If you missed the first part, you can read it here.
The person at the door, trying their best to break through it was my brother’s father, a violent alcoholic who had on more than one occasion let us know that he did not want us to continue to breathe here on this earth.
Since my brother had been born, he had made it his life’s mission to get custody of his son in one way or another. He terrorized my family on a regular basis. He was mean, abusive, and did not like when things didn’t go as he planned. Menacing threats were made on a regular basis and we could always count on some action to soon follow suit.
He threatened to barricade our doors and set the house on fire.
He followed me home after school as I rode my bicycle or walked home from the bus stop thirty minutes away, whispering veiled threats.
He purchased the vacant trailer across the street from ours and sat on his porch watching our house when we played in our yard.
He slashed the tires of a friend of my mother’s when he came to visit us.
He burnt down another friend’s house and while it was never proven in a court that it he was the culprit, he bragged about getting away with the crime.
He even set his own trailer on fire, attempting to blame my mom for it, but my mother just happened to be at the grocery store when the blaze started, so the time stamp on her receipt proved her innocence.
It’s all stuff out of a bad Lifetime movie, but unfortunately it’s true.
It was a small, small town and the local authorities had grown up as his buddies, so it was a normal occurrence for them to casually look the other way when we made reports. One judge even placed a restraining order on him for my mother and my brother, but not me because I was not his child and therefore “didn’t need protection.”
To say that he was a bully is a massive understatement. He was a tyrant.
So there I stood as this man is trying as hard as he can to break into our home, my brother weeping and my mother frantically looking around for something to use as a weapon.
The pounding was very persistent and the thin door began to buckle and give way. My mother rushed to pick up my brother and ran towards the phone. I turned to follow, but as I took my first step, the door crashed in and there stood my worst enemy, the real live boogieman.
He was a large man, very intimidating even if he wasn’t trying, and he stood framed in the doorway with the porch light behind him shining in such a way to highlight the gleam of hatred in his eyes. There are some images that you see in your lifetime that become forever emblazoned on your brain. That look, that face is one of them for me. If I close my eyes, I can still see it with every detail, every vein bulging, the sweat on his brow, the set of his chin.
I became frozen where I stood as the fear pulsated through my veins. I wanted to scream, but when I opened my mouth, I couldn’t force out any sound. My throat was constricted by the sheer terror that had welled up from deep inside me. I looked up with big, round eyes at the man who could, in merely a moment, end my young life and realized that he was staring straight at me.
Then he spoke the words that still on occasion haunt me in my dreams, “Call the police, Dusty because I am going to kill your mother.”
My body seemed to turn to ice and my mouth went completely dry.
This can’t really be happening.
(Click here for Part Three )