I wrote this short story to help me process the passing of my father. Please note that it addresses topics of abuse.
Sept 4, 2025
Me: Lisa reached out and shared you were not doing well. I let Jay know as well. Sending love and forgiveness. I hope the pain subsides.
Daddy: I have a mass on my pancreas in was diagnosed cancer, been out of work since 7/28 in and out the hospital since then, have my first cancer doctor appointment tomorrow on treatment in how far it effect me
Pain Is a issue was in hospital yesterday the upgrade my pain med so to help me,
Always love sorry bout the past
Me: Praying for the best. Apology accepted.,
Daddy: Thanks in forgiveness to past in live for the present how much time I have left,
Me: I’m really happy that you have children there to share that time with. I feel no desire or obligation to engage in that way. I hope your remaining time is as painless as possible.,
Daddy: This your way of forgiveness, sounds just the opposite but it’s fine I asked nothing of you. But nice to hear from you no matter what you feeling take care.
Fall 2000
I turned back towards my father and saw the lake and bell tower in the background. Swans glided by as the bright blue sky peeked through the trees. These trees shaded us from the heat of the fall sun. I silently thanked my grandma.
“Please forgive your father for me,” she’d said, voice raspy, punctuated by a cough. “I don’t know how much time I have. It would bring peace to my heart.”
“Are you okay, Grandma?”
“Nothing a little prayer can’t fix. But God doesn’t want you to keep that hatred in your heart. You gotta forgive him.”
“I forgave him a long time ago,” I said. “Even though he never apologized. I’m not mad. I’m afraid. He’s not safe.”
“Baby, he’s changed. Just give him a chance.”
“Okay, Grandma.”
I knew she’d call him next, her voice suddenly strong and clear, triumphant in her mission.
And now we are here. Alone. I hadn’t been alone with him since… before. Before we left.
He looked out at the lake. Then he turned to me abruptly with a charming smile. A smile that did not quite match the coldness in his eyes.
“You remember your friend Sarah?”
“Oh yeah. How’s she doing?”
“Her little brother drowned in the pool.”
His face was stone.
“What? That’s awful. He was Jay’s age. Please send my condolences.”
“They don’t deserve condolences,” he said, voice cold. “That’s what they get for taking my kids and destroying my family.”
He wasn’t admiring the lake. He’d chosen this spot for its isolation.
Because we both knew what really happened.
At 15, I was the one who concocted the middle of the night escape plan. I got my younger siblings and myself out of our abusive home. I manipulated my step mother into escorting us to the police station where I then had her arrested. Sarah’s family gave us shelter that night while my dad worked 3rd shift.
This man had called Grandma dozens of times, begged her to convince me to meet.
Not to make amends or accept accountability but to threaten me… or worse?
Terror pulsed through me.
He glances at me then looks pointedly at the lake feeding off the fear from his subtle threats.
I meet his eyes, then look deliberately at the white folks ahead of us hastening my pace.
Fall 2002
“OK, Grandma.” I hang up the phone, disappointed in myself for letting her manipulate me into agreeing—once again—to see my father.
“He’s got no interest in making amends, Grandma. He just wants to bully me,” I’d told her.
“Well, if you want this car, then you’re going to have to ride up with him to Spartanburg to complete the paperwork.”
“I can get a friend to drive me.”
“No, you need to spend some time with your father.”
“I told you what happened last time, Grandma.”
“He ain’t gonna do nothin’ to you. Just let God do His work.”
A quick risk assessment told me this was the safest choice. I needed a car to get around Greenville, especially for off-campus work. I’d survived 15 years—I could survive another 45 minutes with this man to appease my grandmother and get the vehicle.
Pride was a privilege I couldn’t afford.
Grandma hadn’t prepared me for my father’s “transformation.” He arrived in an older sedan. It had a custom paint job on the outside and a full-on Tim Burton aesthetic on the inside.
All to match his amateur professional wrestling persona: VooDoo Daddy.
Yes, apparently there’s an amateur wrestling circuit in South Carolina. It’s like the stuff on TV—costumes, theme songs, face paint. Some wrestlers are heroes, others villains. My dad, of course, was a villain. And he absolutely loved every bit of it. He’d customized the entire interior himself and was clearly proud, fishing for acknowledgment. I watched him grip the skull-covered gear shift. The voodoo doll was swaying from the rear view mirror. I was just relieved he’d found consenting adults to beat on.
I struggle to keep a straight face as we cruise up I-85. The car is outrageous—and his only vehicle. I imagine him running errands in the VooDoo Mobile going on dates, picking up at the drive through. Did he know the professional wrestlers on TV were acting? Or did he genuinely believe the Undertaker’s personal residence looked like a funeral home?
I look over and see his left elbow peeking out the window. The other propped on the coffin armrest. His right hand lightly grasps the skull patterned steering wheel cover. I admire his commitment, the coffin is made of real wood with two hinges on the right side. And my fear and doubt started to fade. There’s no way he knows about the toothbrushes and I had done the right thing.
Spring 1996
My mind wanders as I scrub and rinse the tub. Mortar. Pestle. Glass. That’s all I would need. Or maybe there are flowers or other things I can use, I think, eyeing the bleach. I grab the Window Extra, spray down the mirror, and catch my own eyes as I wipe it clean.
I’d made a promise to myself—to always be honest with myself. People lying to themselves is the whole reason I’m in this situation. So let’s be real.
Am I really planning to kill Daddy?
I look deeply into my own eyes, listening for an answer in the monotonous drone of the bathroom fan.
I mean, I can’t kill him, right?
I’d definitely get caught if he died of anything other than natural causes. A stack of library books on common poisons would make me a prime suspect. The abuse reports and his framed certificate from the mandated parenting courses hanging in the living room offer clear motive. And children can’t serve on a jury—so where’s my fair trial?
Adults aren’t sympathetic to children who kill adults. Sure, they don’t condone child abuse, but children are still expected to respect their elders.
Meanwhile, I live in constant fear—of being slapped, punched, or beaten with 2×4’s. I sleep fully covered at night, not knowing when the blankets will be ripped off for more terror. I read about kids in books who come home from school and are greeted by parents asking how they feel, how their day was, if they need anything. I can’t recall a single time Daddy or his wife asked me any of those questions.
I could go an entire week without saying a word to either of them.
They did ask me questions, though:
“When are you making dinner?”
“When will lunch be ready?”
“What groceries do we need?”
“Do you have enough cooking oil?”
And demands like: “I want fried chicken tonight.”
I’m responsible for all the cooking, cleaning, babysitting, and laundry. My dad insisted he wanted a stay-at-home wife. So that’s what she does. She stays home smoking cigarettes. She waits for me to come back from school to cook and clean.
Her second favorite thing to do was where she and Daddy really connected. They absolutely loved coming up with new ways to torture and punish me. It was one of their favorite pastimes. They were especially proud when they devised a punishment that caused the most pain with little or no bruising. That’s what he’d learned in his parenting classes: stop leaving bruises.
They’d even explored all types of abuse not just physical: sometimes forcing me to walk around with duct tape on my mouth. Other times, they would cut holes in a plastic bag and make me wear it all day. One time, I had to sleep handcuffed to the refrigerator. The fridge handle—not the freezer. A small bit of grace.
I’m not sure if they know this. One of their favorite punishments—airplane—turns out to be an actual torture technique.
So… am I really going to kill this man?
Well, do I think he’s going to kill me? No. Who would cook his food, clean his house, wash his clothes?
I can’t justify this to myself if I don’t feel like my life is in danger.
Even if I could find a way to get away with it, this decision has to sit right in my heart. My spirit. These physical scars will heal, but my spirit wont recover so easily if I murdered this man.
And it’s also very possible he might kill me by accident. How would I defend myself? Am I going to live to regret this?
I’ll leave. If it gets too dangerous, I’ll leave. I doubt he’d put much effort into looking for me.
I’m just about finished cleaning bathroom number one. I’m on track to get all the chores done today. Tomorrow, all I have to do is cook Sunday dinner.
So, I’m not going to kill him. But I need to do something. There’s so much rage, hurt, and disappointment inside me. I need to release it before it destroys me.
I remove the toothbrushes from the holder, give it a quick spray and wipe.
No, I think, as I put the toothbrushes back.
I can’t.
I pick up the cleaning supplies and head to the master bathroom—my father’s bathroom.
I’m giddy with excitement as I shut and lock the door.
He may actually kill me for this, I think, picking up his toothbrush.
I catch my reflection in the mirror.
There’s a devious glint in my eyes as I hold Daddy’s toothbrush.
Oh, I’m doing this.
What about karma?
Then I should never grow up to be the kind of person who deserves to have their toothbrush shat on. I place his toothbrush on the sink. Remove my pants and drop a number two.
After wiping, I pick up his toothbrush and swirl it around in the un-flushed toilet. I dab the floating turd with the bristles and finish with a few more swirls so there’s no visible fecal matter. I then tap the toothbrush on the toilet seat to release excess moisture, rinse the handle, and dab a little toothpaste on the bristles to mask the odor.
With his asthma and her indoor smoking, they won’t smell a thing.
I give her toothbrush the same treatment.
This is how I released the trauma of my childhood. Every week. For the next two years, until we finally escaped.
