Vengeance is mine tells the story of Karah Woodard. From her earliest recollections Karah faces overwhelming obstacles, issues and disappointments. The heart wrenching loss of her father leaves her angry and confused. Determined not to be destroyed by the circumstances she adopts three golden rules for her life. Make the best of you have. Never allow decisions made by other adults destroy your future’s happiness. Find your way! Living by these rules was no easy task but it was essential to gaining control of her life. Karah’s challenges are great but so is her will to overcome the odds. "Vengeance is Mine", is a story of triumph. It is the story of Karah’s determination. She will cause you to think deep about some of the controversial decision she have to make. Despite her hardships, Karah emerges the victor. She overcome many obstacles and accomplishes many goals. The actions of others however continue to haunt her. Family, friends and lover’s, even the U.S. Military betray her trust. Void of understanding Karah is left to rely solely on one of the strongest and most comforting passages ever written. Vengeance is Mine Thus Saith the Lord.

Vengeance is Mine

The key to peace and freedom from injusticesBy CY Collinsmiller

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2011 CY Collinsmiller
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4389-3570-6

Contents

Chapter 1 Painful Beginnings.....................................1Chapter 2 "Victor-mized".........................................4Chapter 3 All for Love...........................................12Chapter 4 New Adventures.........................................19Chapter 5 My Love of Europe......................................27Chapter 6 Sunshine and Pain......................................41Chapter 7 Uncovering the Truth...................................53Chapter 8 Mental Wars............................................58Chapter 9 Options................................................69Chapter 10 Drill Sergeant School.................................76Chapter 11 An Unexpected Challenge...............................83Chapter 12 Modulation............................................88Chapter 13 Final Presentations...................................97Chapter 14 The Wheels of Injustice...............................105Chapter 15 Expectation of Trust..................................112Chapter 16 Power from the Pits...................................117Chapter 17 Graduation Day........................................120Chapter 18 A Drill Sergeant: Tough and Proud.....................126Chapter 19 Juvenile Injustice....................................132Chapter 20 Unique Victory........................................142Chapter 21 Never Prepared........................................147

Chapter One

Painful Beginnings

From my earliest recollections, I faced the most significant challenge ever: the death of my father. I was two years old when a boating accident took my father from me. Surely I could not understand much at that age, but I clearly missed him.

As I got older, stories of my dad became the topic of many conversations. My grandmother, his mother, told of how he would walk to her house every Sunday morning with me on his shoulders. My mother often told me how much he adored me and how much I looked like him. She talked of how we would feed each other across the table at mealtime, and for a while after his death, I would still extend my spoon across that table.

My father's absence guided my every thought. Anytime I felt lonely or sad, I thought of my father. Every birthday, I thought of how great it would be if he were there. Every wrong would be all right if he were there. I felt lonely and confused most of the time, and through my frustration, I became a dreamer. So while most kids in the neighborhood played games in the large open lot across from our house, the front porch was my place of peace. It was nothing fancy; there were two large chains hung over the rafters that held a wooden swing. I would lie there for hours, looking up at the rafters, past the peeling paint, the sparkles of sunlight shining through the small holes of the shabby roof. In the distance, I could hear the grinding of the machinery at the nearby concrete plant, or the banging together of the boxcars on the train tracks a half mile farther down the road. I would lie there and drift away into my fantasy world. There, it was beautiful. There was my penthouse in the city overlooking the ocean. It was filled with elegant clothes, designer perfumes, fine wines, and soft music. My car was a European convertible with personalized plates that read "Wildflower." Dates with important people filled my calendar, and I enjoyed life to the fullest.

But in reality, who was I? Would I ever overcome this heart-wrenching loss? I searched deep within myself to find strength and guidance. In the quest for my true identity, I learned that my maternal ancestry is Paiute Indian. I don't know much about them, but I choose to believe they were fighters, a trait I hoped I'd inherited. My dad's ancestry is more identifiable. He was a strong black man of African descent. He loved to fish and would swim the width of the Warrior River for entertainment. He loved the water; there is where he spent much of his time, and there is where his life ended. He had a gentle spirit, which was always displayed through his affection for me. On the other hand, he could be mean, and he took crap from no one.

A story often told left an indelible impression on me. It seems that my dad once got into a fight with a man twice his size. The fight lasted so long the ground was completely trampled. Apparently, he could be a real bear when he was riled up. The bear represents power, fearless determination, supernatural strength, and the ability to resist pain. The bear knows only one direction, and that is forward—and the bear fights to the death. It can also look deceptively harmless, as zoo bears often do. But when a bear is poised for the attack, it makes even the most sizeable human look like a flyweight. That was my dad!

Apparently, I was a lot like him. I too had a gentle spirit, and family was most important to me. People often commented that I looked mean, but that was primarily because the corners of my mouth turned down, a feature I'd definitely inherited from my dad. Our smiles, however, would light up a room. I missed my father every day. I was his first child, and he adored me. Everyone who knew him would attest to that. That love would become my comfort, my strength, my hope, my peace, and most importantly, my guide. Many nights, I would lie in my bed looking up at the light fixture, and his face would appear. He'd always say, "Be a good girl. Remember, Daddy's always watching over you." So I was pretty much convinced that I had a father in heaven watching over me, long before I knew who God was.

Chapter Two

"Victor-mized"

There were four of us kids. Stan was the oldest, then Tony, me, and Dominique. We were all two years apart. Mama (Maxine) was a strong woman, but she was unlucky at love. Her first love yielded two sons. Their father lived in Michigan, and when she moved back to Tuscaloosa, Alabama, where she was born and raised, their relationship and communication ended. She met my dad, James, at a community baseball game where he was playing. He fathered me and Dominique, but he loved my brothers as his own. They were older and boys. He could do more with them. He taught them many things, especially how to swim. We were a happy family when tragedy took him away.

It was primarily my father's absence that fueled my relentless desire for a strong male role model. The hope that such a man would enter my life started with my stepfather. His deplorable behavior, however, was the first and the hardest disappointment I would have to endure.

I don't know where Victor came from or how he met Mama. I always assumed that Mama was so distraught after Dad's death that Victor was able to weasel his way into her heart. I just know that from my earliest recollection, around five or six, he was there creating problems in our life. I can't recall any happy time with him. Even his all-day fishing trips with the family were torturous. It would be blistering hot and not a shade tree in sight. Dominique and I didn't fish, and there was nothing for us to do. We would wander around the area, picking up rocks and playing among ourselves. We knew not to say a word about being bored or tired; complaining from us would send Victor into one of his tirades.

Victor was vicious; the sound of his car coming into the driveway sent a chill through our small house. I would go to the corner beside my bed and gathered my paper and pencil. I would always write when I got nervous. I guess everyone had a special place to seek refuge, because soon after he arrived, the area would be empty. Everyone was afraid of him. He was very abusive to Mama and us kids. I still bite my nails because of the effect his abusive behavior had on me. He was a selfish gambler who would steal the monthly Social Security check left by my father and gamble it away, causing Mama to scrounge for food for the rest of the month. Then he'd take it out on her if she didn't cook what he wanted. I vividly remember him throwing a pot of string beans across the kitchen. "I don't want no damn beans," he said. Then a vicious fight ensued.

Aunt Mae heard the commotion and made the short walk across the driveway between our houses. She crept along slowly with her cane to assist her. She tried to hurry, but she was about eighty years old, and speed was not an option. Once she had made it up the two concrete steps onto the porch, she halted to catch her breath. Mama screamed, "Don't you hit me, Victor," and Aunt Mae tried to go in the door.

"Go home, old lady," Victor said, and he slammed the door on Aunt Mae's hand.

I never will forget her little wrinkled, fragile fingers as we tried to comfort her. Victor came out, slammed the door, got in his car, and sped out of the driveway like a madman. His tires were squealing and dust and gravel from the driveway got all over us as we cared for Aunt Mae on the porch.

Most days after taking Mama to work, he would stop by gambling houses with me and Dominique still in the car. He would leave us with strict instructions to leave the window cracked and not to unlock the doors. We would be there for hours, playing with our imaginary friends. Occasionally, some rough-looking characters would come out of the house and bring us cookies or chips to snack on. We never said a word to Mama because we knew we would all suffer the consequences.

Victor was also a whoremonger and had no respect for the sanctity of marriage. He played the keyboard and always got a gig in juke joints or small nightspots. So on Friday evenings, everything would be quiet. He'd be there walking around in his boxers and wife-beater T-shirt, preparing for his night out. He had a striking resemblance to Morgan Freeman, especially the nose and hair. He would lay out his clothes and spread stinky shaving cream on his face. The entire house reeked of the foul odor. He'd get dressed and go out, leaving Mama there with her mouth poked out.

Whenever he returned, usually just before daybreak, they argued. Lipstick on his collar or the smell of perfume on his shirts would always be the words echoed through both their blame and defense. Sometimes, things would fall silent as I lay there nibbling away at my fingernails. Then, there were those times when all hell would break loose and a relative or neighbor would have to come to the rescue.

Mama was always home with us during his escapades, but she did not want Victor to always be so sure. So sometimes she would throw one of her best outfits over a chair and leave her stockings and high heel shoes in the middle of the floor, creating the illusion that she too had been out. Sure enough, he would come in and insist on her telling him where she had been. They would get into the worst fights. Still, she never told him that she had enjoyed the evening eating ice cream and watching TV with her children.

I witnessed, through my mama, what it's like to be stuck in something that is draining your life force, yet you stay because you're afraid of what's on the other side. I vowed then never to allow a man to control my life. Victor's behavior also ensured that my father's love would remain the only true love I could trust and believe in.

The beatings we kids received with an extension cord added to the pain and confusion I felt for most of my young life. Victor believed in mass punishment, so I got most of my whippings because somebody else did something and nobody would admit to it. After years of his abuse, one day Mama finally gained the strength and courage she needed to make a stand. Victor was whipping Stan; he was about fourteen. Over and over, he hit him with the extension cord, but Stan wouldn't cry. He just stood there with his eyes closed, grimacing from every lick. Mama kept telling Victor to stop, but he kept hitting him and hitting him. We were all crying, Dominique, Tony, and me.

Then Mama said with authority, "I said don't hit him no more." That was the beginning of their end. Shortly thereafter, they got divorced. Mama said she knew at that moment that her son had become a man, and he would eventually start acting more like one and somebody was going to get hurt.

After their divorce, things got even more confusing. Nothing was working out in my life. I was only about ten or eleven, but it seemed that everything about my life so far was painful. I still missed my father every day, and I started to question what really happened on the boat that day. There were three men on the boat, and my father was the strongest swimmer. They argued about something, but according to Mama, the two survivors told different stories about what happened.

All these things were making me angry. I hated going to school each day, and I saw nothing changing for the better. Victor was gone, and the house should have been calmer. But normally when Mama went to work, Victor's presence or our not knowing when he was coming back to the house kept us under control. Now, however, he wasn't there, and immediately that became a problem. Mama would leave instructions before she left for work, and she'd remind us that if things were not done or we broke the rules, we were going to get a whipping. Her whippings were nothing compared to Victor's.

Stan and Tony were at the age, according to Mama, that whippings were not appropriate. So they generally got punished by not being allowed to go out of the yard for a day or so. Dominique would laugh and make jokes after Mama whipped her. She only used a skinny twig from the tree in our yard, and most of the time they would break during her "whippings." Still, I hated getting hit, so I tried to follow all the rules Mama left. Dominique, on the other hand, tried to break them all. She spent her time aggravating everyone. Tony was quick to hit her, and he would hit her hard, so she would leave him alone. One day, they got into a fight; when I went to try and break them up, Tony thought I was coming to help Dominique, and he hit me in the head with a vase and ran out of the house. Blood was pouring from the wound as I ran full speed trying to catch him. Mama had to be called from work, and I had to get stitches.

One other time, Dominique hit Tony and when she turned to run, she ran right into the mailbox and split her head open; Mama had to be called home and Dominique had to get stitches. About a week later, she was playing with the dog, and he clawed her stitches out. She was always doing something to someone or herself. One morning, Mama was washing her face, and every time she touched Dominique's nose, she would flinch. Mama looked closer, and the girl had shoved a dry bean up her nose. When they returned from the doctor, Mama said the doctor was amazed that the bean had been there long enough to sprout.

Dominique was the wild child of the family; she was always getting into something. I was her big sister and often got into trouble trying to protect her. I was never afraid to protect myself or my siblings. I would fight girls or boys if they pushed me too far or messed with my family. When I was about fourteen, Dominique and I attended the same junior high school. Dominique was in the seventh grade, and I was in the ninth.

One day while we were in school, a boy from the neighborhood hit her and made her cry. I didn't get the full details, Dominique may have provoked it, but I didn't care. When I saw him in the lunch room, I didn't give him a chance to say a word. I just started fighting him with all my might. He was trying to explain, but I wasn't listening; I just kept hitting him. He wasn't trying to hurt me, just trying to block my punches; nonetheless, we both got suspended.

Most of our fights were with one family and went on for years. Linda Dixon was about my age, fifteen or so, but she and Dominique liked the same boy. The Dixons were the largest family on the block, and their house was only a few houses away from ours. Linda had several younger brothers and sisters as well as older ones. Every time we passed their house to go to the store, she and her younger siblings would call us names and throw rocks. We were ready for a fight, but they would not come out of their yard. One day, Linda and I met in the street, and the fight was on. I got her to the ground and straddled her chest. I kept pounding the same spot above her eye until the skin broke.

A crowd gathered but initially no one tried to break us up. Mrs. Little, a schoolteacher who lived in the neighborhood, was at our sides clapping her hands together and telling us to stop. Someone finally pulled me off of her. Linda was a bloody mess. She told people I used a stick, but I only used my fist. Regardless, this began a family rivalry that lasted for years. Every time we saw each other, there were ugly words, threats, and licks passed.

One day they lied and told Mama we were picking on them, and she grounded us. That evening, Dominique and I were sitting in the yard; Linda and her older sister were dressed to go out. We could see them about to cross over the avenue at the end of our street, Dominique said, "Look at them bitches, got me on punishment and they get to go out."

Before I could respond, she jumped up and took off down the road, me right behind her. In the middle of the busy avenue, the fight was on. Car tires were squealing to a sudden stop, horns were blowing, and people from all directions were trying to break us up.

I was never proud or boastful about fighting, but I tried to protect my sister. There was also a growing rage inside of me, and like my father, once I got riled up, I would not stop. There is a strong bond between my father and me. That bond will last a lifetime. My father will always be my father, and I will always be his daughter. The likeness between us is no less because he is physically absent.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from Vengeance is Mineby CY Collinsmiller Copyright © 2011 by CY Collinsmiller. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.