But the movie and music video sets, swanky Miami and New York restaurants, and trysts with the celebrities featured in the pages of People and In Touch magazines only skim the surface of Karrine's life.
Book 1. Add to Cart failed. Please try again later. Add to Wish List failed. There was another guy in the apartment. Everyone called him Rodney.
All I can remember about him was that he had extremely dark skin, was not very attractive, and had soulless eyes. Rodney stared at me intensely for a while and I became nervous. I turned to Charlene to ask her if we could leave, and just then, Rodney called Roni into one of the back rooms. I was uncomfortable. I knew that something was terribly wrong. A few minutes passed, and my legs began to shake. It was getting late and we were supposed to be home by now.
It was too embarrassing, so I pretended not to be worried. I managed to keep my legs from shaking and began to drink alcohol along with the rest of the crew. When Roni and Rodney emerged from the room, the look on their faces was unmistakable. Rodney sat down next to me on the sofa and my knees began to knock. For the first time ever, I just wanted to be at home with my mother.
Even though the sight of him was making me sick, he said the words I wanted to hear. It was late; the sun had gone down. I knew I would be in big trouble when I got home, so I began bracing myself for the worst. Whatever the punishment would be, it would be better than being out with these people.
As we drove toward my street, I began to feel a bit relieved. Finally, I could see the two-story structure I lived in becoming larger and larger still. Yet as we got closer, the car moved faster. And we sped right past my apartment. I alerted the driver that he had missed a stop. Everyone in the car was silent. I was sandwiched between two guys—one of them Rodney—in the backseat.
Charlene was pinned against the back right door, and when I looked over at her, she stared out of the window as if everything was going as planned.
I stared out of the window, with my eyes welling with tears. I could just get out of the car, I could get away. I could run to a public place and get help. I was growing increasingly terrified. I was particularly scared of Rodney. He had that look in his eye. He was harsh and abrasive and the other guys seemed afraid of him. He was in charge and no one in that car would dare stand up to him. I was in trouble and apparently had no allies—not even my best friend. Eventually, we pulled up to a house.
Rodney grabbed my wrist with all his strength and pulled me out of the car. The house was a monstrosity. It was a puzzle of brown boards in a sort of hexagonal shape and its frame stood on top of fifteen-foot stilts. We had a lot in common, that house and me.
The street we were on was darkened by the lack of working lights. I looked around for a place to run, a house that looked friendly and inviting, a house with no gate to fumble with and no dog to deter me. I was planning my escape.
We ascended the wooden stairway carefully. It seemed as if every other step was missing. The house was rotting with termites, and at the front entrance there was a big gaping hole in the floor, through which the ground fifteen feet below could be seen.
As the crew moved past the dangerous 27 flower off the bloom 28 confessions of a Video Vixen obstacles almost without looking, it was clear they had all been there before. Rodney took me to a corner of the house away from the others.
What was clear, though, was the strong hold he still had on my wrist and his slimy tongue wandering around my neck and face. I wanted to throw up on him. He licked and kissed my shivering frame. He lifted my shirt and roughly fondled my underdeveloped breasts before he began to unbutton my jeans.
My right hand became numb from the grip he had on me, and I was beginning to cry. I cried silently, and to my disgust, my tears excited him. He began to ravish me, tearing the stitching of my shirt and scratching my skin as he tugged at my pants. The neighborhood dogs had been barking from the moment we pulled up to the house, and by this time, the neighbors were in their yard. I could hear them talking, wondering what was going on.
My silent cries grew louder and eventually turned into a scream. Rodney loosened the grip on my wrist and relocated it to my neck. It must have been extremely late because there were no people anywhere as we drove around the city looking for a place to finish the evening.
Rodney took hold of my wrist again and now he was mad as hell, with a fire in his eyes. I could tell by the conversations in the car that Rodney, allegedly only eighteen years old at the time, was a criminal and had spent time in jail.
I was terrified and had become almost numb at this point. I stared blankly into space, my breathing slowed, and I went to another place. I was back home on St. I was picking the fruit from the trees—bananas, papayas, guavas.
I was young again and safe. I was loved. The car stopped abruptly when Rodney gave the order. I opened my eyes and saw the motel. I was never going to get out of there, I thought. Rodney got out and unscrewed the bolts of the air-conditioner of a courtyard-style motel room. He pushed the air-conditioning unit into the room, crawled in behind it, and unlocked the door for the rest of us. I just stared into space, a zombie. Exactly what happened after this remains a mystery to me because I was gone, back in a happy place.
I do remember there were two beds in the room— Rodney and I were on one; Charlene, Roni, and the other guy were on another. They were talking and laughing among themselves, as if what was going on in the next bed was not disturbing.
I was trapped under the covers by Rodney. As he lay on top of me, his right hand was around my neck, his left hand pulling off my pants.
My next memory is of him inside of me, tearing away at my insides. I screamed and cried simultaneously. I clawed and kicked, tirelessly. He took the hand from my neck and covered my mouth with the same forceful grip he had applied to my wrist. I could feel his hot, moist breath as he panted over me. A puddle of murky sweat pooled under my rib cage and in my navel. He was dirty. His body carried the odor of devious determination. I could feel my virgin skin 29 flower off the bloom 30 confessions of a Video Vixen ripping and the pain sent strobes of light shooting through my head as I overheated from the panic.
He was winning, and I was losing much more than my purity. A few short seconds later, Rodney returned with something in his hands. He began rubbing his hands together and lather began to form around his rough black fingers. He rubbed soap into my torn flesh in order to gain lubrication. I screamed in agony. It burned as if it were acid being poured directly into my lacerated cavity.
Exhausted and relieved when it was over, I fell asleep. The very next morning, Charlene, who was now no longer afraid to be on my side, and I were the first to awaken. We quietly got dressed and planned our escape.
Just then she pointed out to me the hideous hickey Rodney had placed on my neck. That man had thought of any way he could to mark and scar my body, to scar my spirit. Just as we were trying to leave, the others woke up and stopped us from leaving. Charlene and I looked at each other and knew this would be our only chance to get away.
We just needed to run as fast we could. As the guys walked toward the counter to order their breakfast, Charlene and I slipped into the bathroom. We took about fifteen seconds to come up with a game plan and immediately put it to work. So as not to bring any attention to ourselves, we calmly walked out of the door to the sidewalk. Then, without saying a word, we both started running as fast as we could. The guys saw us through the window of the restaurant and began to give chase. By the time they made it out to the sidewalk, we had already hit the first corner.
Our hearts stopped when we realized that we had just turned onto a dead-end street. We could hear them running and calling out to us. We had to do something and do it fast. Next to us were a few cars parked along the sidewalk. Again, without saying a word to each other, we instinctively crouched down and slid under one of the cars. Seconds later, the sound of their feet stopped, followed by whispers. Charlene called her mother and told her to pick us up at the corner.
When she slammed the phone back onto the receiver, I felt this part of the ordeal was over. But I knew that there would be something just as traumatizing waiting for me at home.
As I sat in the backseat of the car, Charlene and her mother were deep in conversation. What was so surprising was the tone of the discussion. Although her mother was obviously disappointed, she was still kind and loving. She listened. And when it came her turn to speak, she did it with more concern than anger.
I wondered if Charlene understood how great she had it, and then I thought about what would happen when I walked through the door at my house. My heart began to race and I was having difficulty breathing.
From the ride in the car to the long walk to the front door, I was blank. Without even blinking, she grabbed me by my hair and threw me to the ground. She began to punch and kick my head, neck, and chest. Go take a shower! Off duty now, she did nothing as my mother beat blood out of my face right there before her.
My mother never once stopped to ask what had happened. She never once expressed concern or worry about me. Never asked if I was all right. She automatically attacked me and made me feel dirty and low. The next thing I remember is being thrown into a scalding shower. There was no punishment that could compare to what I had just endured—being held captive and raped. The near-boiling water hit my skin and I blacked out.
I slid down to the floor of the tub and curled into a fetal position. The water washed away the physical evidence of what happened the night before. But the emotional scars would remain.
Later that day, I was looking out of my bedroom window, watching the other kids play. Things were back to normal and I was not allowed outside except to go to school. It was the first time I had heard them and it touched me to the core.
Oh, how I wanted Patti to be right. I cried as I watched the kids outside. I wanted to be one of them, happy and free. I wanted to be able to play, to be without worry or fear, but I knew I was different. I was not happy and I would never again be a child. I did not mature the way I should have. I was always nervous and always afraid. I had no confidence in myself and largely withdrew from everyone. I was so nervous I wet the bed and sucked my thumb constantly up until high school.
The bed-wetting happened every night, without fail. Again, my mother was never concerned with the reasons why; she just made me feel bad and disgusting because of it. She verbally attacked me every morning when I woke up in a pool of my own urine, which only made me more nervous.
This was a vicious cycle and I wanted out. But almost immediately after we moved to Florida, I became unfocused, going from a straight-A student to barely being able to pass my classes. Without the love, support, and encouragement of my grandmother, I looked for those things outside of my home. I found what I thought I had been looking for with the neighborhood kids. We started hanging out during my free two hours after school. Soon after, I started skipping school altogether in order to extend my socializing hours.
I would attend the first few classes and leave the campus for lunch. The majority of my friends were boys. It was easier for me to fit in with them and I found it difficult to have girlfriends. With my father being gone, I would always be looking for his replacement, and with the already damaged relationship with my mother, I would never feel comfortable around other girls. I never respected or liked them.
During the days of cutting school and hanging out, I was also drinking heavily and smoking. This became my routine. At home, I confined myself to my room, which was fine with my family.
Agatha took me to another world where the events leading to the ending of the novel were unpredictable. I enjoyed not knowing what was to come and would rush back into my room between meals and chores to find out who had killed whom and why.
I was also a great fan of poetry and short stories and studied the works of Maya Angelou and Edgar Allan Poe. Maya gave my spirit strength with her mothering voice, while Edgar Allan Poe took me back to timeless and formal elegance in literature. I discovered myself in books and in music.
I listened to the radio, singing along, pretending. I spent time writing poetry and recording all my thoughts and pain in my journals, becoming increasingly introverted and an outsider in my own home.
Of all the Christmases I spent with my mother, one, when I was about fourteen, made the biggest impression on the rest of my life.
From the day I came home after being raped, my mother began to tell anyone who would listen what an awful child I was. She told friends and family members that I was evil and on drugs. When the beatings were particularly vicious, I reached out to counselors and officials at my school. I showed up at school with bruises, lacerations, and even a sprained neck, but my mother had them all fooled.
She lied to cover her actions and made me out to be the bad one, eventually succeeding in making everyone dislike me. Things had become inverted since we left St. Thomas, and now she was the good guy. This particular Christmas, I left my room and walked slowly into the living room. There were maybe forty-five presents under the tree, and my little sisters were tearing away at their wrappings as my mother sat on the couch snapping pictures.
I walked closer to the tree and my eyes began roaming around the base of it looking for my gifts. As I was looking, my sisters were yelling and screaming with joy to see the gifts from my mother as well as gifts sent from her family. I stooped down and began kneeling so I could get a bet- ter view under the tree.
I continued to look, and as I did, no one said a word to me. No one even acknowledged my presence. I retreated from the Christmas tree once I realized there was nothing there for me. Not one thing. My mother had made everyone believe I was unworthy and no one in the family showed me love during the holiday. They had never loved me. My heart sank into my stomach and it became a few degrees colder in the room. My mother could never have gotten away with this if my grandmother had been around.
She had purposely disconnected me from my roots. She had brought me to this town to figuratively kill me off, and I would have to fight to stay alive. I closed my bedroom door behind me and plowed into my mattress. At first, I began to cry. But then I received a phone call from a boy I liked that kids in the neighborhood called Bam-Bam. He was older than me, around nineteen years old, and had just moved to Florida from Queens, New York. He was sweet to me and would always ask me how I was doing.
He always wanted to know if I had a bad day and what was wrong. Merry Christmas. I hung up the phone and lay in bed, feeling better. I replayed that conversation in my head over and over. Over the next few years, things at home would continue to deteriorate. I decided to fight back. I told myself that the next time my mother put her hands on me, I would hit her back. I cannot recall exactly what the issue was on that day, but I do know that when my mother hit me, I kicked and punched back.
I fought for my life that afternoon in the hallway of our apartment. I will kill you! I packed a few things, left my mother a note, and sneaked out of my first-story bedroom window. I was running away and had no intentions of ever coming back. It was my first hip hop tape and it would soon serve as the soundtrack to my first taste of voluntary freedom.
I played that tape until the ribbon popped. I had been on the streets for about two weeks, going from pillar to post, staying with friends and friends of friends.
Everyone I knew was older than me and had their own apartment. I stayed with older boys, and I even stayed at an abandoned house of a guy who had been sent to prison. I was not alone, however. Charlene, my best friend, came along for the ride.
She and I had never discussed what took place the night I was raped, but we still remained friends. We were soon met by some other runaway girls who frequented the area and knew the guy who owned the abandoned house. I was homeless, underfed, and, on many days, dirty, with nowhere to take a shower. I was so naive. One time I was standing on the corner with a couple of the girls from the house at the local liquor store asking for change to buy food and a stranger in a car invited us back to his place.
We jumped into the car with a Jamaican stranger. I was eager to get something to eat and a place to shower.
In retrospect, I realize he thought we were hookers, and he was looking for a good time at our expense. Still, I would rather have lived in this abandoned building with no lights and no water, begging for food and money in the worst neighborhood in Tampa Bay, than go home. It seems almost impossible to imagine now, but I lived on the street for close to a month. One Saturday night I was hanging out on the strip where there were teen clubs and places to eat, a movie theater and such.
This was my first time in this part of town, and my first time hanging out like this. The night air felt cool and inviting on my face. We were all smiling and laughing and carefree. I was the happiest of all. I knew she would be looking for me, but I was shocked when I turned around to see her standing right behind me. There was my mother, with her best friend in tow, side by side with a few members of the Tampa Bay Police Department. Her arms were folded tightly and I could see the look of ire on her face.
She gave me the eye, and I knew my life would never be the same after this night. Suddenly her look changed from anger to concern and relief. It was a big act for the police. The police asked me why I left home, and I began to tell them about the beatings, about the time she hit me with a two-by-four wooden plank and hurt my neck, and about all the times I tried to tell the counselors at school, but she would come in and do the same thing she was doing now—lie and act.
I knew this was my only chance. I had to convince the police that I was telling the truth. If I went home with my mother, I thought she would surely kill me. She had turned the whole world against me, making them all think that I was on drugs and even that I was possessed by the devil. She told everyone I was a whore and that I had been having sex with all my guy friends, when nothing could have been farther from the truth.
She defamed and degraded my character. Advanced embedding details, examples, and help! Karrine transitioned to film when director F. But the movie and music video sets, swanky Miami and New York restaurants, and trysts with celebrities featured in celebrity magazines only skim the surface of Karrine's life.
This memoir--part tell-all, part cautionary tale--shows how she came to be the confidante of so many, why she kept their secrets, and how she found herself in Hollywood after a life marked by physical abuse, rape, and drugs--all before she was twenty-six. By sharing her story, she hopes to shed light on an otherwise romanticized industry. Nunc hendrerit tortor vitae est placerat ut varius erat posuere.
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Cum sociis natoque penatibus et magnis dis parturient montes, nascetur ridiculus mus. This title is due for release on August 1, Please Log in and add this title to your wishlist. We will send you an email as soon as this title is available.
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