Read Online Is the Bitch Dead, Or What? by Wendy Williams - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Wendy Williams
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and one of the hospital workers charged a fee for men to have their way with her while she was unconscious. Ritz didn't even want to think about what could have happened to her while she was in a coma and totally helpless.
Ritz hadn't processed yet that she was under constant watch and guard. She hadn't even thought about the killer possibly trying again. Her only thought was getting back. She wanted to get back on top as quickly as possible.
In a way, she was in her element in the hospital. Hospitals were for folks who were in pain, and Ritz had spent almost her whole life in pain. So, in the hospital, Ritz felt very much at home.
10
The door to Ritz Harper's private room opened. Ritz opened her eyes to see Aunt Madalyn and Uncle Cecil.
“Hey, baby girl,” Uncle Cecil said. He stroked her hand, which had an IV tube in it.
Ritz managed to croak out a “Hey.” She didn't expect to feel what she was feeling. Red shame spread across her chest when she looked at Cecil and then to Madalyn, who looked so old and worn. It seemed as though twenty years had passed since she last saw her aunt and uncle, instead of only a year.
The reason why they hadn't spoken in that time was so petty, Ritz now knew. Her aunt was disappointed in her behavior, and her aunt had been right.
Ritz had been too caught up in her rise in the game to have any naysaying or negative feedback thrown in her face. She felt like her aunt didn't understand her ambition, andtherefore she wasn't going to speak to her until Ritz got exactly what she wanted, which was to be told that she was right. Then Ritz would say, “See, I told you so.”
But she didn't feel much like saying that now. Ritz remembered the words her mother had spoken to her, and those words had cut her deep. She remembered the last nasty words she said to her aunt: “That's some bullshit to go along with your slave mentality. You didn't raise me. My mother raised me, and she didn't raise a slave!”
“Slave mentality.” Her Auntie M was the most liberated person Ritz had ever known. Auntie M was naturally beautiful. Auntie M was brilliant. Auntie M had a man whom she loved and who loved her. Auntie M's life had a purpose and a joy. Auntie M had raised her, without complaint, with unconditional love.
Auntie M didn't need a boob job, and a manicured twat, and a thousand-dollar wig, and a big fur coat, and a million dollars in the bank, to make herself feel “free.” Auntie M was free— she always had been, and always would be.
So who, in fact, was really the “slave”? Who, underneath all the makeup, and the bling, and the money, was the one who truly had the “slave mentality”?
Ritz shut her eyes to try to hold in the tears. They were streaming down the sides of her face anyway. Aunt Madalyn stood by Cecil's side as he put his arm around her, practically holding her up.
“I'm so sorry,” Ritz squeaked out. “I'm sorry, Auntie M.
Please forgive me.” The tears now flowed steadily. It was like a cork had been popped on a bottle of champagne.
Madalyn managed a smile and squeezed Ritz's hand, which seemed to be the only part of her body not bandaged.
“
I'm sorry, too, baby. I love you
.”
Ritz nodded and squeezed her aunt's hand. And at that moment, she knew that she was going to be all right.
I'm sorry, too, baby. I love you.
Who said that? Was it Auntie M or was it Mama? Or both?
Later that night, for the first time since she was a little child, Ritgina Harper fell asleep with a smile on her face.
11
Delilah Summers smoothed the skirt of her blue, pin-striped Brooks Brothers suit. She hadn't worn that suit or any other suit in nearly a year. It was a little snug around the hips and waist, but she could mask that well. Television people are masters of illusion. They know how to hide a few extra pounds, a new wrinkle, or newly sprouted grays. They had tricks— from how to stand and sit to hide a bulge (angle your body sideways and thrust your chest forward), to
Ritz hadn't processed yet that she was under constant watch and guard. She hadn't even thought about the killer possibly trying again. Her only thought was getting back. She wanted to get back on top as quickly as possible.
In a way, she was in her element in the hospital. Hospitals were for folks who were in pain, and Ritz had spent almost her whole life in pain. So, in the hospital, Ritz felt very much at home.
10
The door to Ritz Harper's private room opened. Ritz opened her eyes to see Aunt Madalyn and Uncle Cecil.
“Hey, baby girl,” Uncle Cecil said. He stroked her hand, which had an IV tube in it.
Ritz managed to croak out a “Hey.” She didn't expect to feel what she was feeling. Red shame spread across her chest when she looked at Cecil and then to Madalyn, who looked so old and worn. It seemed as though twenty years had passed since she last saw her aunt and uncle, instead of only a year.
The reason why they hadn't spoken in that time was so petty, Ritz now knew. Her aunt was disappointed in her behavior, and her aunt had been right.
Ritz had been too caught up in her rise in the game to have any naysaying or negative feedback thrown in her face. She felt like her aunt didn't understand her ambition, andtherefore she wasn't going to speak to her until Ritz got exactly what she wanted, which was to be told that she was right. Then Ritz would say, “See, I told you so.”
But she didn't feel much like saying that now. Ritz remembered the words her mother had spoken to her, and those words had cut her deep. She remembered the last nasty words she said to her aunt: “That's some bullshit to go along with your slave mentality. You didn't raise me. My mother raised me, and she didn't raise a slave!”
“Slave mentality.” Her Auntie M was the most liberated person Ritz had ever known. Auntie M was naturally beautiful. Auntie M was brilliant. Auntie M had a man whom she loved and who loved her. Auntie M's life had a purpose and a joy. Auntie M had raised her, without complaint, with unconditional love.
Auntie M didn't need a boob job, and a manicured twat, and a thousand-dollar wig, and a big fur coat, and a million dollars in the bank, to make herself feel “free.” Auntie M was free— she always had been, and always would be.
So who, in fact, was really the “slave”? Who, underneath all the makeup, and the bling, and the money, was the one who truly had the “slave mentality”?
Ritz shut her eyes to try to hold in the tears. They were streaming down the sides of her face anyway. Aunt Madalyn stood by Cecil's side as he put his arm around her, practically holding her up.
“I'm so sorry,” Ritz squeaked out. “I'm sorry, Auntie M.
Please forgive me.” The tears now flowed steadily. It was like a cork had been popped on a bottle of champagne.
Madalyn managed a smile and squeezed Ritz's hand, which seemed to be the only part of her body not bandaged.
“
I'm sorry, too, baby. I love you
.”
Ritz nodded and squeezed her aunt's hand. And at that moment, she knew that she was going to be all right.
I'm sorry, too, baby. I love you.
Who said that? Was it Auntie M or was it Mama? Or both?
Later that night, for the first time since she was a little child, Ritgina Harper fell asleep with a smile on her face.
11
Delilah Summers smoothed the skirt of her blue, pin-striped Brooks Brothers suit. She hadn't worn that suit or any other suit in nearly a year. It was a little snug around the hips and waist, but she could mask that well. Television people are masters of illusion. They know how to hide a few extra pounds, a new wrinkle, or newly sprouted grays. They had tricks— from how to stand and sit to hide a bulge (angle your body sideways and thrust your chest forward), to
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