Looking through the Mirror

By Elunda Sanders

Get ready for a heart-pounding journey through the tumultuous life of a young survivor, as she navigates through the darkest corners of society while clutching onto her identity and sanity.

Set in a world filled with pain and despair, our protagonist must face the harsh realities of psychological, sexual, and physical abuse, a

• Language: English
• Publisher: Eulanda Sanders
• Release date: Jun 2, 2024
• ISBN: 9798330211388

Elunda Sanders

Elunda Sanders is a woman who possesses a wide range of talents. She effortlessly juggles the roles of nurse, sister, friend, mother of four, and now author. Her eight grandchildren fill her days with boundless joy and serve as her daily motivation. Elunda thoroughly enjoys exploring new places and making meaningful connections with people, thanks to her charming personality and captivating smile. She lives at the crossroads of belief and imagination. Nursing is her primary passion, but writing has become an additional channel for her to share her wisdom and stories. Above all, Elunda's utmost devotion lies with God, who she believes directs her journey and grants her a sense of meaning.

Book preview

Looking Thru the Mirror

You Can't Make This Up, Volume 1

Elunda Sanders

Published by GOD Publishing, 2024.

This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

LOOKING THRU THE MIRROR

First edition. June 14, 2024.

Copyright © 2024 Elunda Sanders.

(Digital) Written by Elunda Sanders.

Dedication

Thank you for accompanying me on this insightful journey through the pages of this tale. I hope my words strike a chord with you, bringing the pages to life while touching your emotions. Gratitude is extended to those who grasp the hidden stories and connect themselves within these pages. Above all, to the struggle that God would not allow to defeat me!

Big shout-out to Brenda, Latisha, Linda, Felicia, Dawn, LeShaun! Just pulling your leg. May DMX rest in peace. Expressing heartfelt gratitude towards the incredible individuals – L. Grice, J. Hodges, A. Phillips, and B. Johnson - who have been an unwavering source of motivation and inspiration during this pivotal phase of my journey.

Chapter 1 In the Beginning, There Was Us

L

ike a moth to a flame, trauma and my life were intertwined in the womb, and my very existence was shaped by negativity. My mother and father raised me, together with my brother, Kyle, and sister, Candace, in the projects. My father, who was christened Tyrone, always commanded the room with an undeniable authority.

He was as tall as a beanstalk, had skin as smooth as silk, and a head of hair that was so top-notch that he could have been a model for shampoo commercials. Not to mention, he had enough military experience to make Rambo green with envy.

Dad treated his green Riviera like a precious gem, pampering it with turtle wax every Saturday. And as if that weren’t enough, he would chauffeur us to the park, pushing us on the swings like a true superhero.

He was strict with us kids. He had a black belt, and I don’t mean karate.

He was tough as nails and didn’t hesitate to crack the whip on us. He appeared to adore us, but for some reason, my parents always treated me differently from my siblings. I was often in trouble and beaten for no apparent reason.

My mother was pretty as a picture, with a complexion as dark as night. She was a real head-turner, and her name was none other than Jennie-Mae. She was a real stickler for cleanliness, with a knack for making the laundry shine like nobody’s business. My mother was a rebel with a cause, a story yet untold. Her spirit was wild and untamed. She upheld a fiery personality; let’s face it, who needs central heating when you’ve got flames?

She drove a Malibu, and boy, did she have the pedal to the metal! She rode the winds of freedom. With every twist and turn, she conquered the open road. While she wasn’t turtle waxing her car, she did take diligent care of it. You couldn’t eat a piece of gum in that bitch.

They both had jealous tendencies, accusing each other of having affairs, and it felt like a battle was certain every Friday. We didn’t have much, but we made do. My mom always kept our hair combed and our clothes immaculate, and it was hell to pay if we got dirty; ass beating central.

I was petite with long legs. My hair was as dark as a moonless night and cascaded down my shoulders like a waterfall. I was curvy in all the right places, with a goblet-shaped waist. I was equipped with a personality fizzier than a soda, a sunnier demeanor than a beach day, and a smile that could knock out a whole army of bad moods.

My smile was innocent at that time. However, I soon learned that every smile would later become a coping mechanism in the making. I had a nurturing nature. I always wanted to help, but I didn’t realize that these attributes made me vulnerable to predators and would cost me dearly in the years to come.

My brother was two years under me, and my sister was two years younger than him. Although it was tough for us to make new friends, we always had each other. Kyle’s ego was so massive you couldn’t convince him he wasn’t the hottest thing since sliced bread.

He strutted around like a Pretty Ricky wannabe with a head the size of a hot air balloon. He was more of a lover than a fighter, like a peaceful dove with an innate ability to avoid conflict. My brother had a talent for being a walking volume knob (loud) and a professional irrigator (obnoxious), but hey, at least he had some redeeming qualities, so nobody complained too much. My siblings fought like cats and dogs.

They could not get along to save their lives.

My sister, whose complexion could make a canary doubt its validity, possessed a shade of yellow that could cast doubt on the sun itself. She was an incredibly sassy dictator who insisted on being crowned queen of righteousness at all times. When it came to being her primary opponent, my brother was about as helpful as a houseplant in a boxing arena.

By turning up the heat, Candice aimed to make his life a raging inferno. Even though she was barely out of toddlerism, her vocabulary was already impressive enough to embarrass a sailor. My mother must have had a cuss word radar because she always caught her red-handed.

The party was over when my mom shouted, Candace, I’m going to beat y’all ass! The one thing I knew was that if my parents promised us a beating, they would deliver without hesitation. So now it’s up to me to act like a big sister and break up the fight. Even though they argued regularly, we maintained a close connection. I was the epitome of I AM MY SIBLING’s KEEPER!

Our housing complex was decent. It was a neighborhood full of kids who spent a lot of time outside having fun. We didn’t go out much, so school was the only place we met new people.

I loved the fall. Autumn was my favorite season. Going outside and watching the leaves change colors and eventually fall from the trees was one of autumn’s greatest appeals for me. I always felt relaxed and at peace when I glared at the bright colors. However, all of that was cut short by pollen-induced sneezing. I frequently had puffy, watery eyes and a runny or congested nose.

My suffering was worth it for those elusive moments when my dad joined in on the fun, throwing my mom into a leafy abyss and commanding us to create a towering mound to conceal her. They were as rare as a unicorn sighting but worth the wait! Behind our seemingly flawless facade, we appeared to be a happy family. Once the curtains closed and the audience left, the real show began.

My parents were the life of the party, the social butterflies of the group. They had a tight-knit group of couples they partied with often, and they took turns hosting dinners, card games, and movie nights. We had to go along on a few occasions; it looked like they were having fun. However, as soon as we got into the car, they fabricated stories and made false charges about what had transpired during the party.

Plain stupidity. My dad would fire off with, That nigga pulled the chair out for you; y’all must be sneaking around.

My mom would trigger back with, Well, what was I supposed to say? No, thank you, my sorry-ass excuse of a man doesn’t believe in chivalry. If you were so concerned, you should have done it. This exchange would go on the entire way home.

My parents were heavy weed smokers, so any gathering at their place looked like Cheech and Chong had thrown it. Because of my bad allergies, I always dreaded when they held parties at our place. By morning, I found it increasingly difficult to catch my breath.

Every time I mentioned this to my mother, she would angrily demand that I leave her alone and that I was exaggerating to get some attention. I don’t know about you, but I can’t fathom anybody lying about being unable to breathe. I could think of far more ways to seek some damn attention.

When I wasn’t getting in trouble for silly stuff, I adored visiting my maternal grandparents’ home, Jodi and Wilma. Grandpa Jodi was always there for my grandmother and the kids. Grandma Wilma never worked a day but managed to raise sixteen children; she was the disciplinarian of the family. She was heavyset, attractive, and had a harsh voice. She did not mince words; she said what she meant, and she meant what the fuck she said.

Granny would often discuss how she used to be an alcohol bootlegger and loved her children! I will tell you right now: no one in their right mind should mess with Mama Bear’s cubs because she would get in the dirt with anybody. Grandma did, however, also have a softer side to her.

She was hilarious, loving, and clever in her remarks. I used to love hearing her sing. She would always sing this one phrase from one of her favorite hymns. I come from a poor family. We didn’t have much, but the Lord’s been good to me.

My grandpa was an excellent instructor who could always find a lesson in any circumstance. The irony was that he had trouble reading. His mother died when he was incredibly young while giving birth, so he had no formal education. But he was a walking dictionary; he knew everything about everything, and you’d never believe he was illiterate. He had a gentle demeanor and rarely raised his voice, but he loved to drink.

He was amusing even when he was intoxicated. He’d pay us a dollar to dance, sing, or even fart. He always emphasized the importance of mastering a skill to show off our abilities. I admired him because he worked his ass off, refused handouts, and was willing to lend a helping hand or the shirt off his back for the sake of his family. But one thing was guaranteed: he would do anything to protect his family.

It’s possible that my mom’s parents were too cautious with me. I had a unique bond with my grandparents because of the fact my mother gave birth to me when she was a teenager while still living at home. Grandma Wilma treated me like her favorite granddaughter. My grandma always ensured I had an extra piece of watermelon because she knew how much I loved it. If I picked up the newspaper, she’d slip me a dollar, but the rest of my cousins were told to clean up and do as they were told.

My father’s parents were divorced and moved on with new companions. My paternal grandmother, Julie, had eight children, all incredibly compassionate and loving qualities they were forced to inherit from her. Grandma’s tongue was a double-edged sword; she never held back. She was honest and straightforward, so I had no problem trusting her. Best of all, I knew I had her undying affection whenever I was in her presence.

Grandma Julie’s husband, Papa Richard, was a rigorous but kind soldier in the United States Army. I don’t know much about their marriage, but I can tell you that he was an excellent grandfather. He always made time for us grandchildren, even after a full day at work.

He would tell us stories about his time in the army, which taught us discipline and compassion. Papa Richard wasn’t just a soldier; he was a hero in my eyes. The complete opposite of my father’s father, Jack.

Papa Jack reminded me of the uncle lurking in the shadows at the family barbeque, rubbing his hands together, licking his lips, waiting for any underage fast-ass girls to twerk or show up in their hottest come fuck me dress. Papa Jack was a man just like that! He often wanted me to sit on his lap, but it seemed like he always had a roll of quarters in his pocket.

Everyone constantly complimented us on how well-behaved we were when in the presence of others. We always appeared picture-perfect, but our picture was far from perfect. It felt like there was constantly a dispute or a battle going on. Domestic violence existed before it had a name in my family, but it wasn’t your ordinary Ike and Tina type of shit; not only slapping on bitches but disrespectful degrading shit appeared normal.

My mother and her sisters were well-known in the town for jumping anyone who wanted smoke, and since ain’t no rules in fighting, they had sticks, bricks, and all kinds of shits. It didn’t matter to them if you were male or female; if you had problems, they were there to solve them. One of my uncles had the art of beating up bitch’s down to a science as if he had graduated from whoop-a-hoe college.

My mother and her sisters were close and supportive of one another, even though they occasionally argued. They had nonstop phone conversations about everything under the sun. One day, my mother was talking with her sisters about a woman who had been sexually abused and beaten. This is sickening all of this free pussy out here, and nigga’s are raping people, my mother remarked.

What exactly does it mean to be raped, I wondered? Never in a million years did I think that being raped would become a defining moment in my life, much like the Kennedy family’s shot heard ’round the world. Unfortunately, the statement would come to characterize my existence. The sins of the father sometimes can become the child’s reality!

When I initially heard the word, I had no idea what it meant, but subsequent exposure aroused my interest. My mother and aunt were talking about an incident. I overheard my mother explaining, He led me to the woods near muddy water, and that’s all I recall. I was so scared that I laced up my Nikes and took flight. My clothes were all ripped up and shit; all I was left with was a feeling of disgust. I told Daddy and Mama about it. Daddy got his shotgun and a bottle of Wild Irish Rose, and we went looking for his punk ass. I was afraid because he was psychotic, and I didn’t want to go through the humiliation of a trial, so I let it go.

It was the second