Never See It Coming

Okay, it's been a while. I've been busy but that's not why it's been a while. It's dread. I've been dreading this recounting. Not the existential dread of Kierkegaard but actual uneasiness. When I began this blog, I dedicated it to my brother and dedicated it to personal divestment. This is my place to divest myself of private personal information. I dream about this still and it's been sixteen years since it happened. The dreams ARE NOT pleasant. The memory is not pleasant. The event was not pleasant. Be prepared for some strong language and an ugly, ugly truth.

They went out on the evening of my Eighth Grade Graduation. Gram was supposed to take us out to her house for the weekend but her work schedule changed and she worked late that night. They weren't about to change plans so they found someone to stay with Mike and me so they could go out anyway. The sitter was a good guy and a friend of the family. We watched T.V. and stayed up late and then we put ourselves to bed (we were both still strong enough to do that then). We fell asleep for a time (don't know exactly how long) and were wakened by the backdoor shutting and fast footsteps into the kitchen. Then the front door opened, was slammed shut followed by heavy footsteps into the kitchen. They spoke.

"I love you," she said breathlessly.

"I hate your guts," he replied coldly.

I was in bed, lights off except for the half-light that stretched down the hall into my tiny bedroom. My manual wheelchair was out of reach which REALLY sucked because this kitchen exchange sounded soooooooooo not good. My mind raced through scenarios like lightning until I hit the one that made the most sense. It literally took two seconds and here was the output: They went out to the local dive called the Montana, they drank waaaay too much of liquor that was waaaaaay too hard, passive-aggressive games ensued, she apparently made a "mistake" and the situation was about to settle itself within ten feet of me on the other side of the wall. Yippee.

This next part is amazingly difficult to explain because it's all sooo irrational. To people who have never experienced violence or had to live with it, this will never be truly understandable to you. It just won't. I hate being able to understand it or comprehend it myself. There will be no apologetics here or no deep explanations. I will only tell you what happened.

They began to argue in the living room. I couldn't hear what they were saying because it sounded fast and garbled. I could, however, hear tones. Hers was fast, explanatory and slightly fearful. His was accusatory, escalating in volume and dripping with rage. Okay, I thought, this could be really bad. They moved back to the kitchen and I could hear details.

"...didn't do anything with him. We just drove by the cemetery," she said.

"You know you fucking left with him to piss me off. You are lying your fucking face off telling me you didn't do SOMETHING up there. Tell me the fucking truth," he yelled.

SLAP! A soft groan followed. Then heavy footsteps.

"Let go of me motherfucker. I'll fucking call the copshop," she said slurring.

"No you won't, bitch. You'll get your stupid ass arrested again. Tell me what you fucking did up there or I'll fuck you up. TELL ME," he screamed maniacally.

I heard her say no kind of muffled like he was holding her jaw clamped. Then I heard scuffling and a massive THUD in the living room. Suddenly, she was screaming hoarsely and he was laughing while he intermittently said stuff.

Well, Mikey awakened when I did and was listening too. "Dust," he said. "What's happening?"

Hmmmm, I thought. I wish I knew. I was kinda petrified but I couldn't let my younger brother know that. Somebody had to be strong at the moment and I was self-nominated.

"Mikey, it's just a fight. Pull up your pillow and drown this out. Try to sleep and it'll be okay."

I still laugh so hard at myself for saying that. What business did I have as a scared shitless kid lying to my brother saying it was going to be okay? At the point, I DIDN'T BELIEVE IT WAS GONNA BE OKAY. How could I fake like that?

Anyway, he must have tried because he didn't say anything for a while. Meantime, the horror continued. More thumps and thuds but she stopped screaming. Eventually they struggled back to the kitchen. Oddly, the conversation had completely changed. It was now all about that some pot was missing or lost and he was sure she'd done something with it.

"Where's the shit? What did you do with it. Tell me or I'll fuck up your face," he maniacally babbled.

"Fuck off," she kept saying between these sickeningly meaty thumps. She was talking in this creepy, throaty way that she enunciated every word in. I swear I heard her spit in his face which set off a chain of him saying "fucking bitch" between every punch.

Somehow, they ended up in the utility room across the hall from me. They were both spewing nonsense now but I got the impression he was on her, pummeling as hard as he could. I decided that reason could win out if I made them aware of their behavior. Stupid.

"STOP IT! YOU'RE BOTH ACTING LIKE CHILDREN!" I said. What did it get me?

"Fuck you, Dustin," he said in this whiny, nasal voice. It was like a kid telling me to come and make him. Then, ooooohhhhhhh then, she screamed the words that ripped my beating heart from my chest clear up to this day.

"DUSTIN...HELP MEEEEE!"

I'm in bed, wheelchair out of reach, no phone, no anything and she asks ME to help. That still makes me feel the most helpless that I've ever felt being disabled. Ever. I couldn't save her. Hell, I couldn't HELP her. I started to cry and somewhere inside, I don't think I ever stopped. But I didn't have time. Mike needed me.

"Dust...what should I do? What's gonna happen?"

Okay. Here comes the ugly truth part. At that point, I had no answer. None. I had lost hope because she was getting pummeled, knocked into the washer and dryer, she asked for MY help, I mean...c'mon. In my young mind, it was a very real possibility that this could be the time he kills her. I knew he had a pistol in their bedroom. I also intuited that if he killed her, it would become possible that he'd shoot us and finally himself. This was my thinking. This is why I said:

"Mikey, listen please. Cover your head with the covers and pillow, close your eyes and ignore this. Please try. Please."

I was in bed, tear-streaked face, fearful eyes wide open. I somehow managed to be even-toned and steady. I told him this for one reason, protector to the possible end. I told him to cover so that if psychoman came in to shoot, Mike would never see it coming. I knew Mike. The anticipatory fear alone would be unbearable to him. He needed to be unaware and pass quietly if that were to happen. I don't know if he did it. I want to believe he did, that he trusted me that much but I will never know.

As for me, things were completely different in my mind. If he came in at me, I was gonna make him LOOK AT ME when he did it. In my less-than-clear mind, he was gonna KNOW what he was doing if he killed me. I wasn't going to run, hide because I was going to face him and force his own damnation. Yes, I was a melodramatic boy but it's how it happened.

After I told Mike to cover, the fight continued. She somehow got out the backdoor and threatened to go to the cops. He was still obsessed with the "missing" drugs. She came back instead and scratched his face drawing blood. He threw her around more. Then it broke into pure verbal abuse. The last physical attack was a forced sexual attempt by him but she got away and went outside again. He apparently ran out of energy and passed out in the bedroom because I heard nothing else from him until daybreak. Things were silent for minutes, then she came back in and slept on the couch. The worse case never materialized but I decided right then that Mike and I were going to get out. Within weeks, we were living with Gram as Wards of the Court. It was a survival action. I would have lost it sooner or later and Mike would have suffered. I tried to be protective and mature and...adultified. It was hard but I hope I prevented something through my actions. The ultimate result is the domain of time and time alone.