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Speculation of Marion Carter's Death

The screen went blank. Scrambling as I started to get up only for Ahmad to sit me down. Pointing at the suddenly blackened flat screen. I waited until a recorded clip of women walking in the streets at night. Drugged out of their mind, wearing flimsy clothes… Forced to sell themselves as one man was seen yanking a woman down to the ground, and beating her just beside his car. In front of everybody. Then it switched to a blurred face of a child, and a man together in the backseat of a car doing God knows what. Obvious of what was going on to her only to switch to a policeman beating a black woman down to the ground after she was handcuffed. Then it showed a blurred clip of women with paper bags over their heads, and pink bandanas wrapped around their wrist like handcuffs. Standing in a line that stretched out alongside the street. Walking in a straight line with their heads bowed in the middle of the night. 

I sat up, remembering that scene as if I was there myself. I knew who these women were, but I dared not to speak on it. After declining the invitation, I never spoke on it again. Megan, and I rarely speak except through my cousin Delilah, but that was fine. Still...I remembered this like it was yesterday. The women with the paper bags over their faces stood completely still taking one step after another. Clip being filmed on a phone as someone started walking towards them laughing. 

“Soldiers! My black soldiers! We reaaaaaaaady!” A voice sang before laughing. “This, Atlanta...are the people you should fear the most. Women that have been abused, beaten, tortured. Women stripped away from their kids, children growing up in environments unfit for us...Black men, white men, the opposition has been oppressing us for too long, it's time we fight back. Fight black...We’ve been underground for too long. Silent for too long.”


“Look at this shit,” Ahmad let out in awe as the girls stood still, almost like they weren’t even real. 

A body came in front of the camera wearing the anonymous face mask. Pale white face with the dark over smile, and dark eyes turned their head to the side before laughing. 


“Most dangerous gang in Atlanta is a group of black women just trying to defend themselves from the oppressor. A group of black women who are SICK OF YO SHIT! BLACK MAN! We’re SICK OF IT! If you’ve done a black woman wrong. If you ever put your hands on a black woman...If you’ve ever mentally abused a black woman, taken from her, stolen from her, physically abused, and taken advantage of thy black woman...We will find you, and we will kill you. We’ve been around for years. Some of us just believe it's time we make ourselves known,” someone said off camera before the scene suddenly shifted to seeing a sudden dark room where a man with his head covered sat in a chair with his arms tied behind his back. 

“Oh my God,” I muttered, holding Ahmad’s hand tight. “Why are they showing this on TV? Why are they showing----?”

“They couldn’t stop it from playing. Somebody was controlling it from the inside,” he said. “Now they just keep replaying it like the girl said. Whole video is on the internet with over a million views---.”


He silenced me as he reached with the remote to cut the volume up. Hearing the two voices speak. One soft, and feminine, the other was the man bound to the chair. 

“State your name, your full name,” the woman hidden in shadows suddenly appeared wearing an anonymous mask over her face. 

“Marion Ontrell Carter,” the man spoke, hearing the fear in his voice as I gasped. I knew exactly who he was. 

“Tell the camera what you like to do.”

When he said nothing, the girl started to nod her head. 

“You’ve been tried with several counts of molesting young boys, including your own children. Am I correct?”

“This isn’t fucking court----.”

The woman raised her arm, holding the gun against his bagged head as he whimpered in plea. Apologizing. Fighting to get out of the chair as his body jerked, and twisted about in the hold. Marion was crying out for someone to help him before the clip shut off entirely.




Only then did it go back to the white male reporter who looked pale, and scared shitless in the face as he spoke. 


“The video,” he cracked. “Has over 9 million views, and counting since it appeared online. Youtube has already taken it down, but more platforms are showing up with the clip. We aren’t sure what or where it came from. We are still in the middle of investigating the source including Maxine Turner who is now under investigation herself, although no arrests, have yet to be made. This is Ben Haul with Action 10 News.”

Comes from the Skye Family

I can't remember which Skye Sister's book this came from or if it came from the Blog book but I remember writing this when Maxine went missing and suddenly turned up with these group of mysterious women in pink. Did I know I was going to write something like this? Yes. Early on I knew but I had no idea it would turn into something as serious as the Perfect Sisters so I don't officially connect the series together but this in fact has been published in one of those damn books lmao. 

Nirvan/ Siren Skye's 1st Perfect Sister Meeting. 

“How often are these meetings held?” I asked in awe. Looking out the window to see girls in heels walking towards the double doors. Laughter shared between another clique that was crossing in front of our car. A lot of them looked to be like prostitutes, and strippers based on their outfits, and the way they carried themselves…

“Mmmm meetings like these are usually once a month. If it's an emergency or members only, it's held elsewhere,” pulling into a parking space. “Brace yourself Siren. They can get a little crazy in there.”


I was led in the parking garage towards the double glass doors where the lobby was. People were leaving their belongings, and phones behind. Writing down our information before following behind my driver through a seperate door. I could hear the commotion and conversation just beyond the walls as we walked down the curving hallway. Wasn’t sure what to expect, but each camera I passed just above, I made sure to look up so they could see my face. Just in case some shit went down, I wanted my people to know exactly where I was at the exact time.


She was even shorter than I realized. Maybe because of my boots, and short heels made me seem even taller, but as I pushed my hair back from my face. She reached for the large double doors, looking at me with an anxious smile.

“Don’t be nervous. Be exactly as you are, and people will receive it.”

“I’ve done these types of events before,” I reminded her. She just smiled. Almost a pity like smile like I had no idea what I was in for before pulling the doors back.


The voices all came at once. Hearing screams, and arguments being shouted as I stepped into the dim lit auditorium like space, and gawked at the amount of black women in the seats that reached as far back as the wall. Just up ahead were four chairs, a stand with a mic as four distinguished women sat quietly. Listening to the voices that were trying to be heard. My body suddenly tensed at the sight of women wearing pink berets tilted to the side, black shades, dressed in all black. Sitting identical in the front row. Not moving.


It was the same girls from the party. The same girls I saw near that house in the middle of what I thought was a sorority ritual. I started to look around again, confused. Wondering how these girls kept finding me, and why I was the only one to notice until I felt a tap on my shoulder.


I looked at my driver who pointed at two available seats on the end that were reserved for us. So we ducked down the aisle, ignoring the stares and sat down on the red chairs.

“We are the most educated class in America. Why are we settling for men who are beneath us?”

“This is why black men refuse to date us! We are supposedly stubborn, bad attitudes, and we’re angry! We are everything our mothers instilled in us, and yet we are not good enough for our brothers… Our counterparts… So they go get a white woman because she’s easier to manage! They go get a light bright woman because she’s not seen as aggressive, or masculine as a darker woman----.”

“I’m sick of this light skin versus dark skin debate! We’re all black!”

“Says the lightest bitch in the room! Girl you wouldn’t know the hardest part of being a black woman in America if somebody dipped you in black paint, and said go stand before the public and watch how they judge you based on your shade.” Another laughed. “Lemme guess, dark skin light skin, it doesn’t matter. We’re all black, but growing up, you claim to wish you had darker skin like your little dark friends… you wish you had kinky hair like your little dark skin friends. Oh!” In a mocking tone. “When I was little, I used to always wish I was darker like my friends, but then I learned to love myself! Boo bye! Miss me with it! Yeah it's easy to love yourself when the rest of black society does! But we’re all black right?”

“Yes! We are! We’re all black, and your toxic way of thinking like that will continue to set us back!”

I couldn’t even believe what I was hearing, but all I could think about was my sister Trinity. Having to constantly defend her blackness, and prove she was indeed fully black with black parents. Even within our own family, I remember growing up hearing the light skin jokes she had to endure, but it went both ways. Always  went both ways.

“NO! We’re not all black!” Another yelled as I looked around the room. Seeing everyone standing up with something to say. “We’re not all black! We’re not all treated like we’re black! Yall will never be black enough for your own community, and we will always be too black for society to deal with. Period! There is priority within our complexion! It’s been instilled in us since our ancestors!”

“Mmmm hmmm. Yall are the next closest thing to white within our community. Yall are more appreciated, accepted, advertised, and praised…It’s always been that way. You’re the whites amongst us blacks,” another laughed. 

“If men don’t prefer your complexion, why is that our issue? How does that go back on light skin women instead of the dark men that prefer us? Like, self-hate is real. It’s called a fucking preference! I’m light skin, I prefer dark skin! Simple! You know how many light skin men prefer darker women?! Nobody saying a word about that! Self-hate is real! Yall are insecure, and worried about color----.”

“Black people can never progress if we’re still stuck in a slave mentality. Look how we were raised! How we were conditioned?!”

“Here we go blaming the white folks for our poor upbringing. I refuse to use them as an excuse! Black men continue to say they’re being emasculated therefore, it gives them the right to fuck other men. Dress this way, dress that way. Beat women to prove their manhood! Rape women, and----.”

“What we need to talk about is why nobody speaks on black on black crime?! Why our men want to shoot us down!? Do black lives not matter when it's your own putting us down?!”

“There’s no such thing as black on black crime! It’s just crime! Nobody says white on white crime! So sick of yall throwing that shit around!”

“No such thing?! A police shooting an unarmed kid is crime! They get away with it, the same way some nigga shoots an unarmed kid, but you can’t snitch! They get away with it!” Another yelled as more began to speak out. “You sound like the ones saying all lives matter, not just black lives! Black lives matter, but not black crime?! Boo bye! You ignorant as fuck!”

“So yall don’t see color when it's your own, but a man of no color shoots an unarmed black girl, and it's black lives suddenly matter. Well which life is it?! The ignorant nigga up the street shoots an unarmed black girl in a drive by, and it's… just crime?! It happens, but don’t snitch! Police are the enemy, but not these dangerous black men to our black boys?! Pullleaseeee! Hold them accountable!”

“The problem is!” Another said, standing up with a push of her glasses. “They glorify the hood, and lifestyle of the projects! The lifestyle is projected in the media to be seen as cool. It’s cool to flash your gun, and threaten your brothers, and sisters. Women put up with these thugs, love these thugs, birth these thugs, fuck, and breed with these thugs! A child grows up in this type of environment where the woman doesn’t know her worth, nor does she know better, and the man is a hoodlum living the hood rich life. We have got to do better ladies! Stop settling for a flash of golds in the mouth, a pair of Jordans, and dick!”

“Yep! Yep!” A few clapped as the girl sat down with a flip of her hair back, letting the applause carry her speech.

I stood up before I even realized it, and opened my mouth.

“So what exactly do you suggest women do?” I asked as everyone turned towards me. “Where is all of this hate being fueled from?”

“It’s not hate. I’m angry,” another said as a few more agreed. “We’re fed up.”

“You’re asking as if it's no other options,” the woman said, standing back up with a shove of her glasses. She was an intellectual. I could tell by the way she carried herself, she was about her books, and brain. “Men are either getting killed, locked up, too busy flexing in the hood, or abusing their women… Black gay men will be the first to call themselves Queens, but will call a black woman a bitch with no hesitation. For what? For what? Why are they referring to themselves as royal femininity, and we’re reduced to a female dog?”

“If you don’t refer to yourself as a bitch, why are you answering or giving that any attention?” I asked, confused. “If it doesn’t apply, let it fly----.”

“If I let it fly,” she retorted. “It's giving them, and any other man a pass to do the same. We are left to better ourselves, some scrape to get what they can find just because they want to say they’re married. Black women are getting married for the sake of the title. Not because they’re in love. Not because they want to be, but for the status. Proposals are more elaborate than the actual wedding, and meaning itself. Just to post on social media for likes. We’re in the age of likes, and reposts now. Likes means acceptance from society. Likes means popularity----.

“When did it become cool to post children, and the sickly laid up in the hospital bed?” Another shouted. “When did it become cool to take pictures of a body at a funeral, and post it?”


Everyone started to agree, and talk amongst themselves but the girl I was originally debating with continued to stare at me.


“To be called a wife in this cheating era is rare, but it's not real. We are pushed to marry early because the longer we wait to get married, the more we learn that NIGGAS. AIN’T. SHIT. Women are going under the table to alter their bodies, cut themselves up for the sake of a man’s attention. Women giving their all to fulfill the needs of a man who isn’t worthy. My suggestion?” She asked as I slowly sat back down, realizing I really had nothing to say against it. “My suggestion is we move forward with our progression. They say black women are leaving black men behind. So what? Those that are worthy will catch up----.”

“I disagree,” another said as she stood up with a pop of her lips. “Women can engage in whoever, whenever, however they wanna entertain a man. It really shouldn’t be anybody’s business----.”


Everyone started talking and shouting over the woman as another spoke.

“Ummm?! I got an issue with my bathroom trying to leak. We need to hire real maintenance men to keep the homes in working condition---.”

“Address that at town hall, not here,” someone said into the mic as I looked at my driver in question. She leaned in, and whispered in a low voice.

“We live in communities outside of Atlanta… She’s speaking on one of them.”


My eyes grew wide.


“We have men gunning us down in the streets, raping us, setting fear in their own community, and leaving children to be raised without a father. Nobody says a word! Until a white man steps in! We don’t see color when it's our own, we have to wait for whites as we’ve always done to point the blame at. Anybody else but ourselves! That’s why dark skin girls can’t progress! Yall so busy playing victim!”

“What the fuck are you talking about?!” Another shouted, standing up. “It's 2018! Are we really still worrying about half of this shit right now?! Dark versus light. White versus black?! We have men taking advantage of women! Women that are in fear of their lives in here! That have to go home every night to an abuser, whether it's mental or physical! The number one enemy to the black woman is the black man! PERIOD!”

The clapping started all around as people nodded their heads.


What the hell did I get myself into?!


“Black women are in danger!” The speaker let out as she grabbed the mic from the stand, and started to venture off. Wearing a black dress with tall black boots. Braids pulled back in a bun, and slight acne scars decorating her brown skin, she spoke freely. “We are in danger. Men are trying to become us----.”

“Sit the fuck down bruh!” Someone yelled. “Sit down! You always coming with that anti gay shit!”

“Black women need to rise up!”

“Rise up my ass! We need to move forward! We not rising no gah damn, we’re already at the top! Where? To the moon, and stars? Nigga we are the moon, and stars! We’re the universe!”


The crowd began to laugh as my heart started to pound. Looking at the driver who nervously kept facing forward. She didn’t tell me they were allowed to respond back!

“I met a man the other day who is in the process of becoming a woooomannn, so he says… He’s in transition to be a woman… I said, honey? You will never be me. You are a black man, God made you a black man for a reason----.”


“No matter how much surgery you have, you will never be this!” Grabbing between her legs, cupping the area through her dress as people cheered, and clapped for her. “They are seeking membership----.”

“Sit the fuck down! No they’re not bitch! You’re mad, and will continue to be mad because you slept with a gay nigga! Sit down! This ain’t our issue! Let me repeat! GAY RIGHTS IS NOT OUR ISSUE! MOVE THE FUCK ALONG!”


I looked around for the hackler, seeing she sat a row just behind the motionless girls in pink. Dark brown in complexion with curly hair in a slick silky fro like she was mixed. Sharp brows, and a noticeable black mole just above her upper lip. Eyes big, and slanted like a Bratz doll. She looked back at the people she sat with, and laughed before her eyes connected with mine from across the way. I didn’t look away, but she whispered to her friends as they all looked at me.

“Who is that?” I whispered towards the driver as she leaned forward for a peek before sitting up right. Looking straight ahead.

“Don’t make eye contact with her,” she hissed. I suddenly watched one of the poised women sitting up front get up from her chair. Smoothing her black dress down as she walked over with a dainty smile. Beautiful deep brown skin woman with her hair pressed, and straightened. Bumped on the ends like something out of the 50s that fell towards her shoulders. She looked like a young Tyra Banks with her green eyes that you could see from here. Going against her brown complexion entirely. She told the speaker to move along before grabbing the mic.

“Ladies, ladies… Being respectful from one sis to another makes these meetings go a lot more smoothly----.”

“You so pretty! Ain’t our mayor so pretty?!” Someone called out with a whistle as she laughed into the mic. Flashing her white smile.

“It’s been brought to my attention that the guests are arriving right on time, and that…” Her words trailed off as she looked off into the crowd. Squinting her eyes before politely smiling. So innocently. “Ma’am in the red?” She pointed.


The lights suddenly cut on in the entire room as everyone turned towards the back to see a woman with a red sweater stand up. Skin pale, hair a dark brunette with round glasses. I could see she was mixed, but there was really nothing to give it away at first glance.

“Hello Queens, mothers, wives, women, and girlfriends alike” she greeted politely. “Sis, you look so lovely in your sweater, may I ask the brand?”


Her face blushed a bright red as the audience stirred. Watching her nervously look down at herself, pulling at the material.

“Target?” She shrugged, voice cracking as my heart began to beat for her. I looked back at the woman on the stage who smiled.

“What is your makeup? What do you identify as?”

“M-m-mother is half black, and white. My father is white. My Grandmother was a black woman.” she said.

Entire room started to stir with undertones of conversations as if they never met a mixed woman before.

“So that makes you…?” Sis countered in question. Voice as calm, and as smooth as a mother talking to her child in a gentle tone to get her to sleep.

“I identify as white, and black.”

“No, you identify as the person at the wrong event,” Sis said simply as my mouth dropped. “This is for black women only----.”

“I assumed----.”

“You assumed wrong.... One drop rule does not apply here,” she said with a smile. “Leave the way you came.”

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