September 1969

We were eating supper, a sense of normalcy returning to our home. My parents never told me they had murdered Tommy, instead opting to inform me that his visit was over and he “went back home”. I still caught whiffs of gasoline about our house, but kept my mouth shut. I was just happy my family was ok.

The sun was setting and the dying orange light filtered in through the living room window, stretching out across the floor to cover the dinner table. My mother and father sat at opposite ends of the table, chatting about their days. I could tell they were still shaken, but I admired the way they were trying to return their lives to what it had been before Tommy showed up.

As I shoveled mashed potatoes into my mouth, the front door exploded open.

I spun around, jumping as the wood splintered and the hinges creaked.

I dropped my fork, eyes growing wide.

It was Tommy…and he looked furious.

My parent’s mouths dropped in unison, but before they could speak, Tommy marched towards us with alarming speed and upended the kitchen table. Dishes filled with food shattered to the floor and my father half rose, fear paralyzing him.

Without a word, Tommy grabbed my father by the neck and dragged him to the wall where he plowed his face through the sheet rock.

My mother screamed and ran to aid my dad, but Tommy spun on her and punched her in the teeth, sending her crashing to the floor.

Feeling my bladder go, panic clawing at my throat, I watched as Tommy pulled my father’s bloody head from the wall. Sputtering, dazed, my father tried to release himself from Tommy’s iron grip, but it did no good.