Not a day goes by when I don’t think of what happened.


It was a normal day, the sun was bright and shined slightly over the school yard making look enchanting and surreal, as I walked to my bus. As I boarded, I waved to my friend Eliyha and stepped on. I was greeted by the usual “Hey” from my bus driver, and a couple “What’s up,” and “Yo’s, “from other classmates and friends. My brother and sister were in the elementary school, and had gone home a good 30 minutes before I did. As my friends stop slowly came up I realized I was almost home. I was excited about going home that day because I had gotten my unit test back for English and I was eager to show my mom. I guess we all acted that way in 6th grade….When I stepped off the bus and onto the sidewalk. My feet crunched under the gravel as I walked towards my beckoning mother, brother and sister. When I got closer, my mom said we were going to the store, and to put my bad and jacket away in the stairway.

We got in the car and drove to the local stores and picked up some items off of our list, and drove home.

I remember the drive, things were going well, we were all singing along to Nickleback, and I was actually happy. (Which even back then, was something rarely seen outside of school.)
The car wheels crunch on the chunks of gravel and small rocks in the driveway. To my prior knowledge my father was supposed to be asleep in his room because of his nightly job as a paper man. But as we got out, I noticed he was standing at the front door.

He had a look of defiance, anger, and punishment on his already scornful and stern face. This, was a face I had seen too often growing up as a child.

He was dressed in a black tee-shirt, with patches of light blue behind a wolf howling at a blue-ish moon, and a pair of red/maroon sweat pants that he had cut off into shorts a long time ago. In his hand was a rusted up hammer from our tool box. (Great, I thought at the time. Dad has done a repair on something or was doing handy work. I was just happy to see him not sleeping, because I’d rarely see my father on most nights, and when I did he was usually playing a video game. Either way, I was happy to see him.)

“You.” He said with a stern voice as we got closer to the porch steps. I stepped back little bit because when he spoke in that tone, it meant trouble.

He pointed to my mom with his finger. “Come here” he hissed at her. It seemed like my father was fathering my mother, and my mother looked like a child ready to be scorned.

My mom took the bags and walked into the stairway. My father was half blocking her path to the top of the stairs. When my mom said move, my dad stayed. His rotten teeth grin stretched across his face. My dad then walked to the top of the stairs to the kitchen and pointed to the computer in the living room. In a syndical, over confident voice he said “I bet you didn’t think I would find out, I pretended to go to sleep so while you left I could check your chat logs. I suspected it all along.”

I just stood there, not knowing what to say. I guess my father had come to the same conclusion I had.

In the past my mom would play online games and shed tell me to look away when she was in privet chat logs with her, mine, and my dad’s friends on that game. Id never told anyone, but I had serious doubts about my family. I knew my father did drugs, and I had actually found some of it before while cleaning the house, and I knew my mother may or may not have cheated on him. But I never thought it get taken this far.

My father raised the hammer above his head and went to smash the P.C., but before he could my mom stopped him. They were in an all out battle. I knew my father would win because of his strength. I’m not a 100% sure, but I think being high might have given him an edge as they fought.

My brother and sister were so scared they were speechless. I can never imagine what it must have felt like for a 6 and 8 year old to being seeing all of this. Being 12 at the time I knew my choices. Run for help, help my mom, help my dad, or call the cops and stop it all together. I picked the cops.

I searched frantically, looking for a phone, and while doing so yelling at my father to stop, because for some reason I felt like I needed to protect my mother. There was a point in all the confusion when the hammer missed my mom moms head by not even half an inch, she missed the blow because I had screamed her name, and said to duck. As the battle raged on, my mom’s hand was hit trying to surpass the blows of the hammer.

The P.S.2 was smashed into pieces, my parent’s bedroom door had been broken, and my brother and sister stood there, crying as they watched
I was still searching for a phone, but with no luck. So I tried to go up to my father and take the hammer out of his hand, but it was impossible because he was flinging it around like it was a toy, and I almost got hit.

Finally my mom found the phone and called 911. Soon after an officer came running to our house. (It helps that we lived right across from the station.) We soon got things settled out and discussed our options and we wanted him out.

While my mom talked to the officer, I felt compelled to watch my father’s movements and actions very carefully. At first he was just pacing, but I knew that walk. He was looking for a plan of action. Not soon after he lifted the hood of our silver neon, and took out a greasy coil from inside, and placed it inside his jacket. I ran to our stairs to confront him but I told the officer was I was running, what I was doing.

He pushed me aside and ran down those stairs faster than anyone I had ever seen. The officer formally known as “Armadillo”, said that my father’s plan was to make it so the car couldn’t work, and we were stuck.

That night no one got much sleep. We went o sleep, or more correctly crashed at around three a.m. I waited for my brother and sister to fall asleep before me so I could protect them from anything that could affect them. But soon after, I to, fell asleep.





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The only thing I can’t remember about that night was the panic filled screams of horror.
I can recreate every detail of that night, but I never could recreate the sound of fear and fear in my mother’s voice, or my brother and sisters loud cries for it all to stop. But the sounds I do remember were my brother crying, my sister sniffling back tears, my dad’s voice, my mom’s things being broken, and the beating of my own heart against my chest, filled with adrenaline.

Most things, though after the event, I don’t remember much. Only the next day, when I went to school, I was silent, not talking unless spoken to, and not even cracking a smile. That day I was a walking zombie, a social disaster. My neighbor, who was also in my grade, had seen some of the fight but didn’t bother me because he was a true friend.

I know most people say that they can never remember the exact details of accidents but remember the therapy and the concealing. I have no memory of the after math, just the facts about that night.

Sometimes ill dream about that night and the dreams help me realize what I have now. Every day I ask myself if I should have intervened more. How could I have helped? How could I have taken the hammer from my dad? How could I have save my family, from their own destruction….

I have thoughts and ideas, but I will never know for real, what more I could have down , an it haunts me every day I see my family. I have even gotten sick from the stress of it all.
But now, my mom’s married my dad has a new son, and I live in Fonda. Things have changed for the better, and it may sound strange, but I’m happy the fight happened, because without it, I wouldn’t be here, typing this, know the people I do, or be the person I am now, Quick responsible, mature and a writer.

So ask yourselves. What would you have done in my shoes? Help your mom. Your Dad? What about your little brother or sister?


Not a day goes by when I don’t ask myself these questions.