Dr. Sarah Dillard was an advice columnist in the Bronx, New York. She worked for a small newspaper, where she received and answered thousands of letters. These were letters of betrayal, lost love, and scorn. They were letters of pain and injury, with no hope of healing . . . or was there? Dillard began to wonder if writing letters of advice to these people was really the best way to go. She left the newspaper. She sought the senders of so many painful letters. She heard their stories-beginning to end-and came to realize that these people did not necessarily want advice. Generally, they just wanted to be heard. They wanted to share their stories, and in the sharing, perhaps prevent the repetition of history. For instance, one happily married woman discovered her husband was gay; another woman found herself in love with the "wrong" man, simply on account of his race. The Accounts of the Scorned is an awakening of the epistolary novel format, dating back to the fifteenth century. These stories are told through letters. Although Dillard received thousands of them over the course of her newspaper career, a choice few stuck with her heart. Dillard views the writers of these letters not as a psychiatrist but as a woman, with a heart, soul, and yearning to heal the brokenness of the betrayed.
The Accounts of the Scorned
By Jeh WellsiUniverse, Inc.
Copyright © 2011 Jeh Wells
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4620-1726-3 Chapter One
Part 1
When violating the moral boundaries of ones relationship we can only expect to cause an unforeseeable amount of damage.
Dear Dr. Dillard, I am the daughter of a pastor. Born and raised in Flagstaff, Arizona. I met him in my daddy's church. I called him my chocolate dream. I have always been attracted to black men, it's just he's was the first I had ever been with because he was the first not afraid to speak to me. Most guys were afraid of my father. He began picking me up from school, we'd sneak off to his grandmothers house. For the first time in my life I had begun lying to my parents. I'd lie and tell them I was at cheerleading or at choir practice, sometimes I'd claim to be at a friend's house. Because if they found out I was having sex, worse having sex with a black guy. They'd kill me. Well eventually they did find out and tried to separate us. So we did what a lot of kids do. We ran off. Yeh, we went right to Georgia to stay at his auntie house. That was until God stepped in and snatch him from me. After the funeral his auntie put me out. I had no where to go, I was homeless for weeks. I couldn't call my daddy, he disowned me after Jackson and I left. I wanted to die, I even tried to kill myself. That's when I met "Deon', he rescued me. He took me to his home, fed me, he encouraged me to get a job and said I could stay until I get on my feet. At first I was apprehensive but he was real nice to me the way "Jackson" was. We were okay for a while, then he started to complain that I didn't make enough money at my job and how I needed to help out more if I was going to live there. I looked for a new job but pickings were slim because I hadn't finished high school and I didn't have any skills. His suggestion was that I strip. "My home boy got a club, you could dance there. You heard me 34, 26, 42? (He didn't call me by name, he called me by my dimensions). You pretty and you got rhythm, which is rare in you white girls." he said. I'll admit the money was good but he started taxin' me for more money, eventually he'd just take everything I made for the night. He would make me feel like I had owed him for the rest of my life. He wouldn't let me go anywhere by myself. He'd drop me off and pick me from the club. I was a prisoner. When I was in the house he'd rape me and then lock me in a closet in his room, like I was an animal. Sometimes he'd come back angry because he lost all his money ( correction, MY money) in a dice game. Those were the worst times because he'd drag me out of the closet rape me, beat me bloody, leave me to tend to my own wounds and still expect me to prepare his dinner. He'd say 34, 26,42 I ain't never letting you go, you worth your weight in gold girl. He gave me Gonorrhea twice, Chlamydia once, Trich, and one time he even gave me crabs. It's 2000 and what? Who still gets crabs? He must have been fucking dogs, hood rat ghetto broads who sleep with 10 guys from Monday to Sunday. And even at this point I still felt like I owed him my life. It wasn't until one night when he brought me home from the club, we were sitting outside in his Chevy when he punched me in face, breaking my jaw. It was at that point I knew I had to get away. I pulled his gun from underneath my seat and began firing shots into his chest until I emptied the clip. I dropped the gun and called the police. I sat beside the body until the police arrived. I won't go into any further detail about that portion of my life. But I'll tell you this much, I now live in the Bronx and I've been reading your column for a few months and it seems like most of the women that write to you are African-American, I just wanted them to hear about what happened to me so that they can see hurt comes in all colors. It's not just black women that endure heartaches. Signed, Bruised Georgia Peach Dear Dr. Dillard, Does cheating give you a motive to kill? Does a ruined life give you motive to kill? Is hatred really motive for killing? He has no family, I'm his family and he has very few friends. Do you think I could kill him and get away with it? It's not like he'd be missed or anything. He's a jerk. Always stepping on people to get what he wants, he's a liar, a cheater, he carries disease and sickness. He's the perfect example of a disgusting individual. He couldn't keep his dick in his pants if his life depended on it, wearing a condom forget about it. For God sakes, it was okay for people to see us a pair of poor little orphan cousins, which only had each other. At first that is how it was. We grew up like brother and sister. When I was six my mother died so my aunt and uncle took me in and then when I was sixteen they were murder in a robbery. I ended up moving in with "Patrick" my cousin who was twenty-two at the time. He comforted me when I would cry, I took their deaths a lot harder than he did. It was during one of my crying spouts that it happened, we kissed. It was so soft and passionate then it became rough; you know the way kids ripping open their presents at Christmas time. I gave him my virginity; that's where it all began. He'd make love to me every night exploding inside me, I loved him so but I hate him too. He'd make love to me and then go out meet girls and bring them home, where I'd sit in my room listening to him have sex on the same bed we made love in so many times. I went on birth control because he didn't want to use condoms after all I'm not crazy I do know we shouldn't make babies. Behind closed doors we were like a real couple. He'd slap my butt while I served him dinner, he'd sneak into the shower with me, he'd even get jealous when his friends would look at me or if they asked if I was dating anyone. After all I was just his cousin. Right? I was happy but things change. He'd give me S.T. D's and then accuse me of sleeping with his friends but I wouldn't do that Dr. Dillard, I loved him, I lived for him, he protected me, he was my only family, the only one I wanted to share my body with. That being said. Would any of these things constitute murder? Do I deserve to die as well, Dr. Dillard? Sincerely, My Only Love What's goody, Dr. Dillard? I'm not all that good at writing dear such and such letters. So instead I put this together some parts from my slam book. I'm the type of chick that's kinda rough around the edges, I'm not what you'd call beautiful and everybody around me expects certain shit not to bother me but I still have the same feelings as other woman. Let me know should I leave or stay? And if I do go will I be able to find a new dude? Maybe he treats me the way he does because he knows I don't really want to leave or because no one else will want me? So here we go and after you read it please hit me back and let me know what I should do. "This nigga set me on fire, he burned me but it wasn't by flame. Got my pussy sneezing and running like water. In my fucking bed, the next bitch that's where I caught her. I probably woulda killed him if it weren't for his daughter. Six years, a big belly and a fake ring. After all this shit I've said I still don't know where to begin. You call yourself a hustler, a man so why am I the one that has to provide for your first baby moms. You're weak I make 50g a year and all your accounts read 1,025 a dime and a quarter. All this and a lot more with your trifling ass I'm still caught up. My lungs weak from all that screaming and fussing, just plain tired of telling you what not to stick ya dick in. I love you with my all but just to see you makes me sick. I promised myself I wouldn't but I started to suck ya dick, I loved you so I'd swallow and refused to spit." Sincerely, The Rapstress Dear Dr. Dillard, "Shandi if you're hearing this tape you know what I've done. It all became to much for me and I couldn't handle it. I lost everything ... Looking at Jordan these past few days has been so hard for me. Knowing what that son of a bitch did to me ate me up inside and that Bitch Val! My own sister, how could she do this to us? Her niece and me her little sister. How could she hurt us like that? He was like a brother to you and Val or at least he should have been after all these years. I don't know what came over me; she looked so much like him. I just, I just ... (crying) Every time I looked at her I would see his face and I would start to cry. Then the crying became anger and that last time I became overwhelmed by rage. I started shaking her, Shandi I shook my baby. Shandi her body is so limp in my arms, so small. I extinguish my own child's life. Shandi I need to lay beside my baby. I love you big sis." That's where the tape ended. My sister cut her wrist. I found the tape on the floor beside the two bodies. My nieces' small body lay there as if she had fallen asleep and just never woke up. My sisters body was encircled by dried blood, there were maggots and flies every where. After over three weeks what else could be expected. That was how long I hadn't heard from my little sister. You see I live in New York but she and Val lived in Florida so I couldn't just pop over to check on her and couldn't send Val for obvious reasons. When I arrived that was the condition in which I found them. During the buzz of the police investigators, coroners and reporters I slipped off to the bedroom, where I listened to the tape. My sister had shaken my niece to death and took her own life once she realized what she did. Some time has past but I get up every morning and listen to that tape. It causes me so much pain to know that my little sister is gone but I take comfort in still being able to hear her voice. Its' a torturous comfort. I no longer speak to my sister Val. Signed, Shandi Dear Dr. Dillard, This is my second letter to you but it's the first I've actually mailed. I love reading your column, I use to say to myself how do these women let these men get away with the things they do? I now see because I'm now one of those women. I'm now one of the women I used to see on TV, read about in papers and in magazines. We were co-workers, we'd been shamelessly flirting like school children. I couldn't help it he was fine. You know ... The type of fine that as soon as he walks into a room you wanna jump his bones. He exudes sex. Just looking at him made me want to be a freak, just fuck! No love making. If you get my drift. Thinking about those times almost makes me forget what he does to me. We currently live together but not in a way most would understand. I sleep in one room he sleeps in the other. How the hell did that happen!? Okay I'll explain. Originally we agreed we were just having fun, you know friends with benefits, all the perks of a relationship with none of the hassle. We went on this way for about a year until I got pregnant. Wow! Big mistake on my part. I thought him wanting to move in together and wanting to keep the baby was his way of saying lets make it official. Wouldn't you think the same? I got a large two bedroom apartment but instead of making the second bedroom the nursery he turned it into his own lil love nest. He'd flaunt other women in front of me and when they inquired as to who I was he always says "Oh! Her she's my friend don't worry about her she's cool" and then sweep them of to his bedroom. I lost the baby last month but I'm still here hoping he will come to his senses. There has to be some part of him that loves me. Signed, Fuck Buddy Dear Dr. Dillard, I'm a dirty bitch. I won't deny it, I cant deny it. I hear all these chicks complaining about how they man burned them or cheated or some dumb shit. I'm straight out of Wash. PJ's, lets face it everybody is burning somebody who doesn't cheat? You tell me that. My boyfriend cheats on the regular, when he burns me I go to the clinic get the cure. Then I wait to see how long it takes him to tell me that he caught something and if he doesn't say anything I'll fuck him again, go right back to the same clinic get the cure, go home and curse him out for giving me something. Once he caught the clap from that bitch in 3B and then gave it to me, I had that shit in my throat and my pussy. Double burn. But anyway I left his broke ass alone, after what? Five years. I'm good. But Sarah that's not even why I'm writing. I met this dude and I love him, I mean a lot. He's one of those good dudes, one of them that wants out of the hood. He wants me to go back to school and get all educated and shit. I like that, he's the first dude to care where I end up. He wants to get married and have kids. I could really see myself wit him. But all those years of abusing my pussy has taken its toll. I got herpes and I'm afraid to tell him, I've never been afraid to tell anyone anything in my whole life that's how I know I love him. Then having his babies that's out because my cervix is all so fucked up, I couldn't hold a baby in my womb even if I used my hands. I can't tell him that. I'm mad, mad at my ex for all the bullshit, mad at myself for not being smarter, just mad. Signed, Bx Burning Dear Dr. Dillard, We were together three years, six months and two days when I told him I wanted more of a commitment. I thought it was time for us to get married he tried to avoid the issues, so I gave him an ultimatum either we make steps towards an engagement or I was gone. He said we'd talk about it when he comes back from his trip, I agreed that was reasonable. A day before he was supposed to come home I went to his place to straighten up so that when he came back he'd feel at ease when he gets home. To my surprise he was already in New York. I saw him go into his house with a girl. I wasn't going to become Miss Ghetto USA, so I waited until the girl left, then I gave him some time to fall asleep. I used my key to let myself in. I stopped in the kitchen and then made my way towards the bedroom. There he was sprawled out across the bed. I smiled for second and then his house phone rang it was the other woman leaving a message to let him know that she had gotten home safely. I became faint, I blacked out. When I came to my clothing was riddled with blood, I looked over he was dead. Very calmly dragged his body to the bathroom, placed him in the tub and began cleaning. After the house was in order I called out from work and went to the supermarket. I bought groceries for the house and all the ice I could fit in my car. When I returned to his house I packed his body with ice and proceeded to make dinner. I repeated the same ritual each day. I'd pack his body with ice, clean and prepare three square meals a day. We even continued have normal conversations at dinner, well not really normal. I'd ask him a question and then get angry when he wouldn't answer. After two weeks it all came to an end when she showed up. The other woman. She found us in the bathroom, while we were having dinner and ran from the house screaming. I knew what was going to happen. I leaned on the side of the bathtub and waited. I sat shivering awaiting my faint. The police rushed in, snatching me from the ground. I haven't spoken a word since my arrest. This letter is my first, my last and only attempt at outside communication. There' nothing else to be said ... Signed, Prisoner S6849159 (Continues...)
Excerpted from The Accounts of the Scornedby Jeh Wells Copyright © 2011 by Jeh Wells. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse, Inc.. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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