We ran away more than once, but usually no more than a day or two at a time. Leaving was always the scariest part. Normally dad was in a rage and we were lucky to reach the car keys before he reached the guns. He took to saying for a while, “I know a man who had less debt than me and found a way to solve all his problems. He shot his wife and kids and then himself. Now he has no problems at all.” He said this often and we knew deep down he was trying to convince himself this was the answer. 

At eleven, I decided to put myself in a type of foster care. I found ways to spend as little time at home as I could. It turned out, I was not the only one with this idea. My friend and I almost took turns trading houses. We sometimes stayed nearly a week at a time in the other house, but usually her stays were shorter than mine. I think we both realized the harm my dad was capable of. Her family was not easy either, but it was mostly just her mom yelling that we were fat and ugly and would never attract a man. “At least she’s white!” she’d point to me to get one last dig at her daughter, but neither of us took her seriously. Regardless, that’s where I’d planned to be that night: my safe house. Turns out there was no such thing.

It was like any other day. We were getting ready to go to a church event and then we would go home with our friend’s family. As usual, I was the first one ready. I could hear my parents in the other room, but I didn’t think much of it until my sister appeared. “Get your stuff in the car.” She looked angry, but for once it wasn’t directed at me. 

“Why? My stuff is fine where it’s at.” I wondered how far I could push rebellion before her head exploded, but when she turned towards me, I knew it wasn’t the time. 

“Their voices are getting to that point again.” Her hands were trembling. She was only two years older than me, but at times like this she seemed to show herself as a child. “We need to be ready.” 

I could hear a struggle behind the door. I knew she was right. I gathered my things and headed for the car. When my mom finally got there, she peeled out of the driveway. It didn’t seem like he was following, but it was tough to be sure. She told us he’d tried for a gun. She fought him and he struck her face. This was something he generally avoided, but I could see the bruise already forming. She broke free just long enough to grab the keys and run. 

The three of us missed the church event. We went to a parking lot of a grocery store and cried for what felt like hours. When we couldn’t seem to cry anymore, it was time to make a plan. I was never really ready for this part. Mom called our friends and had them pick us up from the parking lot. She insisted that she could calm him down now that he’d had time to cool off. 

When I saw my friend and her family, it was the last place I wanted to be. I didn’t want to lie, but I couldn’t mention what happened. I just wanted to be left alone. Besides, how could I pretend around my second family? Would they even care if they found out? It didn’t matter anyway because no one was asking questions. Turns out, it’s not hard to hide excruciating pain as long as no one can see it. 

The next day, the plan was that mom would come get us. We’d go back to the house and I’d do my best to stay in my room. After a few days, things would feel normal again, like they always did. To my surprise and relief, the next day plans had changed…(continued tomorrow).

Note: This is a true story about events that have not been embellished. While comments are welcome, they are screened to maintain the integrity of the site, prevent foul language, and prevent spam. All comments submitted from real readers will be published even if they are disagreed with.

If you or someone you love is experiencing domestic violence and seeking help, please visit the Domestic Violence National Hotline.

Due to the business of life and the heaviness of this content, I do not always post regularly; so, if you would like my new post to come directly to your email, please subscribe.