It begins somewhere. It starts at home. I know what a mass shooter can resemble.
The first time I encountered him, I was just 13. The sun had yet to rise, and I was in my track uniform, ready for practice. I poured a bowl of my favorite cereal, turning around to find him seated at our pale-blue Formica table, reading the newspaper and sipping coffee.
He was a big man, with wavy hair and a beard flecked with black and gray, his bright blue eyes reminiscent of a department store Santa. He smiled and introduced himself. Late for practice, I urged him to clean up after himself before he left.
My mother had met him the night before at the bowling alley, the social hub of our small town, filled with leagues, trophies, and a gaming arcade. Usually, we accompanied her, indulging in pizza and Dr. Pepper, but my youngest sister was under the weather, so my mother went alone. She returned home with him, having been searching for companionship. As a single mother of three, she was struggling without a job.
Her previous marriage had ended just a year prior, and after meeting him, he quickly began staying overnight. Weeks later, on Christmas Eve morning, I awoke to find them missing, leaving a note saying they had driven to Vegas and would be back that night.
I wasn’t upset; I felt hopeful. She had been lonely, drinking more, and laundry was piling up. He seemed to lift her spirits, even buying us all brand-new bicycles. I wanted this to work out for her, and so did my sisters.
On Christmas morning, I woke before dawn, but they still hadn’t returned. The decorated tree glimmered with red and green lights, yet the cookies and milk remained untouched. I indulged in the cookies, drank the milk, and lifted some cash from her cigar box.
I rode my new banana seat bike to the nearby 7-Eleven, purchasing gifts for my sisters: records of “I Think I Love You” by The Partridge Family and “I Don’t Like Spiders and Snakes” by Jim Stafford. We called ourselves “Wonder,” with me on drums made from silver pots, while they played tambourines and maracas. Our mom was our biggest fan. I also bought candy, bubbles, and toys, along with a special gift for her: “You and Me Against the World” by Helen Reddy.
I wanted her to know I’d always be there.
As the sun rose, I wrapped the presents and placed them under the tree. I made pancakes, as my mom always did on Christmas morning. When my sisters woke, they opened their gifts. If they were disappointed, they didn’t mention it. We played our records and sang our songs, creating a joyful morning despite the absence of our mother.
Hours later, she called, asking me to find a restaurant open for Christmas dinner. I managed to secure a reservation at a Chinese place in town, where, after dinner, she excitedly showed us her diamond ring and announced their engagement. From then on, he moved in with us, and changes came swiftly.
I had always disliked meat, something my mother knew well, but he insisted I eat his favorite dish, meatloaf. My mother defended me, but he asserted his authority as the man of the house. I couldn’t leave the table until I finished it. That night, I fell asleep at the table, and when my mother woke me, she had a black eye.
Though I never witnessed him strike her, I sensed the fear.
He bought her a flashy red sports car, a Lotus, and off to Vegas they went again, leaving my sisters and me alone. I took her keys and drove the Lotus to school, crashing it into a tree. My mother was called back from Vegas, returning with visible injuries. She told me quietly, “I took it for you.”
I felt guilty, believing I was to blame for both the accident and his violence.
Their drinking escalated, and so did the fighting, becoming a routine in our lives. When the fights erupted, my sisters would seek refuge in my room. I learned how to barricade my door and disguise my mother’s bruises. Sometimes, the ambulance would arrive; sometimes, she’d walk the dogs wearing sunglasses, a sweatshirt, and a floppy hat.
Everyone knew. But nobody spoke up.
Hope flickered in the chaos, as they couldn’t be angry all the time. My mother would wake us in the night and we’d pack, heading to a hotel, pretending to be spies escaping a jailbreak. But he would inevitably find us, flowers in hand, promising a return to normalcy.
My mother despised guns, so there were none in our home. I kept a butcher knife under my pillow. One night, the fighting stopped abruptly after my mother’s scream. I called 911 and crept downstairs to find him over her, knife in hand. I intervened, and the police took him away while the ambulance whisked her off.
We ended up sleeping in a neighbor’s yard, wrapped in blankets. They knew.
Weeks later, I was pulled from class on Halloween, dressed as a vampire. My mother, just released from the hospital, looked like a mummy, bandages covering her wounds. She told me she had paid his bail and pleaded for another chance.
That day, I broke my own heart by not returning home. My middle sister ran away, and our father sent her off to boarding school. The family was shattered, forcing my mother and sisters to move to a secluded area on the outskirts of town.
The last time I saw him, I was 16. I returned to collect my belongings, and he came outside, a shotgun in hand, calm but final in his demeanor.
My sister and mother were still in the house.
Everyone knew. Neighbors, teachers, friends, even family. But no one intervened.
I never confronted him about the abuse or sought closure. My mother eventually left him, but she passed away a few years later.
He did not kill her or me. However, if he had picked up a gun and taken our lives, nobody would have been surprised. He was violent, and everyone knew.
Yet, we somehow felt insulated from the man who “only” hit his wife. We believed it didn’t concern us.
If he had picked up a weapon and harmed strangers in public, it wouldn’t have shocked anyone either. The same people would acknowledge his history of violence, but only when innocent lives were taken.
Domestic violence doesn’t remain contained within four walls anymore. It spills into the public realm.
According to Everytown for Gun Safety, many mass shooters have prior histories of domestic violence or have harmed intimate partners during their rampages.
Someone out there right now knows the next potential mass shooter. Someone is enduring blame and violence, hoping for change.
Once, it was easy to look away from the three little girls stealing food. Now, it’s imperative to recognize the signs.
Domestic abuse is a glaring warning that others may be in danger.
Violent men don’t just appear with guns; they show their true selves long before the tragedy.
Abused women and children are the canaries in the coal mine.
It starts somewhere. It starts at home. Nobody would have been surprised if I had died.
Summary:
This poignant narrative reflects on domestic violence and its far-reaching consequences. It recounts a young girl’s harrowing experiences with her mother’s abusive partner, revealing the cycle of violence and the societal silence surrounding it. The story emphasizes the importance of recognizing warning signs and understanding that domestic violence can escalate beyond the home, impacting innocent lives within the community.
Keyphrase:
domestic violence warning signs
Tags:
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