Wake up Tommy! Wake up! There’s no response. I hear a thud at the door and see flashing lights outside. My mother is running around frantic while my sister and I stand all alone sobbing out of confusion of what is going on. Police rush into the house and walk straight toward the back bathroom, as my mother shrieks and cries out, “Tommy! Tommy! Please no, Tommy!” Meanwhile my sister and I stand in the hallway searching for clues to what exactly is going on. At this time police are able to get the door off the hinges and enter the bathroom.
There seems to be no foul play. The male in question seems to be young and vibrant, with his whole life ahead of him, so why was it that he was lying dead on the bathroom floor? This turn of events led the detectives of the case, to feel as if something was not quite right. However, due to my mother’s statement, which stated that he was a drug addict, the investigation took a screeching halt.
However, upon reviewing the autopsy report myself and looking at the medical examiners diagram, it was noted that there was fresh bruising on the back of the head, as well as fresh injection sites on his left arm. Thinking to myself, I wondered why this wasn’t taken into consideration? Did the medical examiner just not care to inform the police, and if so, did the police not care to investigate further into my father’s death? Instead of digging a little deeper into the lives of those involved, my father’s case was settled on an unknown cause of death, in other words cause of death would be deemed as undetermined. Which means the medical examiner was not successfully able to determine how he died.
The truth is, for most of my life I grew up despising my father. I thought he was worse than the scum on the bottom of someone’s shoe. Whenever someone asked me about my father, I would tell them that he was an abusive drunk that got what he deserved, because it was my mother who would feed me lies about the night he died: the last words he spoke to her were, “when I come out of this bathroom I am going to kill you all!” I would then tell people, “better him than me”. After all, I had only my mother’s version of events on our lives back then. Even though my recollections of his last night are vivid, I only hold a few precious moments with my father in my memory.
When children grow up they grow up trusting what their parents tell them and continue to believe what they say until they grow up and are able to think for themselves. For some children, learning different from what their parents taught them to be true most of their lives is an unpleasant awakening, however for me, it was an opening to a portal to who my mother truly was. I soon would learn from my own experience of her conniving ways, and manipulative behaviors. It wouldn’t be until adulthood where I would witness my mother in her most evil state.
I remember it like it was yesterday; I had just turned 18 years old and went to go visit her for the first time in six years. I made the mistake of allowing her to come pick me up, leaving me defenseless and unable to escape if necessary. Well the need for escape came quickly. I found myself distraught with tears pouring out of my eyes running down the side of the road barefoot wishing I could just disappear. After calming down I went back in hopes of retrieving my shoes. I had just opened the screen door and was attempting to open the main door when my mother comes from behind. Soon I would find myself being wedged in-between the screen and main door with my neck being cut by the sharp edges on the side. I remember looking into her cold dark eyes and only seeing evil. It was from that day forward that I knew she was capable of murder.