Blaire's Redemption: The Obeah Eye

On a cool, summer night in Harlem,

Blaire Brentwood found herself outside of the nei ghborhood trap house. Now, don’t get her wrong, Blaire was no fiend -- no ma’am, she’d never been near a needle, let alone an ounce of weed -- no sir!

Blaire Brentwood was not by any stretch of the imagination, an ordinary street girl, and this was no ordinary trap house. This trap house was home to the ghettos' greatest shamans and elite tier voodoo, hoodoo, and santeria priestesses.

The large brownstone building loomed in front of her. A group of older men stood outside, smoking weed and what she smelled to be black and milds. The men exchanged smooth talk in gargantuan, rich voices, full of base, mirth, and laughter. All Blaire could make out from her left eye were clouds of smoke, thick afros, dark skin, angular square male bodies, big mahogany knuckles, and the occasional gleaming of white teeth.

Soft yellow light from inside fell on the steps, illuminating the stoop. Her left eye scanned for a clear path of entry to the front door, past the men.

Play it cool, she thought to herself as she walked up to the stairs. Despite her body radiating with pain, she seamlessly slipped into an alluring strut, emphasizing the sway and dip of her hips, her chin pointed high, her shoulders at a relaxed round, pushing forward her ample chest.

As she got closer to the stairs, the men which she intended to move out of her way became a muscular barricade of impediment. Blaire cut her eye at them and allowed a sweet, buttery smile to melt across the corners of her full lips. Living in New York taught her to assess circumstances and adapt; seeing that she was already badly bruised and battered, her best course of action was to avoid confrontation and go the path of least resistance.

Blaire hugged herself while digging her nails into the bruises on her forearm, enhancing the vibrancy of its red blossoming; she wanted them to be -- fresh -- she reasoned to herself, as she became intoxicated with the venom of its sting.

“I’m sorry for interrupting. I’m just trying to get in.” Blaire was breathy and mysterious, she coquettishly fluttered her left eye.

“Get in?” One of the men said, taking a drag on his cigar. He had on a black turtleneck, adorned with a simple gold chain around his neck. He wore cheetah print Versace sunglasses. Exhaling a plume of smoke, he asked, “What makes you think it's that easy.”

“I live here.” Blaire lied.

“No you don’t,” said the man wearing the sunglasses, “No one lives in Kirkview Manner. Not even us. Come here, who sent you.”

A chill shivered through her that touched the core of her spirit. Blaire stepped towards him, almost as if compelled by a magnetic force, in spite of her better judgment.

“Nobody--” Blaire began.

“What are you really here for?” The man hissed with a serpentine lisp, quickly removing his sunglasses to reveal pitch-black reptilian eyes, centered by two golden slits. Blaire wanted to be mortified, but she was utterly entranced and paralyzed by his gaze. She felt herself suffocating, as the man aggressively searched her mind.

“You want a gun,” he pulled his shades up. “This is the only place you thought to get a gun?”

Upon being released from his gaze, Blaire gasped as she felt the stolen air return to her lungs. Bursting into tears, she pulled back the sheer bell sleeve of her orange top.

Blaire thrust out her wrist: “He’s abusing me.”

The men looked between each other.

“Come with me,” the snake-eyed man in sunglasses authorized. At his command, the other men shuffled out of her way. Men, she thought, they only listen to each other. Her crocodile tears immediately evaporated and she set her face to a stony scowl.

They walked down a dark, smokey hallway, that smelled of sage, marijuana, and debauchery. Blaire’s skin crawled at the loud sound of lovemaking, a cacophony of laughter drifted down the hall, followed by an unexpected scream of a terrorized man... It all seemed to be happening at once, in diverse caverns and corners of the complex.

With Snake Eyes leading the way in front of her, hidden from his gaze, she felt safe to relax into her pain. Her left leg felt like a brick of static as she dragged it down the hallway. Limp right, drag left, limp right…

Blaire winced, drawing in a breath, remembering. With every inhale, she felt a stab of shooting pain in her womb. Men always get what they want --Blaire thought to herself-- and they never play fair. She felt over the bruise on her collarbone, thinking about Quentin, thinking about what he had done to her.

“Where are you taking me?” Blaire inquired.

“You want your eye fixed. I’m taking you to Osman,” said Snake Eyes.

It was true. “Then why did you say I wanted a gun?”

“Two things can be true at once,” he reasoned, “Like being a beautiful woman with an inferiority complex.”

Blaire stopped, she felt as if she had been punched in the gut. She immediately felt nauseous, vulnerable, and totally exposed.

“I’m not insecure,” she spat.

He pivoted sharply, towering over her. “I said inferior, not insecure.”

Blaire refused to look at him, settling her vision on the broad expanse of his chest. Although she could not see his eyes, she felt the intensity at which he beamed down on her.

“Show me your eye,” he commanded her.

“No,” she retorted. He fiercely grabbed her chin, craning her head up towards him. A chilling sensation flashed through her like an x-ray, as she remembered when he had read her earlier. She stared into the black expanse of his shades, tremors rocking through her body gently like newspapers in the wind.

Blaire exposed her eye.

“Repulsive,” He sneered, turning her chin loose. She could have choked on the palpable disgust in the air. Her eyes became hot with defeat as liquid anger trickled down her cheeks.

The shame saturated her to the core and in an instant, she was there again. Just that one word, with that same diction of resentment, awe, and cruelty sent her back a decade into the living room of her grandmama's home in Mount Vernon.

She was twelve years old. She could feel it all over again. See it all over again -- her grandmama’s living room was bathed in the afternoon glow of the summer sun, her home awash in the fragrant scent of potpourri and fresh detergent. Her grandmama was a devout Christian woman, of the mindset that cleanliness was next to godliness.

Her grandmama sat next to her on the couch, her left arm wrapped around Blaire’s shoulder, her right hand clutching a fistful of used tissues. Grandmama wiped her nose and eyes, in between sobbing breaths: “Look at what she done did to my grandbaby, Lawd hammercy.”

“What exactly happened Geraldine.” The pastor said firmly, he stood over them.

“Her momma did this. That evil woman.” Grandmama said between gritted teeth.

“Did what?” The pastor pressed impatiently.

“Show’em, baby,” Her grandmama whispered, pulling her arm from around her. Blaire looked over at her grandmama slowly, but she had turned her head to the side to look out the window. Blaire gazed up towards the pastor, slowly pulling down her eye patch to reveal what grandmama called an obeah eye (witchcraft hex).

“How repulsive!” He exclaimed coldly. “My God! Good Lord! What manner of wickedness is this! Cover it!”

Blaire fumbled to get her eye covered.

“What can we do, pastor?” Grandmama heaved.

“I’m afraid there is nothing I can do. The level of power attached to such devilment and perversion is beyond my scope of calling. Good day, ma’am.”

Grandmama’s face dropped as if she had seen a ghost; a wave of revelation flashed before her eyes like lightning. “You’re supposed to be our pastor... you can’t help us?”

The pastor set his mouth in a flat line, nodding toward Blaire and her grandmama, “I’ll show myself out.”

Blaire slipped out of the memory as quickly as she had lapsed in. Snake Eyes instructed her to wipe her face and enter through the double doors.

“Osman will see you now,” Snake Eyes said, “Might I add, he is a very tricky and particular fellow.”

Blaire gathered her composure and entered. Osman's almond eyes twinkled with a particular look of lust and intrigue that she had grown accustomed to as a freak of nature. He was a large, brown-skinned man, with two thick dreadlock plaits.

“Well hello sweetness,” He mused in a sultry voice, his voice carrying like the lowest note in a cello. Blaire shivered as she approached him.

“Have a seat," Osman instructed; a chair immediately materialized from behind her, knocking her into a seated position. Blaire writhed momentarily, as she felt her spinal function lock into the seat.

"What can I do for you?” Osman purred.

“I need my eye fixed,” Blaire confessed anxiously.

“Ahhhh," he croaked, "You want redemption. I was told you wanted a gun.” Osman put the gun on the table. Blaire’s breath hitched at the sight of the black semi-automatic.

"What exactly is wrong with your eye?” Osman pressed.

By now Blaire had been stripped of all sense of intrigue, pride, or shame; she flagrantly pulled down the eye patch, starring him coldly in the face.

A sly smile slowly crept to the corners of his lips, he didn’t even wince, let alone flinch in utter repulsion.

Osman materialized a small black notebook from thin air. “For twenty thousand dollars, I'll fix you.”

“Twenty thousand dollars.” Blaire gasped.

“Sign your name in this book and get the money to me in three days, on the full moon.” He opened the notebook, pushed it towards her, and gave her a pen.

Suddenly she became free, her range of motion increased enough for her to sign her name. Blaire watched the ink instantly disappear upon lifting the pen from the paper.

“Careful,” Osman gave her the gun.

☽

Blaire took the subway home and arrived at midnight. She came into their bedroom where Quentin was sleeping. Quickly, she brandished the gun and aimed it towards his sleeping body.

“Get up Quentin,” Blaire commanded. Quentin murmured incoherently.

“Blaire, baby. Come to bed.” He lulled, drowsy with sleepiness.

“You get up and open this damn safe.”

Quentin shot up out of bed, squinting his eyes at her.

“Blaire, what are you -- ” he whispered in disbelief.

“I need that money!” Blaire continued, “Twenty thousand dollars.”

Quentin reached under the nightstand where he kept his spare pistol.

“I already took it.”

Quentin’s face fell. “Blaire -- what the--”

“Give me the code.”

“What--”

“Damn it, Quentin!”

“Zero nine, seventeen, ninety-seven.” Quentin rushed. Blaire’s heart skipped a beat, it was her birthday. Finger still on the trigger, she pulled the accordion closet door to the right. Blaire stooped down to the safe and tried the numbers, it opened.

There it was, twenty thousand dollars.

“Now you’ve got what you want,” Quentin stammered, “So why are you doing this?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Blaire, please -- ”

“I need to fix my eye,” she said listlessly. Blaire stood back up and cocked the gun at him, “And you’re in my way.”

“Baby, you want the money? Take it, sweetheart. My beautiful Blaire of Bel-Aire. Why would you do me like this?

Blaire shed a tear watching him, helpless; as he showered her in the adoration he consistently starved her of. Now, within moments of losing his life, did he realize she was his beautiful nightmare.

“You beat me and make me feel like filth,” she retorted through her teeth, “And I hate you.”

“I’m so sorry Blaire, I know I can get crazy sometimes; but I always loved you.”

“And I love me more,” Blaire fired the gun.

The bullet ripped straight through Quentin’s heart.