Faded denim jeans, black T, work boots and an Allman Brother’s cap fit like a glove to his 6′ frame. With a god-like stride, he strutted the halls, the kitchen, and the bedrooms all the while barking orders like a dog strait out of hell. “Git yur shit packed, everythin’, I don’t wana see anything lef’ within viewing distance.”
M, my daughter, inconsolable, gathered her clothes, stuffed animals, and any toys she could manage to carry Her “I love Daddy” t-shirt stained with spaghetti sauce and matching shorts crumpled and wet with tears stuck to her little body. R, trembling, tears tracing the creases in his strained face obeyed, no questions asked. Their hearts ripped from their chests, their trust forever broken they made their way to the living room and awaited further instruction. They cried, begged and pleaded with Jon to let them stay, however, their pleas had no effect on Jon’s stone cold heart.
“Now git out.” Disbelief consumed my oldest son who had been staying with us at the time. He helped the children 11 and 9 years old. Carey glanced over at Jon and Jon gave him a little smirk. My son ignored him and continued to the car that he had finally loaded with everything they owned. In the matter of a moment he nonchalantly approached the car.
“Get outta that fuckin’ car, unpack yur shit, and let that be a lesson to ya. Without me you ain’t nothin’ and you ain’t got nothin’.
At the time, I was at the Domestic Violence Center gathering every little bit and piece of information I could to plan my escape. I had no idea this had taken place until a few days ago.
I am convinced hell wouldn’t even have this sorry excuse for a human. I’m not even sure that son-of-a-bitch is human at all and I am certain hell would be too good for him.