It was a Sunday and my sister and I were driving on our way to my Dad’s apartment. We saw him every Sunday since we were 2 years old and he usually came and picked us up but on that morning he called my sister and asked her if she could drive us there because he was too tired. It was unusual for him to do that, but I didn’t think anything of it because lately everything had been different. We had a house fire a month before and we lost EVERYTHING in that fire. It was a tough time for my family; my sister stopped caring about school and my mom fell into such a deep depression that she confined herself to her bed and lost the will to get up. My Dad was the one who made sure I didn’t stop living my life. He came every morning and brought me to school even though he was working the third shift. Instead of going straight home and sleeping after work, he would come to my house every morning and make sure I got up and got ready for school, he made sure my homework was done and my lunch was made. I was so grateful for my Dad during those hard times.
When we arrived at his apartment door he opened it and then quickly went back to bed before we could even give him a hug. My sister looked over at me concerned.
“Did you see his face?” she asked.
“No,” I said, “why?”
“I don’t know, I’m not sure…” she said. I followed her into his bedroom and we both stopped in the doorway.
There lying on the bed was my father…soaked in blood. His face was mangled so badly I could barely recognize him. One eye was swollen completely shut and the other eye had blood oozing from his eyebrow into his open eye. His left ear was torn so badly it was hanging half off, detached from the rest of his battered face. His stomach was purple on one side and you could see the white outlines of his ribcage slowly expanding with every painful breath he took. He had scratches and bruises all over his chest, arms, and face. His knuckles were bloody and when he turned over there were red scratches on his tender back. My dad had been brutally beaten.
(Deep Exhale)..holy cow. I know this story must have been hard to write.
It was hard to read.
I agree Britt, that was hard to read, it must have been even harder to write. I can’t wait to read the next one.
Yes, this was really tough to write about. It happened exactly eight years ago this week but I still vividly remember seeing him on the bed. It’s hard for me to open that memory but I can already feel some healing from talking about it.
Holding my breath for the next part…..
It was extremely hard to read, I don’t think you ever told me that. I would have remembered. What a tough, tough time for you all.