Ratchet, Chapter 2 (Patreon)

The flight to Los Angeles was a long one, and while Monica was overjoyed to be on a trip to a place she had always wanted to visit, she couldn’t help but feel incredibly nervous at the prospect of meeting her new boyfriend’s family for the first time. Would they accept her as she was? Would it bother them that she was white? Would she be able to keep up with their culture without embarrassing herself? 

(1)

She stared out of the window of the plane, continuing to fret over the possibilities. What if she was thinking too hard about it? What if all this worrying was actually leading her down the path she was trying to avoid? What if she said something insensitive or unintentionally racist BECAUSE she was trying not to? Would she try too hard to impress them and come off as a weird, whack white girl from the east coast? DID BLACK PEOPLE STILL SAY ‘WHACK???’

She yelped and nearly jumped out of her seat when Owen reached over and touched her arm, alarming both him, and indirectly, the woman sitting next to him.

“Baby girl, what’s going on? You’ve been bouncing that leg so fast I’m worried you’re gonna put a hole in the floor. Or get tendonitis, whichever comes first.” He said with a charming, thoughtful shrug meant to put her at ease.

Monica turned towards him nervously. “Do black people still say stuff is whack?” She asked.
Owen’s eyebrow quirked, and then his eyes narrowed as they shifted from side to side in amused confusion. 

“Uhhh……..S..Sometimes?...Yeah. Sometimes……Contextually. More importantly, *YOU* shouldn’t be saying that.”

“Wait, why? Is that bad!? Why not?” Monica asked, genuinely fearful that she’d done something offensive.

Owen shrugged again, this time with a sagely nod. “I’m afraid that would be rather whack.”

“Sorry. I’m just trying to not do something stupid, but I’m worried about being a lame white person in front of your family.”  Monica said dismally. “Maybe I should just try to be keep quiet whenever I can and try not to ruin this for you. I want to do well and not leave a bad impression.”

Owen smiled his same sexy, reassuring smile. “I understand not wanting to embarrass yourself, but hiding and not being your true self would be the whackest thing of all. Just show them who you really are on the inside, and they will see what I see in you: a beautiful, brilliant woman with a good head on her shoulders and a loving man at her side. And if my mama or my sisters give you any trouble, you just tell me and I’ll take care of it myself.”

The plane landed and the couple had lunch before calling an über to take them to Owen’s mom’s house. Despite all of his reassurance, Monica still couldn’t shake the feeling of dread that hung over her like a grim specter, waiting to snatch her soul away at the first stupid misstep. She bounced her leg hopelessly in the car the whole way, watching as the big city skyscrapers and high-rises dwindled to smaller and smaller buildings all around her. Her manic, overcharged fear of embarrassment had changed to a nervous, uneasy fear for her life when they pulled onto a green, but dilapidated street with a sign that read “Martin Luther King St.” It wasn’t so much that Dr. King’s name being on the sign bothered her, but rather it was the fact that the sign itself appeared to have no fewer than 4 bullet holes in it as it stood next to a gratuitously tagged power generator that she believed may have once been green at one point. Owen had originally been forthright about the fact that his family home was in the ghetto, but she’d never actually seen the real thing up close.
The pair stepped out of the car and Owen took a deep whiff of the smoggy LA air before declaring “Welp, this is it! Home sweet home.” 

He began walking away, and motioned with a grabby, gimme motion of his hand to signal his trepid girlfriend to take his hand and stay with him as they walked. Monica ran for it, nervously clinging to him as her heels clicked noisily down the cracked and ridiculously uneven pavement. She felt eyes on her from the windows and patios as locals stared at the obviously out of place woman nearly stuck to the arm of a tall, well dressed black man as she clip-clopped up the street in her equally out of place rich lady shoes. Monica was well aware of the scene she was causing and genuinely believed in her heart of hearts that she was just asking to be mugged. 

Eventually, the pair made it past the leering eyes of the neighborhood denizens and turned into a cracked driveway with barely any room to even park a car in. Loud noises were coming from the screen door, indicating that the main door was open behind it.
Before Owen could bring Monica to the front steps of his house, a slim black woman with large hoop earrings and a crop top walked out and slammed the door behind her as an older woman yelled from inside for her to come back. The woman turned her head to look at Owen, who smiled and raised his hand to greet her, but the moment she turned and saw the anxiety-ridden white woman clinging to his arm she rolled her eyes and kept walking.

(2)

“…Bye Keisha.” Own said quietly, knowing full well that the angry looking black woman either couldn’t hear him or didn’t care to respond.

“OH HAAAY!!! IS THAT MY BABY AT THE DOOR?!” A voice rang out from behind the obscuring screen.
The door opened and a older, more mature looking version of the previous girl rushed out with her arms opened wide and in the air as she nearly threw herself onto Owen, embracing him in a huge, rocking hug. She took a step back and eyed the blonde woman on her son’s arm with a smaller, but still approving smile.

(3)

“And THIS must be Monica….It is SO nice to meet you. My name is Lovelie, and no that’s not a nickname! It’s love, with an L-I-E at the end. I know that may be a little hard to get used to but it’s fine because you just gonna end up callin me Mama anyways. How you doin, baby?” The woman gushed, her charisma and matronly charm already putting Monica off her guard while simultaneously making her feel horribly out of place. 

“Hello there…” Monica said with a shy smile. “I’m Monica, Owen’s girlfriend. It’s lovely to meet you.” Monica nearly winced at accidentally using the woman’s name as part of her regular vernacular, but held out her hand politely as if she were closing a business deal, but kept her wrist soft and gentle in order to consciously portray femininity and kindness. Even so, the gesture was completely lost on the older woman.

“Oh girl please, this ain’t no interview! Come on, baby. You’re family now and ‘round here, family members hug *they* mama.” Lovelie said, theatrically throwing her arms up into the air once again and pulling her newly claimed and christened daughter-in-law into her soft, plush body with a pair of surprisingly strong and firm arms. Monica did her best to return the gesture before her boyfriend’s mother squeezed the life out of her, but the harder she held, the more of a crushing contest it seemed to become. Eventually, she gave up and ragdolled in the black lady’s grip.
The two were ushered inside and Monica got her first good look at Mama Lovelie. She was curvy with a soft, puffy waist that more than likely only came about in the last 20 years or so and wide, childbearing hips. She wore a sleek and form-fitting blue dress with a white trim around the collar. Conservative to be sure, but not so much that it didn’t show off the bounce and jiggle in her big, meaty legs. Monica imagined that once upon a time she was probably quite the hot piece. Lovelie had a sort of sway and swagger as she moved. Her hips swung left to right, then right to left in an almost hypnotic motion that caught Monica staring without realizing. Her hair was a puff of light brown dreadlocks that grayed at the root, but firecrackered outward in a way that made her look flashy and fun while maintaining a sort of elegant glamor. She turned around and gestured to her small home and as she did, Monica couldn’t help but realize just how much of a generous chest Owen’s mother had.

“I’m up here, baby. Eyes up. Hello.” She said, and laughed as Monica suddenly realized what she was doing. Lovelie laughed with genuine amusement at the girl’s rapidly reddening face. 

“I don’t see why you’re so mesmerized when you got’cho own tiddies bigger than mine.” She cackled, causing her embarrassed houseguest to cover her face.

“Anyways, this here is Linnethia but we all just call her Ne-ne. Ne-ne this is Owen’s new girlfriend! She gon’ be staying with us from now on, so you finally gonna get what’chu always askin for.”

Ne-ne looked up from the couch with a dumb expression on her face and her eyes went wide when she saw Monica.

(4)

“Oooooh, you’re so prettyyyy!!!” She gushed. “Really Mama? She’s Owen’s girl now? Ohmahgawd wooooow..” 

There was something off-putting about the way Ne-ne was looking at Monica. The girl seemed to be, in a word, stupid. She was very fat and slouched into the couch as she stuffed her face with an assortment of chips sitting on the side table next to her, several cups of soda from previous fast food meals littering the coffee table in front of her in various states of emptiness but never quite depleted She too was busty, but with a fat, heavy chest that sagged to either side of her big belly and pressing against her thick, flabby arms. Were she thinner, she would have likely looked more like her mom, Monica mused, but this was clearly the more spoiled of the children as she was sunk into the couch pretty solidly and didn’t appear to move away from it much.

The other thing that puzzled her was Lovelie’s statement about how long they were going to be there. They weren’t moving in, but the way it had been described made it seem like they weren’t going back home any time soon. Monica wanted to say something then and there but was still trying to make a good first impression and didn’t quite know how to bring it up without sounding rude or like she was trying to leave the moment they’d arrived. She mentally sighed at the awkward situation she suddenly found herself in and resolved to talk to Owen about later, suspecting not Lovelie herself, but her son for misrepresenting their intentions or at least failing to correct her when he had the opportunity to do so. Maybe, she reasoned, he was planning on saying something later, but the contented look on his face gave her the impression that he wasn’t really too concerned with it.

Before long, the pair had been led to a small room at the end of the hallway where Owen had spent his childhood. Lovelie gushed that it was just he’d left it, but all that really meant was his old bed and a Tupac poster adorned the small space. Aside from that, there was little more than an empty desk and a closet with a couple sweaters hanging in the closet that Monica reasoned would never fit the muscular man he’d grown into. Still, she smiled at the mental image of her new boyfriend in his skinny teen years. The two set their bags on the ground and shoved them under the bed, doing what they could to get comfortable while Lovelie made them dinner. Monica attempted to discuss the terms of their stay with Owen, but he simply assured her that his mother only meant that Ne-ne was going to be seeing her as a new sister and should get used to having a white girl in the family. He elaborated that he was the eldest of three siblings with Ne-ne being the youngest and the woman they’d seen storm out of the house earlier was the middle sister Keisha who had always had a bit of a bratty attitude. The explanations made Monica feel more at ease, but she still couldn’t get over a sinking feeling of either concern or dread about the trip. She’d expressed this as well, and Owen being the gentleman that he was, held her in his strong arms and comforted her with further assurance that this was normal for any new woman meeting her boyfriend’s family, especially one so culturally different, and ESPECIALLY for a woman who already had anxiety issues. He informed her that by the time the weekend was over, she would feel much safer and comfy in the knowledge that his family already considered her family and would act accordingly.

By the time they were called out to dinner, the table was set and candles and both Keisha and Ne-ne were already seated. Lovelie was humming to herself as she set plates of mashed potatoes and well-seasoned sausage on the table next to ornate and very old looking cups of some unknown , steaming flavor of tea.

“Alright everybody, let’s all hold hands for the prayer.” Lovely said, waving her hands in a circular motion in order to prompt Owen and Monica to hurry up and sit down. 

Monica sat and lovingly took Owen’s hand with her left while Ne-ne eagerly grabbed her right with sweaty, doughy palms and bright, sparkling eyes. Monica was never the religious sort, having grown up in an atheistic household that rolled their eyes at scripture and constantly found themselves annoyed at missionaries or the demands from Christians to act as they do according to the laws of a religion they didn’t follow. Even so, she knew how to be respectful and politely play along to the superstitious rituals and prayer groups involved in being around religious folks who would be offended if she didn’t take part. However, instead of opening with statements of “Oh heavenly father” or “We ask you god to…”, Lovelie began to sing in a language she couldn’t quite understand. Ne-ne eagerly joined in, enthusiastically adding to the chanting rhythm of the song while Monica looked over at Owen who was doing the same, albeit more calmly and in a more composed, dignified manner. Monica looked around, feeling slightly for having her eyes open while everyone else had their eyes closed and heads down until she saw Keisha pursing her lips and shaking her head, a disapproving scowl on her face. The two women’s eyes met from across the table and Keisha’s expression softened. She stared for a moment with what looked like a mixture of pity and sadness before sighing deeply and mouthing the words (I’m so sorry) before lowering her head and joining in the chanting. 

For her part, Monica could only try to keep up and make out what was happening as her anxiety began to spike. She had no idea what was happening or even being sung, with no way to join in or participate other than to mumble and periodically open and re-close her eyes from time to time as she began to feel queasy and shaky. A sudden dryness took hold of her throat and she repeatedly tried not to cough as she felt her skin rapidly dry out and begin to tingle and itch like a sunburn. Her scalp felt like it was on fire and the nerves in her feet burned, the dryness in her throat causing her to cough raucously despite her every attempt not to. The chanting family didn’t seem to either mind or even notice Monica’s intense coughing fit and kept singing. Even when she pulled her hands away and lunged for the still steaming tea in front of her, no one seemed to bat an eyelash. If anything, their song only seemed to become more intense. She desperately downed the hot liquid and felt it’s warmth fill and heat her stomach to feverish temperatures.

Now flushed with heat and trying desperately to stop the itching, painful sensations pulsating through her body, Monica stood up just as the still seated family stopped singing and drank their tea. While Lovelie and Owen sipped calmly, Keisha drank with a solemn and detached face. Ne-ne eagerly gulped hers down and immediately turned to Monica and asked how she was feeling only to be immediately admonished by her mother. For Monica however, Ne-ne’s words were bleary and distant as if she were lost underwater, and her stumbling, frantic attempts to rid herself of the boiling heat welling up inside of her reflected that. She hazily charged for the door with the manic frenzy that only a bodily imperative could bestow and threw herself past the screen and into the open air.

Monica ran into the night, completely careless as to where she was going so long as she continued going there, feeling the cool breeze waft away the heat of her boiling blood. She listened to the rustling of the trees and felt the damp earth gently yield to her bare feet. The moon shone huge and blue over the calm ocean, shimmering against the water’s surface and Monica could think of nowhere she would rather be than in it’s cool embrace. She could still hear the chanting of Owen’s family in her head, an auditory phantom that remained and resounded like an alarm or continuous song would do after hours of listening to it and growing accustomed to the sound. Her feet hit the black sand of the beach and she felt all the strength drain from her body. Nearly falling over, but driven still by the painful tingling of every nerve in her body, however dissipated by the damp jungle wind, she slogged her way to the surf and allowed herself to collapse. 

(5)

The ebb and flow of the tide drew her in bit by bit and she felt the sand beneath her being pulled away until she was left floating in the open ocean, staring at the moon. Too lethargic to bring herself to panic or fight, she simply drifted, feeling the horrid, feverish heat seep out into the cool water. After some time, she felt herself wash up on another beach and groggily lifted herself out of the surf. She wandered dreamily and naked towards the light of a cabin just off of the shore. Monica wrapped her arms around her chest, now shivering from the chill of the wind against her wet body, but still couldn’t escape the tingling that had been running riot throughout her nervous system since the now far away seeming dinner at her boyfriend’s mother’s house.

As she approached the cabin, Monica saw a thin black woman with wild, gloriously long hair that spiraled into silky, gleaming coils down her back. The woman strode towards Monica, calmly beckoning her forth with a soft, ephemeral “come hither” motion of her left hand. The shaking blonde moved towards her without even a thought to the contrary like a hypnotized damsel in an episode of Scooby Doo. She stood before the dark skinned woman and seemed to shrink before her, suddenly aware of the outdoor patio growing taller around her. In truth, Monica knew that she wasn’t getting smaller nor the woman before her any larger, but instead everything seemed more daunting, more powerful, indeed greater than her while sit was her sense of self and strength that felt miniscule, and the feeling was somehow superimposing itself on her own delirious view of the world around her. 

(6)

The dark skinned woman took Monica by the hand and led her inside of the cabin where there was little more than a dark, singular hall with a beaded curtain obscuring a candlelit room at the far end. She slowly wandered toward the room, suddenly aware that she’d completely lost track of the dark woman from before. She turned around sleepily, only to find herself alone and staring down a dark, dead end hallway with no windows or even any sign of the door she’d entered from. Monica became overwhelmed by fear, coaxed forward only by sheer willpower and the hopeless determination of knowing that she wasn’t going to go home again by sitting and cowering in the hallway. She crept forward and pushed her way past the beaded doorway and into a small room with an ancient looking statue sitting on the ground.

(7)

The statue was black in color and depicted an African looking woman sitting cross legged on the floor, however her legs morphed into snakes that curled around her entire body instead of ending in regular human feet. Monica stared at the statue with a discerning fear and swallowed hard.

(Feed Me..)

She heard a vague echo throughout the entire room. It wasn’t a sound per say, but a feeling. An intangible, mental intrusion that once again only felt like an actual sound. She looked around the room and found no windows or doors; only the flickering of the three candles adorning the sides and head of the unnerving idol. The statue’s upper half was indeed a bare-chested woman with a pair of serpentine tails covering her nipples, and a golden ring painted onto the center of it’s forehead as if to signify a third eye or some other religious concept that Monica would have previously dismissed as superstitious nonsense. But nonsense was not what this was to the increasingly accepting woman, and despite the strangeness of her situation, she resolved to handle it in as dignified and rational a manner as she could.
“What is it you want?” She asked, making sure to keep any trace of fear from slipping into her voice, but failing slightly regardless. 

(Feed Me…) The feeling commanded again, this time more forcefully.

“Feed you what?” Monica asked, allowing herself to grow angry at the situation and vague instruction, hoping on an unconscious level that doing so would make her feel more powerful than she was.

“What do you eat? People? Souls?.....Regular food?” Monica inquired, trying to match the increasing feeling of intensity within the room with her own forcefulness. Her courage was broken however by a sudden, sharp, and very much audible whisper coming from right over her shoulder and into her ear.

“Feed Me.”

Monica nearly jumped out of her skin as she turned to look behind her, finding nothing but a blank wooden wall where at least there had been the beaded curtain previously. She turned with great anxiety back towards the statue and stared at it in dreaded anticipation of it’s next cue.

The statues eyelids suddenly flicked open, revealing a very human looking pair of eyes that looked directly at Monica.

She screamed, thrashing and throwing blankets off of herself, only to be held down and shushed by Owen and Lovelie, who were now mysteriously standing over her in the bedroom, morning light trickling in through the shaded window.

“Baby girl, you had a panic attack and passed out at the dinner table last night. Are you okay?” Owen asked sweetly, his soft, rugged voice a great comfort to her.

“I….don’t know.” She said, slowly readjusting to her return to reality from such a vivid nightmare and smiling sweetly at her loving man. “But I’m glad you’re here.”

(8)