Understanding the potential for violence often starts within our own walls. I can picture what a mass shooter might look like.
A First Encounter
The first time I encountered him, I was only 13. It was still dark outside, and I was dressed in my track uniform. As I poured a bowl of cereal, I turned around to find him seated at our pale-blue Formica table, casually reading the newspaper and sipping coffee. He had a hefty build, with wavy hair and a beard streaked with black and white. His piercing blue eyes resembled those of a department store Santa. He greeted me with a smile and introduced himself, but I was late for practice, so I told him to clean up after himself before leaving.
My mother had met him at the local bowling alley just the night before. In our small town, it was the buzzing hub, filled with a bar, bowling leagues, and an arcade. Normally, we accompanied her, indulging in pizza and soda, but my youngest sister was ill, so my mom went alone and brought him home. She had been searching for companionship for a while. As a single mother with three young daughters and no job, it was a monumental task. Her second marriage ended a year prior. After meeting him, he began staying in her bedroom every night. A few weeks later, I woke up to find them both missing on Christmas Eve morning. She left a note stating they had gone to Vegas, just a four-hour drive away, asking me to look after my younger sisters.
Hope Amidst Chaos
I felt no anger, only hope. My mother was lonely and had been drinking more, with laundry piling up in the garage. He seemed to lift her spirits, swinging her around the room joyfully and even buying us all brand-new bicycles. I wanted this to work out for her; we all did.
On Christmas morning, I awoke before dawn, and they still hadn’t returned. The tree was beautifully decorated, the lights twinkling, but the cookies and milk remained untouched. I ate them, then took money from her cigar box. I rode my new bike in the dark to the nearby 7-Eleven, purchasing presents for my sisters—records that we could play in our little band, “Wonder.” I even bought her a special gift, a record of “You and Me Against the World” by Helen Reddy. I wanted her to know I’d always be there for her.
When they finally returned hours later, I had decorated the tree and made pancakes, just as she always did. My sisters woke up to open their gifts. Even if they were disappointed, they didn’t voice it. We played music and enjoyed a bright Christmas morning; the only thing missing was my mother’s laughter.
Shifting Dynamics
Later that day, my mother called asking me to find a restaurant that would be open for Christmas dinner. After scouring the Yellow Pages, I made a reservation at a Chinese restaurant. It was there that she showed us her new diamond ring, announcing her marriage to him. From that moment on, he moved into our home, and life began to shift quickly.
I had never been fond of meat; I had always spat it out as a child. Yet, he insisted I eat meatloaf, his favorite dish, while my mother defended my choice. But he was now the man of the house, and I found myself trapped at the table until I complied. One morning, I woke up to find my mother shaking me awake. She had a black eye. Although I never witnessed him hit her, the signs were evident.
He purchased her a flashy red sports car and soon whisked her off to Vegas again, leaving us alone. I took her keys and drove my sisters to school in that new car, but my poor driving skills led me to crash into a tree. The shock of it all brought my mother back from Vegas with injuries of her own, and I could feel the weight of blame on my shoulders.
The Cycle of Violence
As time passed, the cycle of drinking and fighting escalated. We learned to navigate our chaotic life, using a chair to barricade my bedroom door when needed. I learned to hide her bruises with makeup and how to call for help when things got too dangerous. Sometimes, the ambulance would arrive, and she would walk the dogs in sunglasses and oversized clothing, trying to shield her injuries.
Everyone around us knew what was happening, yet silence reigned. What we allow to occur will persist; and what persists, only escalates.
There were fleeting moments of hope, like when my mother would wake us in the middle of the night, urging us to pack our bags. We would escape to a hotel, pretending to be on some covert mission. But, soon enough, he would show up with flowers and apologies, and we would cave in, back to the cycle of violence.
Desperate Measures
My mother detested guns, so none were kept in our home. I slept with a butcher knife under my pillow for protection. One night, when the fighting became unbearable, I found myself using that knife to protect her. The police took him away, and we found refuge at a neighbor’s house, but it was evident they knew what had transpired.
Weeks later, on Halloween, I was called out of class to find my mother waiting for me. She had just been released from the hospital, looking like a ghost of her former self, bandaged and frail. She pleaded with me to give him another chance.
I didn’t return home that day. My heart broke, but I couldn’t endure the pain anymore. My middle sister ran away, while the youngest cried herself to sleep at night. Our family shattered, and my mother moved us to a remote house on the outskirts of town.
A Final Encounter
The last time I saw him was when I went to collect my belongings. He stood outside, no longer the imposing figure I remembered, but calm and holding a shotgun. I knew I was leaving for good, but my sisters and mother remained behind.
Everyone was aware of the abuse, from neighbors to teachers, yet silence persisted. The cycle continued, unnoticed. I never confronted him about his actions or the pain he caused. Eventually, my mother left him, but not long after, she passed away.
My stepfather didn’t kill my mother or me, but had he turned to violence with a firearm, no one would have been surprised. He was known as a violent man, and everyone was aware of it. We convince ourselves we are safe from those who only inflict harm behind closed doors, but the truth is, we aren’t. Domestic violence doesn’t just stay at home; it spills into the public sphere, impacting everyone.
Recognizing the Signs
Statistics show that many mass shooters have a history of domestic violence, and someone out there is facing the same situation, feeling trapped and hoping for change. We can no longer turn a blind eye to those in need.
The warning signs are clear. Abused women and children are often the first indicators of potential future violence. It starts in the home, and we must acknowledge that.
And remember, when we allow such behavior to continue, it ultimately escalates.
Summary
The narrative follows a young girl’s experience living in a household marked by domestic violence. She recounts her mother’s relationship with an abusive man, the impact of that violence on her and her sisters, and the broader implications of ignoring such issues in society. The story highlights the necessity of recognizing warning signs of domestic violence and emphasizes the communal responsibility to intervene.