Yellow Mama Archives

Mandi Rose
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Mandi Rose



          Tonight is a beautiful night with a slight chill in the air.


          I’ve just finished painting my toenails. As they dry, I have a vision of red. I wonder: is it blood or madness? Maybe both. Right now I have the chills. What could it be? What does it mean?


          She made me bleed. What happened? That I’m unsure of; my mind is a landmine of memories. All memories of her hurt so bad! I need peace. I need to find some way to get over being this scared little girl. She’s put me through so much.


          Sharon is my older sister. She’s naturally a brunette, but dyes her hair to whatever. She has a face full of freckles, and is taller than me. She’s also not on the light side, to put it nicely. She used to be real thin with huge tits. Now she’s very fat with huge tits. Unfortunately, I look like her. All but the fat part. There’s no mistaking we’re sisters, sad to say.


          I got it! I know now. I remember Sharon hit me so hard, so many times in my rib cage, I spat up blood for almost a week.  I was so scared of her, I never told anyone. I still went to school and Mom never knew a thing. That wasn’t the first time Sharon physically abused me.


          Back when I was seven years old, she forced me to do things to her. These very bad things, I knew were wrong. First she’d say, “Do me a favor?’’ When I’d say no, she’d say, “Then I’ll tell Mom what you did.’’ Sharon would smile. “Then you’ll be in trouble.’’ Like all kids, I was afraid of getting into trouble.


          Out of pure fear, I reluctantly did what she demanded. As time went on, she’d go into these fits of rage and beat the shit out of me. She would! You’d think she was some crazy monster or something.


          After a while of her beating me, my body stopped bruising so easily. She bruised even with the slightest touch. Then she’d say I hit her. The size difference between us was too insane. No one should’ve believed that nut job was beaten up by little me!


          One night, though, I started planning ways to end it all. I didn’t care if I ended my life or hers. I just wanted it all to stop. I needed it to stop!


          I almost never slept. So, in the middle of the night, I tried to plot my escape from this crazy bitch. I tried downing pills or cutting my throat wide open. Then, I thought: That should be her. It should be her life that is cut short!


          That night was a clear winter wonderland. It had just finished snowing. The ground looked so clean, so fresh. No one had walked on it yet. It was just after 3AM, and I was still awake.


          I listened to all the night sounds in my house: my parents snoring in the next room, my middle sister just beyond them, and then, all the way down the hall, Evil sleeping . . . 


          And, I thought to myself, that fucking bitch will get what’s coming to her!


          One night I remember my dad ramming a huge kitchen knife into Big Sis's headboard.  He’d wanted to borrow $20, but she was being her usual bitchy self. She wouldn't give it to him. And the numbers he wanted to play would have made him a lot of money.


          Still, what a great idea he’d had! It was there for the taking, and boy did I!


          This night, I walked into the kitchen and quietly took out the sharpest and biggest knife Mom owned.


          Sharon’s room was right off the kitchen. Just a couple of steps, and I was there. I should’ve been shaking more than after any beating I ever endured from her. At least, that’s what you’d think when you plan to kill your abuser. I only thought: Jail would be so much easier to face than her kind of torture.


          In her mirror, I glimpsed myself. And, even in the partial light from the other room, I noticed my eyes. Before tonight I hadn’t seen it. My innocence had been stolen by my own sister. She’d killed me each time, every time!


          I was so damned young! No child deserves to go through this pain. Tonight I took a stand for all children.


          I tiptoed toward her bed. I couldn’t help but watch her breathe. She was a sound sleeper. I watched, as her chest caved in and out. I looked into that fucking freckled face of hers. I knew she never thought of what she did to me. I knew she didn’t think of all the pain she caused me. And I knew she’d never care if I told her she’d stolen my innocence.


          That’s when I raised the knife. I held it with both hands to keep steady and not miss my mark. In my mind, I saw it even before it was done.


          First, I stabbed her in the heart one . . . two . . . seven, eight times! Then I dragged the knife up to her throat. I tried to cut her head completely off. I needed to know she was dead and would never hurt me again! I needed that, but couldn’t quite get her fat head off that massive body. I never made a sound. She didn’t, either.


          Just as well let ignorance sleep all cozy tonight.


          Until daybreak, I stayed in her room, holding that bloody knife. I wanted to confess my sins to Mom.


          Then I realized: I didn’t have any sins to confess! I’d made the world safe from one evil piece of shit. If not for the greater good, than at least for my world, my good!


          And that’s enough, isn’t it? I felt like Dorothy from that movie. I wanted to shout, “Ding dong, the witch is dead!”


          And dead she is!



Mandi Rose



          One cold, lonely night, I woke up in a pool of sweat mixed with blood.


I tried to sit up and noticed the knife was still in my body. I had to be in shock. Trying to glimpse the stabber fleeing my home, I noticed parts of his body. In the faint lighting, I could make out some of his facial features.


          Pulling the knife out of my stomach, I saw something more alarming. The knife had entered my left breast, was forced long the nipple and straight down through my stomach! The wounds didn’t stop there, I realized. 


Upon phoning 911, I saw my wrist had been sliced open. Maybe this guy wanted the authorities to think it was suicide. However, this would still have to be investigated and brought to trial.


All the doctors said I was lucky to be alive. I certainly didn’t feel lucky. Why was this guy trying to kill me? What did I ever do to him?


          I was in the hospital for about four months. In that time, my heart failed me twice. Luck must have still been on my side. The doctors were able to save me on both accounts. They couldn’t, however, save my breast. So now I am left to live my life with only one breast and looking extremely lopsided.


          That wasn’t the worst I had to deal with, I suppose. I still had to view the police lineup.


After a good ten minutes of examining the seven suspects, I positively identified my attacker. Scary thing was, I still didn’t know who he was or why he did this to me. He looked only vaguely familiar. . . .


          Of course, pressing charges was in the plan for this guy. I took this all the way to court. After a grueling six month wait, we finally had our day in court. “Our Day” just so happened to last a horrid five months.


The day was April 21st and it was painfully long. I learned almost nothing that first day. His name was Jeffrey Smith. I knew him a long time ago. In fact, I once thought I was in love with him. These days he looks so different, so changed, so mean. Still, why would he try to kill me?


          On June 26th, at 4:18 PM, my heart caused me to be rushed to the nearest emergency room.


That near-fatal incident took the doctors longer to revive me. I was technically dead for 10 minutes and 35 seconds. After that, my brain was fried! I doubted if I wanted to go on living. For a week, doctors wouldn’t allow me to tend to courtroom business.


On July 3rd, at approximately 9:25 AM, I was once again in court. I couldn’t understand why these procedures were taking so long. He tried to kill me! Just convict him and let’s be done with it all!


          At this point, I didn’t care why he did what he did. However, on August 14th, Jeffrey took the witness stand and totally went off about everything. He told about how he loved and missed me, about how horrible he felt, living without me. He was talking all types of crazy stuff. This nut even had the nerve to say he wanted me to take him back. Of all things, he wanted me to forgive him.


          All I could do was cry.  My memories of what we’d had were dragged through the court.  As he looked into my eyes and whispered my name like he used to, tears ran down both our faces.


I could see he was hurting, but that didn’t justify attempted murder. That’s certainly not something I pushed him into trying on me.


          September 11th, on the witness stand, I collapsed.  At 3:45 PM, I was once again rushed to the hospital. Somehow, I had internal bleeding, without cause or warning. I had to wait another week to return to court.


          Wednesday, September 17th, I returned at 11:45 AM, only to have the day cut short. Court let out at 1:30 PM, to resume the next morning.


The trial seemed to go on forever! But finally, finally the day arrived. The day to sentence Jeffrey for what he had done to me

. . .


          On Friday, September 26th, at 3:38 PM, Jeffrey Smith was sentenced to life without parole. . . .


          And at 7:55 PM, on that very same day, my 25th birthday . . .


                                                I DIED.




Art by Hillary Lyon 2017

Twisted Love

by Mandi Rose


The knock on the door woke Krista up from a much-needed, deep sleep. All afternoon, she’d been wrapping Christmas gifts. And she hadn’t slept well, last night.

The man’s yelling frightened her till she realized she knew the voice. It was Billy, her ex-boyfriend from Philly. Lord knows what had brought him all the way to Jersey. North Jersey, yet. Things didn’t end quite well between them. And they hadn’t spoken in two years.

How did he even know where she was living? She’d changed her address, along with other parts of her life, when they fell out. She couldn’t handle living that way, anymore. The reminders were killing her soul. Crying every night was not conducive to her mental health.

So why was he here, now? What could he want from her?

Reluctantly, she opened the door a crack. She couldn’t believe how much she’d missed looking into his eyes. Behind his glasses, they were beautiful, and deep brown. When he smiled, she melted just as she always had.

She had to get a grip on the situation. She needed to find out what he wanted and how he’d found her.

The love they once shared shone in their eyes, even now. Billy looked good in his blue Levi’s jeans and button-down white shirt. “Krista,” he said, “Please let me in. Just for a little while. Just to talk.”

She opened the door wider, to give him room to walk past her. She’d always found it difficult to turn him away.

He was the one weakness she had.

She led him into the living room, where it might be safer to speak. The last thing she needed was to jump into bed with the same person who had crushed her, two years ago. All she wanted now was a peaceful, quiet life, with no complications.

He tried to lean in, to kiss her cheek, but she walked to the other side of the room.

“Krista?” he said, not too happy.

What does he want? she thought, sitting at her desk. Maybe there she would feel safer. Finally, she spoke.

“Billy, is there something you came here for?”

He smiled wider, probably hoping she’d listen with her normally open mind and heart. “I needed to see you. I needed to know you were OK.”

She almost choked back the sarcasm. “You, worried about me?” she said. “That’s a laugh. You didn’t seem to care when I needed you. Why are you really here?”

His eyes look more pained, more real now. Walking over to kneel by her side, he took her hand, softly kissed it. “I’ve missed you,” he said, “with such tremendous pain, and regret, as to our demise. I love you. I’ve always loved you. I hated that you moved on with that guy after we broke up.”

She pulled her hand away. “We broke up after you beat me so bad, it took me two weeks in the hospital to recover!” She got up from the desk. “Somehow, I don’t classify that as love, Billy. You loved the drugs more than me.”

“Really? You don’t miss me even one bit?” he said, angrily. “Who are you fucking these days? Or, should I say, with how many are you fucking? I know you cheated multiple times on me. I have videos to prove it.”

“When did I become a big, tall, blonde woman?” she said. “When did I ever look Spanish, with that skin tone, and a huge birthmark on my cheek? You’ve got some imagination, Billy. You found any excuse to hurt me. Well, I can’t say that I missed that.”

Seeing how she was standing up to him now, he had to realize he’d lost control over her mind. She wasn’t going to cave into his manipulating ways.

With a horrible look, he rushed towards her, wrapping his big, meaty hands around her throat.

She tried to scream, but couldn’t. Quickly, her oxygen was cutting off. He was just too strong.

She reached toward the desk, grasping at anything she could. Just out of reach, she felt something metallic, maybe the letter opener. Where were the scissors? Under the Christmas tree, or . . .

No, here. The scissors were here. As the seconds passed, she was getting weaker.  But she could . . . just . . .  reach them.

With all her strength, she swung her arm up toward his throat. With one, two, three stabs, his grip loosened from her neck. Blood splattered all over, as he fell to the floor.

Struggling for air, she stood, watching him die. She’d got his jugular. His glasses askew, he clutched helplessly at his throat, as more blood shot up. Their eyes met once more, before he died.

Sad, Krista thought, breathing hard, as she looked around the room. This was one holiday that would never be forgotten.

All the presents under the tree would have to be rewrapped. But . . .

Merry Christmas to me, she thought. At last I’m free!

Art by Hillary Lyon 2019

Holly, Jolly

by Mandi Rose

And you call yourself “Santa.”

You make me sick.

You failed the lie detector test. Then confessed to some of what you did. To your own granddaughter.

Now you’re pleading “not guilty”? Don’t make me laugh, Santa. What do you think the jury will do, when they look at you? When they see your victim? That trembling child, with the haunted eyes.

 Think they’ll sympathize, because you’re an old man? This is Jersey, pal! If we still had the death penalty, there’d be a needle with your name on it: William Madigan. Last name same as mine, I’m sorry to say. When I look at Shithead, I see you in his bleary eyes. You sick, perverted sonuvabitch. 
You loved playing Santa for the kids . . . now we know why! How many others were there? Rosy-cheeked girls begging you for American Girls, and you sliding your fat disgusting hand inside their pants. Did you diddle the boys, too, like those “reassigned” priests?

Like those sick priests, you’re capable of knowing right from wrong! You just chose not to use the common sense God gave you! You chose to go the path of the devil!

And then became the devil! 
You are so lucky to be locked up, nice and safe. Outside your cell, seasoned inmates mill around like big, hungry cats. Just waiting . . .

Your own fucking granddaughter! You saw her the day she was born! When Shithead held her, so carefully, like he was scared she’d break, I thought you looked proud. Little did I know what was festering in your mind, and crotch.

And to blame it on her! A nine-year-old. Said she came onto you! You have real issues. For three years, you put her through hell. And you’re still torturing her. To put her through a trial . . .

You really think you’ll be found “not guilty”?

All you need is one “sympathetic” juror . . . or one with the same sick urges as you.

You will not win this case! You can’t win this case! There is no way on God’s green Earth that you could win! 

Still . . . you know what?

Maybe you should win. 

Your cellie, that bug-eyed Puerto Rican, with the gruesome tatts? He’s up for parole after the first.

Ha-ha, I did my homework.

Cellie’s got daughters he needs to support. He’s looking for extra work. Off the books. Way off the books. . . .

So I’ll have myself a “Holly, Jolly Christmas.”

Picturing your jollies rammed down your throat.



Mandi Rose is a single working mother of two. Recently she became a grandmother for the second time. She resides in Florida with her awesome boyfriend and teen daughter and granddaughter. In the little spare time she has, writing is what assists in keeping her sane as she takes bits from her life.

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