The day is hot and I have a lot of groceries to get home before they spoil. I probably should have driven, but it's just down the street and I have a little wheeled basket, so why not have a little excursion? I pass by neighbors who smile and wave while I wave back. It's a pleasant walk despite the heat, but I am glad to get home into the cool air-conditioning.
I set the groceries in the kitchen and head to my bedroom. I pull out a clean floral shirt and carefully lay it on the bed. I take a deep breath and proceed to pull my shirt off. Pain radiates throughout my sides and a glance in the mirror reveals the fresh bruises that stain my skin with hues of black and purple. The agony is too intense for me to continue so I sit myself on the bed and just breathe.
Once the sharp stabbing subsides I give it another go. I take a deep breath and start pulling it up. I can feel the pain building so I pull it off as quickly as I can. The shirt is off, but the pain has me doubled over and ready to cry. I put a hand to the vanity and slowly inch my way up. I have both hands on the solid surface and my face fully in view through the mirror.
I'm old, that's a given, but my face has more worry lines than wrinkles, though it can be difficult to tell the difference. I just want to do right by my family, but that becomes increasingly difficult with the passing years. Family is everything I remind myself during the tough times and I know that no matter how bad it gets, redemption is right around the corner.
I turn around and gaze at the floral shirt which I laid out face down. I put my hands to the edge of the bed and slowly push my body while I deal with the pain till my back is flat. I push my body onto the bed and take hold of the edge of the shirt and sink my hands inside. In this manner I'm able to get the shirt on without too much, eh, inconvenience to me myself.
Dressed once again in a clean shirt I feel like a new person and I return to the kitchen to start on dinner. It's Wednesday, that means it's meatloaf night. I look around the room and take note of everything I need. All of which is waist level and lower. I keep very few things above that mark. I start with a big mixing bowl from a lower cabinet. I set it on the table.
I pop over to the fridge and ferry ground beef, fresh onion and a carton of eggs to the table. I grab some spices, family secret, a box of saltine crackers and a bag of brown sugar. I set into the work. I slap the meat in the bottom of the bowl, crack a few eggs, throw in a spice mix that hits your tongue hard before pulling back and opening the way for the sweet touch of the brown sugar.
A little chopped up onion and some mashed up cracker crumbs and I knead them all into the meat till it's all a nice consistent goop. I pull out two loaf pans, cut the mixture in two and shape the meat to fit the pans. These I place into the oven and let them cook at a slow heat. In two hours, dinner will be ready. I start in on the salad and steam the veggies.
An hour goes by with my setting the table and lighting the candles and making sure every little detail is perfect. The door opens and in walks my husband, Frank. He says something smells good. I laugh. My cooking always smells good. I have my mother to thank for that. She told me the best way to hook a man is with good food. Sex appeal will only get you so far and brains don't fill the belly.
He's carrying a bag with a Boston cream pie inside. A tasty dessert for a delicious dinner. We both continue the work and ten minutes before the loaves come out the door opens. It's our son Donald. He's all smiles as he walks through the door. I sneak a quick bite of the meatloaf's end piece and it tastes just fine. I would have sampled the middle, but no one is allowed to touch that before Donald.
I bring out the loaves and set them down at the dinner table before sitting myself down with the rest of my family. We say grace and then set in. I serve a hearty portion to each individual and scoop out a vegetable medley for my husband and me. Donald doesn't like vegetables. I take a bite of my meatloaf and analyze it with my discerning tongue. It has the right consistency, a good bit of crunch and spice and the sweetness...
My heart skips a beat and for a moment I forget how to breathe. There isn't enough sweet! The spice is overpowering! I should have seen this coming. Sometimes the brown sugar settles in the edges, leaving the middle, Donald's favorite part, lacking in the sweetness. I prepare to call out, but it's too late. Donald is already chewing. I hold my breath.
Donald spits his morsel onto his plate. He demands to know what is this garbage he's eating and throws his plate against the wall for emphasis. It breaks all over the place and the meatloaf sticks before slowly sliding down the wall. He tells me if he wanted garbage, he would eat out of the garbage can! He rises from his seat.
I plead with him in a small voice and sink in my chair as I lower my gaze so as not to challenge him in any way. He continues to walk forward and asks why I always do this, why do I always make him hurt me?! He even throws his chair against the floor to give emphasis to his words. Frank rises from his seat and tells him to relax, that everything is fine, that he doesn't need to do this.
Donald insists that everything is not fine and uses his father's name which means his anger has reached a point that it needs to vent. I know what's coming and stand up from my chair as I have done far more times than I can count. Frank continues to plead with him, but it's falling on deaf ears. He hurries to my side and attempts to step between the two of us.
I put a hand up in his direction and assure him it's alright. Everything is going to be alright. I simply will not let another suffer for my mistakes. I hold perfectly still and push the air out of my lungs as I raise my hands and interlace them behind my head. I gaze into my son's eyes and can see the conflict raging behind them. He doesn't want to hit me.
He's a good boy. He's always been a good boy and I will not hear a thing against him. It's the devil in him that makes him do these things, it always has been. And I'm happy taking my licks so long as it means that one day he will wrestle control from the demon and my precious, little boy will return to me. He balls up his fist and smashes it against my kidney.
I fall to the floor as pain floods my body and I fold into myself. Frank kneels down and helps me up as we both look into his face. To cope my brain throws itself back to the early years, back to when my sweet, baby boy was just starting school. He has a club foot which requires him to wear special shoes that keep it from view, but makes him walk funny.
The other children were relentless in their teasing and he would often come home in tears. It got worse as he got older and he was getting mugged by other kids in the school on a regular basis. We all knew what was going on, but we didn't know who was responsible and Donald wouldn't say. When I pressed he told me snitches get stitches in a voice I'd never heard before.
Frank decided the best thing to do was teach him how to box. At first, Donald really enjoyed the lessons and took to the fundamentals, but he would come home with bruises and bloody noses that were worse than before. It was obvious that he was getting picked on by a larger kid, but still, snitches get stitches, is what he would declare any time we broached the subject.
After that he was only interested in two things: learning how to hit as hard as he can and the best places to hit to cause the maximum amount of damage without being immediately noticeable. Frank didn't like the direction his training was taking, but decided to indulge him, hoping that once Donald learned how easy it is to hurt someone the more his compassion for his fellow man would shine through.
A little while later we were called down to the school. The principal wanted to know why Donald was beating kids up. I leapt to his defense. He was being picked on and coming home with bruises and bloody noses. The principal tells me she knows. She identified all of the kids starting fights despite their keeping quiet, snitches get stitches, they keep saying.
What she wants to know is why Donald is attacking anyone who even looks at him the wrong way, including a teacher. The news shocks me, but I quickly rally and rise to my boy's defense. I tell her he's dealing with a demon that made its home in him after all the abuse he received from the bullies that seem to thrive in this school.
She says she understands and due to a new anti-bullying policy they will be expelling Donald and all the children who have been identified as such. I got ready to protest, but I changed my mind. Donald didn't need teachers and he certainly didn't need bullies. What he needed was a family who loves him and a mother who wants nothing but the best for him.
I poured over all the materials I could find about homeschooling and set up a curriculum that was easy to understand and follow. I was with him every step of the way and we both loved it. We even reached out to other homeschool households and went on a few outings. Those were the easy years. When the work got harder so did his attitude.
The abuse started shortly after. He'd punch me and I'd hug him. I knew if I showed him enough love that the demon would be pushed out. It didn't stop and neither did I. Frank found out about it when he found me lowering things in the kitchen. He said he'd go to the police, but I forbade him to do so. And that is the situation as it stands in our house.
Frank helps steady me and keeps me from teetering. He has that 'let's go to the cops' look and mine tells him not to. I suggest we all retire to the living room and have pie as if nothing happened. Things settle down at this point and we all enjoy Donald's favorite dessert as conversation starts up again and gains momentum after a few minutes of me gabbing.
It feels like old times, laughter and words being shared by all parties with nary a sideways glance to indicate that something violent is about to take place. Donald relaxes in his chair and mentions that he'd love a massage. I smile and stand up before walking to the back of the chair and knead my knuckles into his shoulder to work out the knots.
In the midst of this pleasant, family evening, the doorbell rings and everyone freezes in place. Frank is the first to recover from the sudden incursion as he rises from his seat. He can see that we're both busy so he volunteers to get it. We hear him open the door and have a brief, muffled conversation that seems to require his full attention for several minutes.
"Who is it dad?" Donald calls out as he cranes his neck while leaving his shoulders behind.
Frank enters the open doorway. "Son," he starts in with a look on his face that I simply cannot read. "There's someone here to see you." He steps aside.
Into the room steps a man wearing nothing but black with a shadow somehow covering his face."Hello Donald," he starts as he draws to a halt a mere step from the doorway. "I think it's time that you and I have a little chat."
My son rises out of the chair. "My name is Donny and who the hell are you?" he demands as he balls his fists.
I look to Frank for answers, but he's staring at the stranger as well. I wonder then what he had said that would have prompted my husband to let him in.
"My name is inconsequential to this matter as it is my actions that will label me," the stranger responds cool and calm as he stands there. "Such as what's it going to take for you to stop beating this poor woman and terrorizing your family?"
Donald flinches at the secret truth being unmasked. "I don't know where you're getting your information, but you are way off base," he insists as he tenses his shoulders. "I love my family and they love me."
"They do indeed love you, so much so that they would rather be beaten then see you spend even a moment in jail," the stranger returns while still not moving. "But I can promise you this, this amnesty will not last forever. One day you're going to hit just a little harder than you intended at a spot that is just a little too tender and your sweet mother won't be getting back up."
Donald stamps his foot. "I'm really getting sick of you overtly calling me a woman beater!" he snaps at him and side steps the coffee table. "So let me make this perfectly clear, I do not hit women!"
"We can do this little song and dance all night if you like, I have nowhere to be," the stranger chides my Donny and is unfazed by the violent outburst. "So let's cut to the chase, what's it going to take for you to let go of the demon that haunts you?"
Donald snaps his head toward me. His father and I and his principal are the only other ones that know of the demon. He kicks the coffee table over. I can see the hurt in his eyes. He thinks I betrayed him. He moves forward, takes hold of the chair and throws it to the side. I back up and bump into the wall. I have nowhere left to go.
The look in his eyes has me frozen in place and fearing for my life for the first time. Every time he's ever hit me I could see the rage and I knew it to be the demon, I could see it just behind his eyes. This time I can see nothing but hurt and my heart bleeds for him. He's my baby boy, I just want to hold him. But the tensing muscles tell me he doesn't want a hug.
He walks right up and throws a fist directly at my face, something he has never done before. He doesn't want to hurt me anymore. He wants to kill me. I shut my eyes as tight as I can and push all the air out of my lungs. I hear a dull thud and an exclamation of pain. I open my eyes and see Donald several steps away holding his side with nothing but confusion in his face.
He slowly turns his head and regards the stranger as his body follows. "You did this?" he accuses half-heartedly as he straightens out his back. "How?"
"I have a great many abilities at my disposal," the stranger explains. "But the real question on your mind is what I intend to do to you and can I carry them out."
"Are you here to kill me?" Donald asks as a hand goes to his face.
"That depends on you. A sentiment I'm sure you're very familiar with," the stranger returns as the shadow clears from his eyes revealing green pupils and he grabs hold of my son's shirt. "It's time to be honest with yourself." His eyes intensify. "Who are you?"
"I'm Donald Preskipil," he says as his body goes through slight convulsions as though he's getting ready to throw up.
"And what are you?" the stranger presses and his eyes intensify.
"I'm a good boy," he insists and the convulsions grow.
"What are you?" the stranger pushes, his eyes glowing brighter.
"I'm a good son," Donald persists and his body starts to shake.
"What are you?" the stranger is relentless in his questioning and his eyes do not blink.
"I'm not a snitch!" Donald shouts and pitches slightly forward. "Snitches get stitches!"
"And what does that mean?" the stranger continues as the intensity in his eyes slightly diminish.
"It means you take your lumps, you take your beatings and you don't tell the teacher, you don't tell your parents, you don't tell anyone!" Donald cries out and holds himself. "Snitches get stitches."
"Why did you listen?" the stranger redirects the line of inquiry and takes a step forward.
"Because they were bigger than me," Donald sobs and drops to his knees and the other man lets go. "Because they said they could get me no matter where I tried to hide."
"And you believed them," the stranger remarks with such indifference that it's hard to tell where he's going with it and he lowers his body so he's now eye-level with my boy.
"Of course I did," Donald defends himself and gazes at the other speaker.
"Why?" the stranger utters and sets a hand to the floor to keep steady.
"Because they were so much cooler than me and I wanted to be just like them," Donald continues and sits back on his legs. "I hoped that if I did what they said they would make me one of them."
"But they didn't," the stranger adds to the dialogue and shifts his weight.
"No. They said I was just a needy kid and they didn't want that in their gang," Donald explains and his body starts to quiver from the emotional drain. "I felt so alone. I did what they said, I didn't snitch, but it didn't matter. I only had one choice, I had to be them."
The stranger leans forward and claps a hand on my son's shoulder. "Donny," he says as he holds himself in that position. "You're going to be just fine."
He stands up, gives me a nod and then Frank before walking to the door and exiting the house. Donald is in the middle of the floor with his face to the rug, sobbing his eyes out. I approach him, kneel down and put a hand to his shoulder. He rises and turns his head about. I have never seen such pain in his eyes.
He launches himself into my arms and holds me tight, as though I were a ledge he was holding on to. He tells me he's sorry for what he did and he will never do it again and that he will get help, no matter what he has to do or how long it takes. My sides are on fire from his crushing grip, but I do not let go. All I know is I've got my baby boy back. And with some work, he'll be here to stay.
Donald gets in contact with a therapist and he starts weekly appointments. He also finds a group that focuses on anger management. He learns that he is not alone. Betrayal is the key component to rage and it only intensifies when you feel as though you betrayed yourself. He learns different exercises to help whenever he feels his anger getting out of control.
We still have dinner every night together, but this time, when Donald feels there's something wrong, he talks to me about it. We grow closer as a family and my bruises heal and my heart grows even stronger. He even helps me with the dishes which he's never done before. And Frank lets me know that he's glad I never allowed him to call the police.
The sentiment makes me think of how lucky I am compared to other people. To consider all the women with bad men in their lives, but who never had a visit from a stranger to draw out the truth and make them face their demons. Further, how close I came to allowing Donald to do something he could never make up for and I shudder to think what that would have done to him.
This man, this stranger, gave me a new lease on life and it's about time I do something with it. I volunteer at a women's shelter and do whatever job they need me to do. Be it mopping the floor, scrubbing toilets, changing beds, filing papers, or just listening. I do what I can to ease the burden these women feel themselves being crushed under.
I even invite Donald to a group so they can hear it from the other side. An exercise that took some serious promises on my part to happen. He says that his destructive path began with feeling vulnerable. He wasn't a big kid and as such was an easy mark. He didn't tell anyone about the beatings no matter how obvious the evidence. And he felt like it was his turn to find a new victim.
He implores them to talk to their kids whenever they have the chance. They won't want to talk and they will throw up any roadblocks that they can and their words will not have the desired effect for a long time, but eventually, in the quiet, they will remember what was said and who said it. It may not push them to make the right choice, but they will have a choice.
I couldn't have been more proud of him and that night we went into the kitchen and moved things to higher shelves. I know there was a demon that had hold of my boy and still lives inside him, but I will, with god's good grace, keep it from ever taking control of him again. This is the promise that I made every time I was attacked and I have no intention of breaking it.