We're All Broken

by O. L. Gregory

  He’d often wondered what he’d be like on alcohol. He’d never touched it because it’d just seemed to make his father meaner and hit harder. And while he understood that people reacted to it differently, he’d also understood that he’d never wanted to chance it around his family.

  But his family wasn’t around him anymore.

  He’d never pegged his father as being an alcoholic, but today it had come up in therapy. She’d asked him if he thought his issue was with alcoholics in general, because his father sure seemed to be one, and the man who killed his wife was one also.

  So, now he was sitting outside the liquor store, wondering if he was really just pissed at alcoholics.

  No, he didn’t think everyone going inside had a drinking problem. He’d seen Annabeth drink plenty of times. She knew how not to get plastered. She was fun and giggly when she drank, and more often than not, ready to go an extra round in bed with him. She drank, but she hadn’t had a drinking problem. And most of the people he saw going in and out of the store probably didn’t have drinking problems, either.

  He sat, watched, and waited. He waited to see if any of them seemed to ignite his anger. Because, at the end of the day, if his problem really was with alcoholics, he’d consider that a breakthrough, and was curious to see if the therapist could do anything with that, to assuage his desire to kill that man in the prison cell. If he could just get rid of that, he’d be golden in getting his life together.

  Everything was going along just fine, until he saw a couple get out of their car. The woman emerged from the driver’s side. The man, obviously inebriated, came from the passenger side. And nothing about that bothered Roger. The guy was drunk and obviously thought he needed more alcohol to keep him that way. But he had someone else drive him. It made that guy neither an alcoholic, nor a danger on the road. Roger was fine with it.

  When the couple came back out of the store, they put their purchases in the trunk and got back inside the car. They had looked upset with one another, and Roger watched through the windows as the man lifted his hand and backhanded his wife, within the limited space of the front seats.

  That bothered Roger, and he wondered at what kind of homelife the woman had. She simply turned in her seat, turned the key in the ignition, and backed the car out of the parking spot. He wanted to help, to intervene, but the woman just turned and went about her business. Maybe he hadn’t seen it properly.

  He couldn’t see why a grown person would stay in that kind of relationship. What did he have on her, to use a leverage to keep her there? Did she have a mental health issue that made her think she had to stay? Didn’t she know there was help to get her out of a situation like that? Had she been raised with abusive parents and now just thinks her purpose is to be someone else’s punching bag?

  And why the hell was the man not getting any treatment? That was his real question. Yes, it had taken his mother-in-law saying something, to get him to seek help, but he’d still felt himself slipping. Everyone knows it’s wrong to hit someone you love. Why was he not getting care?

  The more he thought about it, the more ticked off he became, even after the couple was long gone.

  And he was ticked at both of them. The man for doing it, and the woman for staying. As a kid, he’d stayed because he was a kid. The minute he’d truly realized that his father was completely in the wrong, and himself completely not wrong, he’d cracked his old man’s skull with a hard, thick, glass vodka bottle.

  And do you know what happened?

  It stopped.

  Yes, his life suffered an upheaval. And, yes, he’d had to defend himself against the law. But, damn it all to hell, he stopped being someone else’s punching bag.

  Maybe the woman didn’t realize she wasn’t in the wrong. The more he thought about it, the more he understood it. His father would blame everything wrong in his life on him, even though he’d done nothing to cause it, and could do nothing to change it. For years, he’d thought his very existence was wrong.

  He felt sorry for the woman.

  Roger told his therapist about what he’d seen. He’d lied a little and said he was in a different shopping mall, running errands, and had just happened to see the couple as he was strolling across the parking lot near a different liquor store, but he had still told her.

  He said watching it had bothered him.

  “Was it the fact that he hit her, or the fact that he was drunk while doing it?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know. But I was also mad that she just stayed with the guy. She didn’t hit him back, she didn’t get out of the car, nothing. I even began to wonder if he’d really hit her, because she was so nonchalant.”

  “Did you see enough to know for sure that he hit her?”

  “Yes. Why did I begin to doubt myself?”

  “Because you’re trying to make sense of her non-reaction.”

  “I know there’re many reasons that someone stays with their abuser.”

  “But it bothers you.”

  “Yes. She shouldn’t have to live that way.”

  “No, she shouldn’t. How does it make you feel, to know that’s going on?”

  He chewed on the inside of his bottom lip.

  “This is a safe space. It’s okay. You can say it.”

  “I wanted to make it stop.”

  “For him or for her.”

  “Her. Maybe him, I don’t know. But, definitely for her.”

  “How?”

  He sat up in his chair. “Here’s what you have to understand about me. I threw that bottle towards the trash can. I mean, I hurled it. Dad moved to stop me, got in the path of the bottle, it clunked him in the head, and he dropped. He died. And the moment he did, I was free. I was free of him, free of the abuse. Freed from my past, as far as I was concerned. Him running into that bottle’s path was the absolute best thing to happen in my life. Even better for me than finding Annabeth, because he stopped.”

  “So, you thought about killing the man.”

  “I thought about hurling another bottle and hoping the guy walked in its path.”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  He had a brief stare-off with the therapist. “Okay. I thought if I killed the man, the abuse would stop for that woman.”

  “It’s not a completely off-base thought. Not one that you should act on, just not completely off-base. You wanted to help the woman out.”

  “Shouldn’t we help those who can’t, or seem to think they can’t, help themselves?”

  “Yes, but legally.”

  “How could I have done that?”

  “Well, it’d have been best to capture it on video. But there was no way for you to know that was going to happen. The other thing you could have done was to get the license plate number and file a report with police about what you saw.”

  “That wouldn’t have gotten her out.”

  “No. But they could have put it on file, and have more ammo against the man, if the woman ever seeks help in a domestic dispute, or what have you.”

  “But it’s hearsay.”

  “But it provides a reasonable doubt that whatever excuse the man hurls at the cops is false. It could help the woman in the long run.”

  “But not in the short run.”

  “She has to actively seek a way out and be willing to tell other people what’s going on, so she can get protection. She has to want it badly enough to start working the steps of getting out, and keep at it, until she’s free.”

  “That’s frustrating to me.”

  “I know it is. But here’s the point in which you get to be a little selfish.”

  “How’s that?”

  “You need to separate it out. This is your journey. That is her journey. That is that man’s journey. If you can help someone out legally, that’s fine. But when your helping someone else out crosses the line of the law, that’s when you need to check yourself. It won’t help your kids any to have you in jail, and that’s the difference. They have a responsibility to get their
own journeys back on track. You have a responsibility to keep yours on the path it’s on. You, and you alone, are responsible for your actions, and keeping them legal.”

  “I know it. I didn’t kill the man. I was just expressing my feelings over what I saw.”

  “I know you are. And I’m just telling you that you did good with your actions in denying your first instinct.”

  “You’re not going to sit there and write up a report that I’m a danger to society?”

  “Why would I? Your actions are what’s important to the rest of society. And the fact that you came here, to express your thoughts and work through them, shows a lot of growth.”

  “But no one will tell me where the driver is that killed my wife, because you all fear I’ll do something to him.”

  “Look, you’re making immense progress. You show up to every session, you’re doing everything you can to keep things together, you’re taking care of yourself. You are protecting your journey and working to keep it on the path you want it to be on. I have not one criticism for you. But you must learn to be content for that man’s journey to play out. I have no desire to dangle any sort of bait in front of your face. Maybe, someday, once your kids are back with you and you find a measure of happiness again, and if there’ve been no slipups, we’ll visit the idea of getting you two in the same room, so that you can see him, talk to him, say whatever it is you’ll want to say, and get some closure. But, for now, no. You’re not ready to see him.”

  “You think I’ll kill him.”

  “No, actually, I don’t. But I think you’ll revert to fixating on it. I think it will set your progress back. And right now, you need to continue fixating on your own recovery and your own path.”

  “So, you don’t think there’s anything to be gained from me seeing him face-to-face, and seeing him for the flawed human being he is, suffering in his own path?”

  “You already know what a flawed human being he is. You already know he’s suffering in his own path.”

  “I want to see him in his suffering.”

  “No, you don’t. You want to see him and judge for yourself whether he’s suffering enough or not. And if he doesn’t meet your criteria of sufficient suffering, you’ll fixate on ways to make it worse. If you wait, the more he will suffer in captivity, and the more he’ll look miserable. The more time that passes, the more time he’ll have to process the things he’s done and the wrongs he’s committed, without having the relief that alcohol used to bring him. The longer you wait, the more satisfying the sight will be for you.”

  His head came up as he considered that. “Really?”

  She nodded.

  “And here I thought you just wanted my emotions to be less raw.”

  She shrugged. “There’s that, too.”

  He smiled.

  “What’s going on in your head?”

  “I think, maybe, you just gave me something to look forward to. Thank you.”

  The therapist smiled and nodded. When he left, she made her notes on the session, notating that he was eager for the assailant to suffer, but she was onto something about baiting him with a delayed gratification. She hadn’t lied to him to calm him down. Many times, meetings she had described were set up to provide closure for victims. What caught her attention over the exchange was that he was content to know that vindication was coming.

  The interesting thought was that if that man ever did make it out of the prison, whether it be on parole for good behavior, or anything else, that man would never be completely safe. She notated that while she thought she’d found a trigger to relieve her patient of the urge to murder this individual upon first sight, it would still take work to completely relieve him of the notion to merely do it at another time.

  Yes, Mr. Hayes had come a long way. But there were indicators that he still needed to continue the intense therapy. She made a notation that perhaps Mr. Hayes was onto something with the request that his children be returned one or two at a time. Perhaps easing him into a single parent routine would give him even more positivity to focus on, and bring him even further back into a healthy mindset, allowing him to let go of his fixation even more so.

  She thought it was time.

  She made a note to discuss the thought with the social worker on Monday. Maybe moving the oldest daughter in first could be a positive step. Not because he favored the eldest, but because she was staying at a friend’s house, with parents who wouldn’t eagerly take on another foster kid. They only had the paperwork for their nephew. And only took in Penelope because they knew her previously, and knew she was a good kid. The point being, that spot in that house would still be there for her. Perhaps they could even try starting with a weekend, or even just an overnight. Something to start moving these kids back into the house. Something to prove to Roger that he was getting something good out of doing all this work.

  Roger sat in front of his TV again that night, yarn and hook in hands.

  Yarn over, push through, grab and pull, grab and pull, grab and pull. Yarn over, push through, grab and pull, grab and pull, grab and pull. Yarn over, push through, grab and pull, grab and pull, grab and pull.

  He was watching documentaries following murderers, describing how they had gotten away with it for a while, and where they eventually went wrong just before getting caught.

  Yarn over, push through, grab and pull, grab and pull, grab and pull.

  Chapter Seven

  This Just Isn’t Working for Me

  It became a habit. Something to do on a Thursday night, on his way back from the psychiatrist.

  Go sit in the parking lot of that damned liquor store, and try and understand the alkies. The problem was, he couldn’t figure out who the alcoholics were, who had their life together and just wanted a little fun, and who’d just simply had too much to drink on that particular night.

  He wasn’t even sure why he was still doing it, other than it held a morbid fascination for him, and it was a break from the monotony of the new routine he’d established.

  Both apps he’d published were doing well, for being new. They were generating a small income, miniscule really, but they were growing a little each week. He was continually adding to the game he’d designed, and was working on a third app he’d had an idea for. He’d connected with a Facebook group where they’d swap services for one another, and he now had a logo, some graphic designs, promo videos, and leads for some cheap ways to swap advertising with other app designers. It was work he enjoyed, and because he hadn’t had to disclose his stint in a mental health facility, he had the luxury of feeling normal when he conducted business with them.

  A couple in the parking lot caught his attention as they carried cases of beer, wine coolers, and hard lemonade to their minivan, stacking the boxes in the back, closing the rear door, and then heading off to the party supply store. They came out about fifteen minutes later with a couple bags and probably about a hundred balloons.

  He smiled over the thought of the two of them driving home, trying to see around the balloons, as he watched the couple stuff them all into the back half of the van.

  He watched as a teenager parked a car and a drunk buddy get out of the passenger side, to go into the store and buy more beer. A few minutes later, he watched the buddy drop his case halfway through the parking lot, and listened to the kid, who’d driven, laugh at his buddy’s distress. The guy shook it off, picked the case back up, and laughed as he crossed to the car.

  He’d been sitting there about forty-five minutes before he spotted the car that had contained the couple, from just a few weeks ago. He saw that the man was alone and driving this time, and that he’d rolled into the parking spot until he bumped the wall of the cement sidewalk.

  Roger watched the man get out and weave a path to the door of the store. He had to reach for the handle on the door three times before realizing he could just push against the glass. Roger glanced at the clock as the door shut behind the drunk.

  The longer the guy was in there
, the more Roger began to stew.

  Twenty minutes passed before he came out with a box holding what looked like nine bottles of liquor, and nearly dropped them on the way back to the car. And why wasn’t Roger laughing about the mishap this time? Because he knew after that man put those bottles in the trunk, he was going to get behind the wheel.

  The guy got in the driver’s seat, put the key in the ignition, and broke the law.

  There was a part of Roger’s brain that told him to take down the license plate number, and call the cops, alerting them to the drunk driver that was now on the road. But… Roger just didn’t listen to that part of his brain.

  He pulled out onto the road, and followed the guy. Every time the guy weaved and drifted across the lane Roger’s anger increased. It wasn’t a loud thing. He wasn’t cursing. It was a calm rage. Twenty-three minutes, through town, down back roads, two other cars swerving to dodge him, the guy pulled into the driveway, barely missing the second car parked there, and rolled to a stop.

  Roger pulled up to the curb and watched as the guy took his time in the shadows, trying to get himself coordinated enough to get out of the car.

  And then Roger spotted the bikes. Bicycles sized for kids, probably about eight to ten years old. Three of them. Something inside of Roger’s mind snapped. He became singularly aware that if the guy had no issues hitting his wife in semi-public, he probably had no issues hitting his kids in private. Kids who had no say, no choice, no voice. Kids like the one he used to be. And the more Roger thought about it, as he sat and watched the guy get out with an open bottle, before opening the back door to retrieve the box, Roger became acutely aware of the danger the guy had posed on the roads. At any point, he could have hit a car, run over someone’s front lawn and into a house, hit a pedestrian. And in that moment, Roger viewed that man as a ticking time-bomb. An object that was going to explode at some point, and wreck more lives than he already had.