The First Time

I remember the first time I met him. There I was, age 5, getting ready for school in my red, white and blue cheerleading outfit. Out of the room my mother and I shared in the two bed room apartment, stood who would become my stepfather. My mother, incensed over my obsession with that outfit, pulled off my sweater in front of him. "Oh, no you don't!" as she whisked the sweater off of me, my slip showing. I ran into our bedroom, but not after I noticed the smirk of this stranger whom I took an immediate dislike. Days later, as I was on my way to Sunday school, he was there again, in front of our apartment in his "stupid" car. My mother gushed over the 1962 Corvette that was in need of repair. My middle brother jumped in to what he thought was cool. I left for school, but reluctantly as I didn't want to miss out what was going on at home. But at the same time, I was reluctant to be near. I had reservations of this man, and rightfully so. Two weeks went by from our initial meeting. I had come home from school and got out the Fisher Price Playschool. The living room was empty as was the rest of the apartment. My mother again swooped in. "We are leaving. Don't get that out." We arrived at his house to move in: A two bedroom, blue house in the woods. Away from everyone. Our only neighbor was a surly elderly woman who threatened to call the police on my brothers when the football landed on her property. It was a strange place. Far from comfortable. Nothing homey. And guns everywhere. Guns on the walls. Guns beneath the beds. Loads of guns. It was the beginning of the end of my childhood and innocence. I would no longer be that sensitive but pretty little girl with blonde curls. Instead, I became one who was tortured with anxiety, unable to protect my family from this beast. Our broken family of four and our three legged dog just entered the lair of a psychopath.