Christian Grey finds the crack whore’s diary

All of these characters belong to EL James. I wrote this for my entertainment and for those who can’t get enough of the Grey clan.
After I tell Ana about the safe, I figured I should at least go through it to see if there is anything else that I have forgotten was there. I found the combination where I had left it and started working the dials. It took me 10 minutes to work the combination open. I started pulling things out. After going through most of the stuff that was of no use to me anymore, I got ready to shut it up and a small box, tied with string caught my eye. I picked it up and sat at my desk to open it. In it was a dirty, broken police car with its light missing, a bunch of tobacco that was “glued” together and a small book. Something in the back of my mind was trying to remember why this was so familiar. I remember that mom had given me this box and told me to keep it and when I was ready, I should open it and go through it. It was all that I had from my past. That was it…..the book was written by the crack whore. She called it her diary. I remembered that and she said that I was never to let anyone have it before I read something that she had written to me, but I should wait until I was older so that I would understand. Ana has been bugging me to go to the cemetery to visit the crack whore’s grave. Maybe this will be a good time to go and take the diary with me. I called my mom and asked her opinion and she totally agreed with Ana. Of course she did. Wasn’t Ana always right in her eyesight? I text Taylor and told him we were going to the crack whore’s grave, just him and I. I sat down on the bench that was put there by my mom and dad and was told that anytime I wanted to come out there, that I should and just sit and talk to her. Yeah, right. Fat chance of that happening but now I find myself sitting at the head of her grave, opening up her private life.
Friday, June 17, 1983 10:05 a.m.
Dear Diary:
Whoa, I don’t think I could be in labor, or maybe I am, I muse as another sharp pain shoots through my back. As a matter of fact, this one was so sharp that I had to lay in the fetal position on my bare, stained, smelly mattress that was held up by 8 concrete blocks. That was the best I could do. Mr. Daddy Sir, which is what my pimp insisted that I call him, only gave me enough money that he got from his customers who would come in horny as a dog in heat and usually drunk from cheap wine. They liked to patronize Mr. Daddy Sir cause he never charged very much for laying with me. Usually, just enough for him to buy his cheap liquor, his cigarettes and the bare essentials for my hygiene and enough food to keep me from starving to death. Another thing, they had the choice of whether or not they used condoms. Mr. Daddy Sir said that when they used condoms, it was like eating a sucker with the wrapper on, so they were allowed to make that decision. I was never even able to have an orgasm except for one time. There were no rules. Even though he knew that what he was doing was against the law, he thought he was too smart to get caught.
As my pain subsided, I reflected back on how I had gotten myself in this position to begin with. As far back as I can remember, I was bounced from one foster home to another. I was born in a prison to a mother who was incarcerated for prostitution (5th time), to support her drug habit. In all of the foster homes that I lived in, my foster parents just needed someone to be able to supply their financial needs, and as I got older, to clean their houses and to babysit their “real” children.
I finally left the system and started living on the streets. I prostituted myself for a while until one of my “clients” introduced me to crack. From then on, I was a lost cause. I met Mr. Daddy Sir and he told me that if I would let him be my pimp, I could have all of the crack that I wanted, and I wouldn’t have to want for anything. At first, it was cool. I did have as much crack as I wanted but that only lasted for a few months. He then just gave it to me when I was feigning so badly, I wasn’t worth anything to him because I couldn’t satisfy his customers.
Maybe I am in labor. At least early labor because the pains are so far apart. I will just wait it out until I can’t take it anymore.
7:15 p.m.
Oh no, here he comes. I hear him bellowing out my name from the time he hits the door. “Ella, get your ass ready, I want to fuck”. I begged him to please let me be because I think I am in labor. His yells his favorite phrase at me again, “you think I give a fuck?” If I would have known earlier, you wouldn’t be havin’ the little bastard”. As usual, I get backhanded so hard it knocks me on the floor. I yell out in pain as he takes me hard and rough from behind. When he is sated, he stumbles out of the door calling me a dumb bitch and telling me to go clean myself up because I will have an appointment in an hour. All I can do is lay there and cry. Another pain hits me and I cry out in agony. They have been coming closer together now. I have got to get out of here. Maybe I can leave while he is gone and call 911 from the pay phone on the corner. Detroit has a pretty good system for unwed mothers. If you call the rescue squad, they will get you in immediately. Just as they are loading me in the squad, I see Mr. Daddy Sir rounding the corner with my appointment. He can’t see who I am as I cover my head and turn my back. I am safe at last….for now anyway.
June 18, 1983 12:15 a.m.
I have no idea who the father of this child is. How on earth am I going to take care of him? I can’t even take care of myself. At least, I had the common sense not to use crack while I was pregnant. I had heard too many horror stories but now I will be able to use again after he is born. My pains are getting closer and closer and the attending doctor said that it wouldn’t be long now. I sure hope he is right because I can’t take this pain much longer. They have given me something for the pain but it doesn’t help much. I feel something warm running down between my legs and I think it is blood. I push the call button in a panic and when the nurse comes in to examine me, she tells me that they are going to prepare me for delivery as my water broke. What the hell does that mean? Mr. Daddy Sir wouldn’t allow me to see a doctor during my pregnancy because he didn’t want to spend the money and he didn’t want to lose me turning tricks for him. He was afraid that I would be told that I couldn’t have sex. That was not true but he was convinced that it was. I am being hustled in to the delivery room and all I can remember is that some doctor gave me an IV. I was out like a light.
6 a.m.
They woke me up at 12:30 a.m. and told me that I had a beautiful baby boy and asked me If I wanted to hold him. They had a hard time keeping me awake because I was so worn out so they let me sleep for a couple of more hours. By 4:30 a.m., I was wide awake and ready to see my little boy. When I pushed the call button, the nurse came in and asked me if I was ready to seem my baby. She said that he was the prettiest baby in the nursery and that he had the most unusual gray colored eyes and a head full of dark copper curly hair. Prettiest baby that they had ever seen. Word got around to the staff at the hospital about this beautiful little guy that was in the nursery and they came from every floor just to see him.
When she brought him in, all I could do was stare at him. I now knew who fathered this child. I don’t know his name, but I remembered those beautiful gray eyes. As a matter of fact, he was the one that I had the orgasm with. I was so drawn to his eyes, that I just completely let myself go, whereas with the others, I would send myself to another place until they were sated. He was a real nice guy too. He stayed and talked to me and even gave me some extra money and told me not to let Mr. Daddy Sir know or he would just beat me and take it from me. He told me a little about himself and what he did. I can’t really remember except that it had something to do with math. The nurses were certainly right on him being a beautiful baby.
Monday, June 27, 1983 3 a.m.
Dear Diary:
The team from social services, knowing that I was single and just about homeless, asked me if I wanted to have my tubes tied so that I wouldn’t have any more children. I readily agreed. The next morning, they took me to surgery and did what they had to do. Detroit social services took care of all of the charges but if I wanted any further help, I would have to come to their office. I told them that as soon as I was able, I would make the appointment. I knew then that I was never going to be able to go. Mr. Daddy Sir would never allow it. When I was discharged from the hospital, I had no choice but to return to Mr. Daddy Sir. The hospital gave me a starter kit for my darling little Christian and sent us “home” in a taxi, thankful for the little bit of help that they gave me. I needed help with my little Christian. I named him after the man who wrote the Ugly Duckling, something Christian Anderson, maybe Hans or something like that. I just remember that I loved that name. And now, I had someone of my own to love and hold close to me. Mr. Daddy Sir left me alone for about six weeks because he said that I smelled funny and I was nasty, and all bloody. I don’t know how long it will be before I can write anything else in here because between taking care of my baby and Mr. Daddy Sir’s customers, I stay really busy.
Monday, June 3, 1986 7 p.m.
Dear Diary: It has been almost 3 years since my little guy was born. Mr. Daddy Sir is getting meaner by the day.
Christian has grown into a beautiful and extremely intelligent little toddler. He would make piles of anything that he could find and then count them. I heard him count up to 769 one day. How did he learn that? I only taught him how to count up to 10. The rest he learned on his own. He would tear Mr. Daddy Sir’s cigarette butts open and count the tobacco strands. He would then place them in piles of 100, scatter them apart and start all over again, only each time he started, he would put them in piles of different numbers. Anything that he would get his little hands on, he would take apart, even his little toys that I would find when going through trash just for that purpose. I couldn’t afford to buy him anything so that was what I did to try to find something that would entertain him. After he would take them apart, he would put them back together again. One day, I found a clock that had the numbers on it that you could pull off. He took it apart, put the numbers in a heap in no particular order and then placed them back on the clock. Joining in with him in his self appointed playtime, I would mix the numbers up so that they would not be in order on the clock. He would look at the clock and say to me, “No, mommy, you still don’t have it right. See, I show you again how they go. I think that I have given birth to a reincarnation of an ancient Mayan, knowing their reputation for being geniuses in the mathematician area. Hmmm, wonder if he got that from his father who did something with math.
Friday, June 20, 1986 7 a.m.
Dear Diary:
I had taught Christian not to enter into Mr. Daddy Sir’s bedroom when the door was closed so that he would not come in while his mother was being fucked into next week by one of her clients.
Mr. Daddy Sir’s abuse of me was getting worse. He started to beat me in front of Christian and when he tried to stop him, he would abuse Christian. I knew that if I would try to stop him, he would make the punishment worse. I’m thinking that if I didn’t do anything to prevent him from beating us, that he would stop eventually. One day when he came in drunk, smoking his cigarettes, he couldn’t find anything to put his cigarette butts in. Christian had started crying because of his fear of just seeing Mr. Daddy Sir and knowing what was going to take place after he brought me out of the bedroom. Mr. Daddy Sir told him to “shut up, you little shit”. He then grabbed hold of Christian’s little arm, pulled him to him and ground out the cigarette butt in to my poor little boy’s chest. Christian screamed like nothing I had ever heard, and I could actually smell the flesh burning. I couldn’t take it. Knowing what was going to happen, I picked up the one lamp and started beating Mr. Daddy Sir like I was a woman possessed. He let go of Christian and beat me into unconsciousness. When I came to, little Christian was huddled in a corner and just kept repeating, ”mommy, mommy, mommy. Please help me. The man hurt Christian. Please, mommy, don’t let him hurt Christian again”. I told him that I would protect him and that we were going to leave “the man”. I had no idea where we were going to go, but I had to protect my little reincarnated ancient Mayan mathematical genius. Neither of us had had anything to eat but bread, stale bologna and water for at least 3 days and poor little Christian kept saying that his tummy was hungry and it hurt.

Friday, June 19, 1987 9 a.m.
Dear Diary:
I had to pick the right time to leave and today was it.
Yesterday was Christian’s 4th birthday. We made mud pies and pretended they were birthday cakes. I told him that he could us the mud to glue things together, which he did with some of his toy car parts. I told him that it couldn’t get wet though. His little response was, “Okay, mommy. Christian will take care not to get them wet.
12 noon after Mr. Daddy Sir leaves:
All of our possessions could fit into a grocery bag and as we were preparing to leave, Mr. Daddy Sir stormed through the door in his usual drunken state, sees our things packed and yells, “Are you going somewhere?” He immediately takes off his belt and grabs me and forces me into his bedroom, slamming the door shut. Christian, being so hungry, opened the door asking “the man” to please feed him. He saw Mr. Daddy Sir’s penis hanging out. I begged him, “Please, Mr. Daddy Sir, not in front of my kid”. His usually reply was, “Do you think I give a fuck?”, and proceed to have his way with me.
After he was sated, he started chain smoking and again, put his butts out on my little Christian, all over his little body. I could only watch and cry like my heart was breaking because it was. I knew that if I did something to stop him from torturing Christian, he would knock me unconscious again and I had to stay awake so that we could leave the house as soon as he left. When he finally did leave, I comforted my child as best I could with cold water packs made with some washcloths to stop the burning. I finally said, “Okay, Christian, we are out of here”. Just as we walk out of the door, Mr. Daddy Sir walks in. I’m asking myself, what is he doing here. He is usually gone for several hours at a time. It has only been about 30 minutes since he left. Seems as though in my haste to leave, I didn’t notice that he left his cigarette package on the bedroom dresser and he had returned to retrieve it. Oh lord, no. He is going to kill us for sure. After my beating and him using Christian as an ashtray, he once again, left. This time, I will give him time to get to the corner hang-out, leave and go in the opposite direction. Maybe I can flag down a policeman. We get as far as the sidewalk in front of the house and he comes from out of nowhere, grabs both of us and ushers us back in the house. The abuse starts all over again. It was then that I make the determination to end it all. If I kill myself, surely, Mr. Daddy Sir will send someone in to get Christian. Maybe, just maybe, if I pray earnestly enough that my darling little Christian, whom I love more than life itself, will be able to be adopted by a good family who is worthy enough to be my darling son’s “parents” and who will love him the way that I do.
With my mind made up, I go to the cabinet under the sink and get a bottle of liquid drain opener. I have to make sure that I drink it all so that Christian doesn’t try to drink what mommy is drinking. Before I do this horrendous deed, I write a note to my little boy.
To my dearest, most handsome, darling little son, Christian:
If you can still see the stains on this page, they are the tears that I shed as I write this to you.
I want you to know that I did all that I could to protect you, little darling. It just seemed as though I just couldn’t do enough. I hope that one day, you will be able to read this so that you will know just how very much I love you and yes, even in death, I will continue to love you. One of these days, when you have your wife and your own children, you will know what true love is. You will die to protect them just like I am now dying to protect you, my love. If blessings were mine to give, I would bless you with the ability to be able to provide to others what I have not been able to provide for you. I would bless you with the ability to have all of the health, wealth and happiness that you deserve as an adult and that you deserved but didn’t have as a child. And finally, I would bless you to have all of the love from your family that I have for you, 10 fold and more. Good bye, my darling Christian. One of these days, we will meet on the other side but until then, I leave you, my precious son, with all that I have and that is all of my love forever. Please find it in your heart to forgive me. Your mommy.
To the family who gets my darling little Christian:
If you can find it in your hearts to let this precious little boy know that his crack addicted mother, regardless of all of her faults and wrong doings, did the best that she could with her son. Also, please, please, please, try to convey to him that I loved him and even in death, love him with every ounce of my being. I just could not pull us out of the hell that I got us into. I pray that you come to love this little guy as I have and do all in your power to help him to overcome his issues that, given what he has been through, he is bound to have. I thank you from the bottom of my heart. May God bless you all! Ella.

I pour the liquid into a plastic cup, call my son to come lay down with mommy and start drinking the liquid quickly so that I empty the cup. I started singing to him that mommy loves Christian with all of my heart, mommy loves Christian with all of my heart, mo m m y l o v s Ch r I s

After I finish reading, I realize that it has been 2 hours since Taylor and I got here. I feel Taylor’s presence next to me on the bench, never moving a muscle. I stare at the grave site and realize that I have the full story now. All of these years, I have been thinking that Ella, the crack whore didn’t care anything about me. Now I know that she did care for me and did love me. I don’t feel like I should call her the crack whore anymore. It makes me feel badly that the woman that brought me in this world should be called anything disrespectful. As I get up to leave, I asked Taylor to give me a minute. When he is out of earshot, I stand there and tell her, “Thank you for trying your best to protect me and what you did to save me. Please forgive me for calling you, the one who gave me life, a crack whore. I realize that I do love you. Goodbye mommy, rest in peace. I understand now. As Taylor and I make the drive back to town, I think about everything that I read in Ella’s diary. Tears form in the corners of my eyes and unashamed, I wipe them away. This will not be my last visit to Lake View Cemetery.

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