My father was a drinker.
He was a falling-down, shit-faced, hateful, angry drunk, and my mother always made excuses for him. She feared him too. I heard it in her quivering voice and saw it in her wide eyes. He was quick to slap her when angered, then blamed her for causing him to lose his temper. She spent her whole life tiptoeing on eggshells around him, scared to awaken the beast.
When he was drunk, he talked, ranted, and raved.
He didn’t care if no one was in the room; he talked to the walls, the TV, or a lamp.
No one was ever with him, but I’d hear him beg over and over, “Stop talking to me.” But most of the time, he talked about the war. I would listen from behind a door, fascinated and horrified by his descriptions of death and destruction. He spoke of the thrill when he had control of someone’s life—the decision of whether they lived or died. I heard the yearning in his tone as he described the hours-long high after killing the enemy, and I knew he craved that power again.
Looking back, I understand that beating on us kids and our mother was his way of achieving that power.
Eventually I learned to turn everything off. No one could hurt me if I didn’t feel anything.
Take away my toys? It didn’t matter because I didn’t care about them.
Scream and yell at me? It didn’t matter because words couldn’t touch me.
I remember feeling removed from my punishments, as if I were standing to one side, observing the veins pop on my father’s temples and the cords in his neck grow taut. I was simply an observer.
I grew thick walls around my emotions. I learned not to want things—toys, time with friends, biking through the woods. If they didn’t happen, I wouldn’t be disappointed. I expected nothing from anyone.
My world grew flat and empty. But I was in control of it. I wouldn’t be one of those stupid people who let emotions dictate their behaviors. I wouldn’t be the stupid child on the playground who cried because no one would share the swings.
Losers. All of them.
Even my father, who drunkenly ranted and raved at chairs and lamps. No control.
But my anger started to build inside me. I could keep my other emotions under control, but I needed an outlet for the anger. I tested my mother even though I knew she was a victim of my father like me. One day I yelled at her that she was stupid for making a bologna sandwich for my lunch when I’d told her countless times I prefer peanut butter and jelly. Satisfaction ran through me at the shock on her face.
Is this what my father feels?
The rush of power fed an empty hole in my chest, and I shamed her again.
She told me to make my own lunch and left the room.
Pleased, I made my sandwich. It’d never tasted better.
Dinner with my family went as normal. Us kids knew to be silent. Mother and Father discussed plans for the following day.
I was in bed when my father came in. Without a word he hauled me out of bed, down the stairs, and out the back door. I didn’t care. I checked out of my body and watched as I stumbled behind him, his grip tight on my upper arm. At the barn he threw me against the fence, ripped down my pajama bottoms, and whipped me with a thick branch. His words punctuated the strokes. “Don’t you ever speak to your mother like that again.”
I couldn’t control the pain and I screamed, embarrassed by the tears that ran down my face.
He kept whipping, and I knew he enjoyed it. “You’re just like me,” he panted between strokes. “I see myself in your eyes every day. Need to whip it out of you.”
I glanced back at the house and saw my mother’s silhouette in her bedroom window. She was watching.
I hated her for letting him beat me. I hated everyone.
After that I behaved at home because I feared word would get back to my father.
My deeply hidden anger still grew; it festered. I kicked our dog in the ribs one time, furious at her continuous barking. The sad look of betrayal she gave me was enough to make me never do it again. Animals weren’t the answer.
I wanted to conquer the anger the same way I’d tackled my other emotions. My father was controlled by anger; I wouldn’t be.
I was determined to never be like him. No matter what he said.
I eventually learned to tuck it away deep inside. Hide it from everyone. I spent as much time as possible outdoors, seeking physical outlets for my excess energy. It helped. I bought a journal and hid it in my room, transcribing my deepest fears, desires, and needs.
After a month I burned it. Terrified it would fall into my father’s hands.
The words I wrote would have earned me another beating. Maybe worse.
I continued to hide any actions I thought would trigger my father. When the Deverell family was killed and no one knew who had murdered them, my curiosity got the better of me.
Weeks after the murders I snuck away and rode my bike to the Deverell home. The police were done with their investigation of the house, but still no killer had been named. Boards had been nailed over the windows. I’d heard someone had broken the glass and wondered who had covered them up. Neighbors? Police?
I crept around to the back of the home, trying the doors, and then spotted a small high bathroom window that hadn’t been broken or boarded up. I stacked firewood until I could reach the window, planning to smash it with a rock. To my delight it was unlocked, and I shimmied in, knocking down the shower curtain rod and landing awkwardly in the bathtub.
I tiptoed around, expecting a cop to appear at every turn. The house smelled musty and metallic. Black fingerprint dust covered every surface. I touched the black powder and then studied the smear I made on the wall. Panic swept through me and I grabbed a towel from the bathroom to wipe the place I’d touched.
In the first bedroom was a large bed, and I knew it must be the parents’. The bedding had been removed, and a hole had been cut in the carpet. But there were dark stains on the mattress. Blood?
I stepped closer, staring at the oddly shaped stains. I leaned over and sniffed. Yes, blood.
I’d heard the entire family had been killed in their beds. Blows to the heads. I crept from room to room. Each one was the same. No bedding. Stains on the mattresses.
How much do people bleed?
The kitchen and living room looked normal. Like the family was simply away for a day. Books, cups, and papers were scattered about the tables and counters. More black dust.
It became difficult to breathe. My breaths grew frequent and shallow, and I wondered if the boarded-up windows had blocked fresh oxygen. I sprinted to the bathroom, shakily replaced the curtain rod I’d knocked down, and crawled out the window. Outside I leaned against the house, taking deep gulps of the fresh air. I wiped my forehead and discovered it was covered in sweat.
I rode my bike home, thinking about what I’d seen and wondering if any of the Deverells had known they were about to die.
I’ve never forgotten that house.