my questions had sparked his curiosity.
But like everyone else, he seemed willing to categorize me as strange and move on.
“Look man, I got a friend coming over, and it’s too hot to be outside.
We’ll be on the lower level of the house working on a project.
You might run into her in here, the kitchen, game room, wherever.
I know you’re, like, allergic to people and shit, so if it’s a problem, stay upstairs until further notice or go by the pool. ”
Disdain took over.
Who did his young ass think he was?
Yeah, he was closer to Echo than he admitted. He had that I run shit demeanor all over him.
This man ruins everything that’s mine.
But I was going to put a stop to it. There was no way I was leaving Havenbrook and allowing him to still be alive.
“I’m not worried about your little friend,” I responded just as the doorbell rang.
“Good. ’Cause she’s here,” Psalm smiled.
He turned and headed toward the front of the house.
I stared after him until he disappeared down the hall, then looked back at Echo’s face on the laptop screen.
“I hope you suffered watching Simone’s cold body in that casket.
Hope you still cry at the image of her being lowered into the ground.
And since you’re this master of sound, I hope the thud and vibrations of the dirt tossed over that casket replay in your ears every time it rains.
Hope there’s room next to her plot, because you’re next. ”
Most people wouldn’t understand what I’d done.
What I still needed to do.
Because most people would agree that I should have moved on. Accepted the loss.
But what most people won’t take the time to realize is that I was a good kid who didn’t ask for much and accepted a lot of shit.
I accepted the fact that my parents weren’t affectionate towards me.
Accepted the fact that I didn’t know how to express myself or understand the voices in my head.
Accepted the fact that the kids at school, on the playground, and at every social event called me names, beat me up, and socially excluded me.
Accepted the fact that when I attempted to take my own life multiple times by way of my wrists, my parents forced pills down my throat that made me mentally and physically numb.
“You’ll grow out of it, Sloane.” “It’s all in your head.” “You don’t need friends. Friends are trouble.”
All things my parents used to say to me whenever I brought up that I felt differently than others and how it kept me up at night.
Then I finally got someone who never judged me. Someone who indulged whatever I wanted to do. Someone more broken than me. Someone who needed me. Needed my love. Someone who made life seem worth living.
Then I had to accept the fact that one of the mean kids took her away from me.
Fuck that.
My acceptance had run out.
I slammed my laptop shut and clutched it like a trophy.
“Yeah, you lived long enough, Everette,” I said, laughter spilling out of me, ugly and wild.
The sound of someone clearing their throat behind me caused me to slowly turn.
Psalm stood there with an unreadable expression. His ass must've been mixed with feline the way he could just sneak up on you.
Beside him stood a young woman. She was petite, brown-skinned, and beautiful, but more importantly, she was familiar. Her long hair sat in a ponytail high on top of her head. A bo-bo?
“Um... Alonse, this is Juliet.” His voice held confusion, obviously due to the distress in my demeanor. “Juliet, this is my cousin, Alonse.”
She smiled politely before signing as she spoke, and it was then I noticed the hearing aids in her ears.
“Hello. Nice to meet you, Alonse.”
Her height. Her aura. The deep dimples in her smile. If I had ever doubted reincarnation, it was evident that it was real now.
All strength left my body from the shock, and my knees momentarily gave out. My laptop slipped from my hands. This time, when it hit the floor, the screen cracked completely. Juliet and Psalm reacted to the laptop hitting the floor, but I couldn’t move.
Simone was standing right in front of me.
Not really, but close enough for my eyes to recognize her spirit and my bones to feel the haunting. This girl’s eyes. Her soft but electrifying energy. That ghetto-ass ball clacker in her hair. And dare I say, respectfully, her beauty.
Simone’s ghost had found me.
But how?
I never left the premises.
Psalm's little basketball buddies from a few weeks ago weren't old enough to know me, and there had been no other guests before today.
It wasn't until that article about Echo that this happened.
The anger steaming off my body at the mere sight of that man must've transmitted some intoxicating psychic energy that acted like a beacon, and she picked up on it.
Somebody call Stephen King.
My heart hammered against my ribs.
To hell with Echo.
To hell with revenge.
Simone's death would have to be enough.
Him living with the constant reminder that he caused her death for the rest of his life surely ruined his everyday existence.
Her being gone and him never getting the chance to have a piece of her, not even the fatherless child she was carrying, would forever be a haint on his back.
Staying another day in Havenbrook and being haunted by the girl I rightfully murdered was not an option.
Psalm looked down at the laptop, then back at me.
“Yeah,” he said slowly, “I’m not paying for that.”