Understand me. I wished him dead. I did have half a mind to kill him once, with a cast iron skillet, caught up in the white-hot frenzy. I was fourteen years old, and convinced I was prepared to murder the man choking my mother in the kitchen while a beef roast baked in the oven. He’d caught my arm reaching into the bottom cupboard and slammed the door on me repeatedly until I fell back on my ass and slinked away, screaming.
I was always screaming for Ken to stop hitting my mother; to stop tugging on my sister; to stop frightening us; to leave us alone, and go off someplace to fucking die. The motherfucker was a habitual drunk driver. Why didn’t he ever crash into the trees? Or swerve off a bridge? Never once have I felt a pang of guilt for wishing–praying for liberation to come in the form of this man’s well-deserved death.
During the years my mother and Ken were together, I suffered through my first crisis of faith; and I mean faith in the universal sense. My father failed to save me and Tara. My mother failed to save us all. And what’s fucked up is at the time, I thought I was failing.
I often wished I’d wake up dead, being that Ken was indestructible. And I berated myself for being too cowardice to follow through with any of the suicide plans I had concocted in the night. But then I’d see my little sister, defenseless, and I knew I’d be a coward* to leave her alone; if I didn’t want to live for myself, I had to live for her.
*Suicide is not about cowardice. It is about pain, and the desperation to be relieved of that pain. To say I would have been a coward to take my life is what I needed to tell myself to be strong and fight for my life. I mean no disrespect.