Sister Souljah - Life After Death

“You bowed down from age twelve and throughout your entire young life to suck dick, you stupid bitch,” my own voice said to me. Now I’m thinking, how is myself gonna have an attitude with myself? Or how is she… I mean, how am I gonna accuse myself as though I wasn’t there doing the same thing as myself?

“But you never bowed down to the ONE who made your soul. Even in your afterlife, you were still bowing down to suck dick You even sucked the dick of the devil , the voice that was mine said to me in a low volume but with accusatory anger. The images on the wall screen switched. The setting was the fountain located before the forest that led to the City of Mercy. The sound of the fountain gushing water was engulfing me. It was powerful like in a dope-ass movie with a top sound system and soundtrack. But on the screen, it was me when I had been standing behind Young Drummer as he prayed. I was standing behind him pretending, and not praying, and deceiving him. Of course, I remember. I remember everything. She, who is me, started talking down to me again.

“Up until this very second you still have never gotten on your knees to bow down in prayer to the ONE who gave you life, Allah, the ONE, the Most Merciful, the Most Gracious, the All-Powerful,” my own voice said to me like she was really into it.

“I thought I was supposed to do the sincere prayer after the Truth Booth,” I reminded my voice that was speaking while my lips were not speaking. “I thought those were the instructions,” I further explained.

“Are you setting up to hustle Allah?” my voice asked me as though she is slicker than me and ’bout to catch me, who is her, in a lie.

“No!” I replied truthfully. Then there was silence. The frozen images went black. I became consumed by fear. Am I about to drop? I dropped down to my knees. It didn’t matter what I do in here in the booth. No one could see Winter Santiaga on her knees except for me. “Okay, I get it,” I said. “Worship only Allah. Worship contains not only fear, it contains prayer. It may have looked like I was worshipping these dudes I was giving head to. I mean, in order to pray it involves bending forward, getting on my knees, bowing down. True, I never did that. I never prayed. But yes, I sucked a lot of dick. I don’t think it’s really similar. I mean, but the stances are similar. But it’s not the same thing.” I paused. “Please forgive me,” I said, lowering my head to the floor.

“Bitch, stand up. Stop pretending,” my voice said to me in surround sound.

“Bitch, shut up!” I said to my voice. I didn’t stand up. “I am not pretending. I’m doing it now. I’m praying now.”

“Is that how your unborn son taught you to pray?” my voice asked me.

“No!” I leaped up. I bent back down and grabbed my clothing and put it back on. “I’ll get dressed and pray. But you are making a big deal out of this. It’s no big deal! I was going to pray. I just didn’t think this was the right timing. You’re acting all high and mighty. It’s not like I’m a murderer,” I yelled at myself, or at the sound and talk of my own voice that I was not controlling.

The wall screen switched back on. The images began to move. The setting was a packed outdoor parking lot. It was nighttime and zoomed in on some nervous old lady in the scene. She looked lost. Then there I was, suddenly in the scene with her. She was fumbling with her keys. The camera shifted from her and zoomed in close on me. I didn’t look nervous. I looked young, determined, and fashionable as usual. But then… I cocked my right hand all the way back behind me. I was holding something. Then, fast as lightning, I used the something that I was holding to smash the nervous old lady in the head. She withered. I robbed her. Got her for her Gucci driving shoes, credit cards, and a little cash. The focus of the images on the wall screen moved from me and onto her. The frame froze on her shocked expression. A little blood trickled down from her scalp.

I screamed, “Blood!” I don’t remember that. I didn’t see no blood on her that night. Yeah, I remember her. I hit her with a sock filled with rocks. True dat. I did. “I’m not lying. It should not count as a lie. You’re lying!” I said, screaming at the wall screen. “I knocked her out. I didn’t murder her, though,” I yelled at the accusation that the film scene starring the real me in my real life, which I clearly remember, was making. The images moved. The scene and setting switched. The camera zoomed in on the same nervous old lady. When I first chose her for a vic, she seemed like she had that old people’s shaking disease. In the image on the wall screen now, she is not shaking. She is completely still. She’s naked on a steel table. Her body is fucked-up shape wise. I didn’t do that. I just hit her once. She probably died of diabetes or some other old people’s disease. Then I heard the sound. It was a hospital sound. It was the sound of flatlining. The sound that machine makes when someone’s heart is no longer beating. I know that much. I am not a dumb bitch.

“You murdered her,” my voice said to me. But it wasn’t me talking. My lips were not moving. My brain was not telling my voice to say these things to me.

“Okay, when I was seventeen, I murdered a senior citizen. When I said a few minutes ago that I am not a murderer, I did not lie. I just didn’t know and had no way of knowing that she died. Since I did not know, that should not count as a lie that I told while here in the Truth Booth. I never ever been no murderer. So I did not lie. I just didn’t know. I am not lying in the Truth Booth,” I said, realizing I was repeating myself. I was pleading with my own voice, which I didn’t control.

The images moved. The scene and the setting changed. I was in a doctor’s office. I could see all of the medical equipment and supplies. There was a nurse or a doctor there, but I could only see her body in her doctor’s clothes. Her head was not in the shot for some strange reason. The sound switched on. The eighteen-years-young Winter Santiaga was on the wall screen. Young Winter said, “Just take it out now.” Of course I recognized it all. It’s the real-life me! It was when I was in the abortion clinic demanding an abortion and angry that I had to make an appointment to come back and get it done. I wanted the thing out right then and there.

“You murdered your twins,” my voice said to me with a calm force, and without my real-life lips moving. There was a disgust in her voice that a bitch who is me should not have in her voice against her own damn self. Trying to restrain my anger, I explained.

“Abortion is not the same as murder. Abortion does not count. If abortion was murder, it wouldn’t be legal, right? On that day, I was doing something perfectly legal. I mean, it wasn’t really me who killed the twins anyway. It was that damned doctor whose face I couldn’t even see on the screen. It’s not like I took a knife and stabbed myself in the belly. So how was it murder? Why are you saying that I murdered them? I didn’t kill them. The doctor did. Either it’s that or it’s that abortion is not murder, like I said in the first place!” I defended myself from myself. These were my lips moving and saying. I was telling my voice the truth, not a lie. The wall screen shut off. The booth went black. There was silence. Pissed, I folded my arms in front of me. I felt set up. I stood there so long my arms felt like a twisted pretzel. My body muscles were so tight. It was a standoff between me and my voice, concerning our disagreement about the meaning of thesereal-life situations.

After a while, it seemed like if I didn’t say or do something, the session would not ever end. I screamed, “Okay, I murdered three people: a senior citizen, Young Drummer, and Bomber Girl. I did not tell a lie. I didn’t think that abortion was or is murder. My session should not stop just because of this small misunderstanding. You are treating me like a prisoner. I already did that. I already did fifteen years on lockdown for nothing. I’m not a criminal. But I paid that debt. Winter Santiaga is innocent! But I served the time. I did not snitch. I paid the debt. It was somebody else’s debt. I paid it!” I yelled. The wall screen lit up. The images began moving. It was a bathroom. It was not a bathroom in my Brooklyn apartment or in our Long Island mansion, or even in the apartment that Bullet and I shared. I was in the big fancy bathroom in the mirror. I had a bag of coke in my hand. I cut it open and tasted it. The scene froze.