So you say you read about my story in the newspaper? Trust me believe nothing you hear and half of what you see. The newspapers said I killed my mother in cold blood and that I had no remorse for what I’ve done. That’s so untrue. I am not a cold blooded murderer, I am justified. And I do have remorse, only because I hadn’t done it sooner. Sit down and get comfortable because I’m going to tell you the real story of the baby face killer, Stacie Thompson.
Ever had that feeling of self worthlessness? Like no matter what you did or thought of doing wouldn’t be good enough? Or like everything and everyone around you is moving on and you’re stuck in the same place? Well that’s how I live my life every day. I have to deal with the judgment of society and the rejection of the person who I thought would love me unconditionally. I mean that is what a mother is supposed to do right? A mother is supposed to protect her young from the evil that walks this Earth, am I right? Throw herself to the wolves therefore her baby will not have to suffer, am I getting close?
A mother is supposed to nurture, teach, love and develop her child in a way that they will be a successful member of society, am I getting closer to hitting the nail on the head? Well these are all the things that a good mother is supposed to do but trust and believe that just because a dog can have puppies, doesn’t make it a mother. I grew up in one of the most gruesome projects in Brooklyn and was living off of welfare checks. Grace Thompson, my mother had fallen from grace when she was 16. That’s when she thought she was in love and ran away to be with a man who was 23 by the name of Byron Stokes.
They were together for about 7 months when she found out that she was pregnant and that my father was not the man she made him out to be.
Once she told him about us he told her he was going to the store but he never came back. He left her in the apartment all by herself. For months she didn’t know where he was at, she looked in all of his usual hangout spots but to no avail. I guess that’s when the depression kicked in. That’s when the drugs and drinking started to come into play.
I was born premature September 4, 1990, suffering from fetal alcohol syndrome and I was born addicted to crack. It’s a wonder how I ever survived. The hospital called Child Services but released me into my Aunt Nicole’s care. I loved my aunt dearly. She was the one person who didn’t try to take advantage of me, who didn’t want to exploit me and use me for their own personal gain. Tragedy struck me 12 years later when she was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer.
My mother was out of rehab and was clean so when Aunt Nicole died I was released back into her custody. I thought things would be ok and it was for at least the first year. 13 is that primitive age where everything on the body just seems to go BOOM! BOW! TA-DOW! Well for me it did. My half white- half black features made me look exotic compared to the fully black females in my neighborhood. I must have gotten my shape from my father’s side, he was black. My mother was your average slim Caucasian woman her only real asset was her blonde hair, blue eyes, and milky white skin. I guess that’s where the jealousy came in.
At thirteen I wasn’t your average teenager. I didn’t talk back, I made good grades, didn’t hangout after school, and I kept the house neat. Grace had a boyfriend by the name of Craig. He was a tall dark skin man and looked like he was smoking on the glass pipe all of his life. He was super skinny and his eyes looked like they were about to bulge out of his head. I didn’t like him or the way he would stare at me. I had a feeling that he was a horrible man deep down inside. I think they call that intuition. My mother moved him in about three months after I did. I didn’t like it one bit, to say he gave me the creeps wouldn’t do my feelings toward him any justice.
One day I was home from school sitting in my living room doing a creative writing assignment for class, I decided to write about my sofa. I had an active imagination and decided to do an elaborate piece. I wrote a whole history on just that sofa alone. I pretended it descended from kings and queens of the “couch world”. I was laying on the hard wood floor with my feet propped up on the sofa and my handy dandy notebook in my hand. I was so relaxed and felt so free and all that ended the moment the moment Craig walked through the door.
I could tell he was high by the way his eyes were glazed over, the way he fidgeted, and how his whole appearance just seemed to be a mess in general. My “spidey senses” perked up immediately. My mother wasn’t home and to this day I believe she set me up. “hey Stacie, wh-what you doin’?” he stammered. Normally, I kept conversation limited with Craig and today was no different. “Homework” I quickly responded. I got up off the floor to go to my room but Craig jumped into my path. My spidey senses superseded red alert and my heart began to race. “Do you need some help?” he asked. “No that’s ok I’m done now.”
Once again I tried to walk pass but he continue to stand in my way. Even though Craig was super skinny he had “crack head strength” on his side, I learned that the hard way. I tried to push my way through but I got the surprise of a life time when Craig grabbed me from behind and put me into a death choke hold. I tried my best to fight him, elbowing, scratching, and kicking. My 5’7 117 pound frame stood no chance next to him. The more I struggled the tighter his hold became. Spots started to appear before my eyes and eventually the struggling became nonexistent. I didn’t completely pass out but I didn’t have the strength to fight. Tears streamed down my face as he led me to my bedroom. “Shhhh, don’t cry lil mama. I promise I won’t hurt you,” he gently laid me down on the bed and wiped at the tears on my face. Then he began to undress me, planting kisses all over my body and whispering sweet nothings. I lay stiff as a board, made no noises unless you count the scream from when he forcefully penetrated me.
Apparently my mother had not told him I was a virgin, and becoming angry at the blockage he just rammed it in. Good for me, a couple of pumps and a grind later it was over. “See baby, it wasn’t bad was it?” he asked as he rolled off me. I didn’t answer I just continued to look at the cracked ceiling, and repeated the 23rd Psalms. Noticing he wasn’t going to get a response from me, he quickly got up, dressed and left. I don’t know how long I laid there; felt like days I’m guessing it was only a few hours.
Once I finally did get up, I ran me a bath and tried to scrub the memories from my body. The scent, the touches, the kisses, the act itself. I watched as the blood ran from between my legs and down the drain. I became numb after that. It was like I was on auto pilot, going through the motions. My body and soul was hurting. I needed something to help relieve the pain. That’s when I tried a Tylenol experiment. I swallowed 13 Tylenol pills but overdose wasn’t in the cards for me because I threw the pills up. I never told anyone and I honestly don’t even know why I’m reliving this now. I prefer to pretend, thank you. Let’s move on. Later that night while we were eating dinner, which consisted of grilled cheese sandwiches and Top Ramen noodles. I told my mother about the heinous act that Craig bestowed upon me.
Thinking that my mother was going to come to my rescue and deliver me from evil, I was sent back to reality by a swift slap to my face. “Don’t you dare say such a thing! Craig would never do anything like that, that man loves you like a daughter!” tears sprang to my eyes as my mother defended the man that stole my innocence. “ mommy I’m not lying! He raped me! He RAPED ME!” I screamed. My mother was crying too. “You lying little whore!” SMACK! Another hit across the face. Crack! This one was a punch. “You probably threw yourself at him! I see the way you look at him; you think I don’t see it?” Bang! A kick to my stomach, which sent me flying into the wall. Grace continued to assault me like I was a random stranger and not her only child. The beating lasted a few minutes but my body couldn’t tell one minute from one hour.
Craig came in and found my mother abusing me, he pulled her away from me. “Grace what the hell is going on here?” He asked. “Craig did you rape my daughter?” He looked like he’d seen tupac and biggie pop locking in his kitchen. “wh-wh-what? No I didn’t rape her. Is that what she’s telling you?” this lying bastard had sweat pouring from his head; his hands were jittery and couldn’t look her square in the eye. Signs of honesty huh? I guess it was because she bought it and went back to work on me for another five minutes.
Craig, I guess having satisfied his sadistic appetite pulled her off me once again. “I loved you like you were my own Stacie. I can’t believe you would do me like this. I was hoping we could be a real family.” And with that he walked away with his head down, and made noises like he was crying, but I knew better. Grace went to be by his side, she followed him like the little lap dog she was. I guess she figured I chased away one man, I was not going to mess up her chances of happiness again.
Every day after that the rapes continued. In the beginning Craig would wait until my mother was sleep or not home to use the opportunity but after awhile he would do it while she was in the other room. I no longer put up a fight; I would just lay there and feel dead inside. I WAS dead inside. I had a mother who hated me and a step father who couldn’t keep his hands off me. They were a match made in heaven. They smoked together and took pride in tearing my spirits down. I walked around like a zombie, and no one thought to ask what was going on with me. Not my teachers, not the neighbors, hell it would have been nice to even get a concerned look from the mailman once in a while.
The abuse continued for about two years and as the abuse increased so did their drug habit. Unable to support their habit they did what all crack heads did. Steal. They stole and sold whatever they could get their hands on. Our apartment resembled a true crack house. We had no furniture, none. After they could no longer sell anything else they turned to the one thing that they hadn’t sold, me. My mother brought her many drug dealers up to our house and she forced me to do inglorious acts on each of these men just so she and Craig would be able to get their next fix. I felt so disgusting inside that no amount of semen they squirted on me, or no matter how many times they peed on me it didn’t amount to how I was feeling inside. I guess that’s where the feeling of self worthlessness sprang forward.
I no longer went to school because I couldn’t bear to be seen out in public. It felt like the whole world could see through me. With each passing day and with each passing man I became angrier and even more hopeless.
I woke up one morning and there was a strange man in my house. He looked at me and smiled, automatically I knew what he’d come for. He followed me back to my room. I told him to make himself comfortable. He took off his shoes, shirt and jeans and lay back on my bed. Not new to this routine I quickly undressed and straddled the young man. If I had been any other, normal teenage girl I would have found him attractive but I wasn’t, and I didn’t. He had a young baby face but I wasn’t fooled by that.
As I saw the look of satisfaction on his face I put my plan into motion. I reached under my pillow and reached for the knife that was hidden under there. I stopped my motion all together and as expected the fellow opened his eyes, but to his surprise all he saw was the crazed look on my face as I brought the knife down on his chest. He screamed but I didn’t care. I continued to plunge the knife in and out until I saw the light in his eyes go out. Blood was everywhere and I was panting like a wild animal.
Craig and my mother came rushing into my room to see what the commotion was and they too received the shock of their lives. Once they saw all the blood that was in the room Craig stopped dead in his track and my mother threw up where she stood. I was seeing red as I brought the knife across Craig’s throat. He obviously was too stuck on what he was seeing to notice that I was coming to kill him. Blood gushed out on to my face as I sliced through the main arteries. I watched as his body dropped to the floor. I began to sliced and dice him up every way imaginable. I was out for blood but not if my mother could help it. She tackled me like she played for the New York Giants.
We struggled back and forth, she threw punches and I threw punches. She cried and I cried. We went toe to toe with emotions. Somewhere in the struggle she managed to knock the knife out my hand but I somehow maneuvered my way around and managed to put her under me. I grabbed my trusty knife and plunged in deep into my mother’s heart. She gasped and coughed. Blood trickled its way out of her mouth. “Don’t do this.” She whispered. “Did you do anything to stop them?” I pulled the knife out, “did you care that they hurt me?” back in. “where you when I needed you?” Out. In.
By the time the cops had arrived on the scene I’d managed to stab my mother 67 times. I don’t remember much after that; I think it’s the side effects from the pills they give me in here. They say I’m crazy, that I suffer from schizophrenia. But trust me when I tell you that I am far from crazy. I’m free, yeah they may have me in chains physically but mentally I am free and in 34 hours I will be delivered into my salvation. Death by Lethal Injection.
