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...
