To whom it may concern,

I know you got my first letter. I know you got it because when I went to visit you, you weren’t there. Your mailbox was overflowing. I looked through your mail. My letter wasn’t there. You read it, didn’t you? Obviously you took my advice and got the police involved. I’m proud of you for taking initiative. But honestly, they are not going to help you with your inevitable ending. Put it off, sure. But I will find you. I will meet you. I promised that I would get to know you and I am determined to keep that promise. For now, I’ll give this letter to the police. I’m sure they’ll get it to you somehow.

Speaking of, I've been watching the news. They don't talk about me. Why don’t they talk about me? They know who I am. They’re hunting me down. They don’t want to warn the public? They did before -- before I introduced myself to you. Now they’re being annoyingly secretive.  

I remember in my last letter I told you my father is dead. So I can see why it would scare you off. I know what you’re thinking. No, I didn’t kill him. There have been many times where I have really, really wanted to. Times where I wanted to smack his head on the kitchen counter, grab a knife and stab him one hundred times over. But those were the times when he was smacking us down. My mother, my sister, and me. My mother took it from him. She didn’t beg him to stop. She didn’t fight back. She just took it. 

“This is not your father,” she would say, tending to the cuts and bruises he gave me. “He’s having a hard time, that’s all.” 

She was right. Every time he would hurt us he would profusely apologize the next morning. 

“I’m just having a hard time, please understand. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

He would beg us for forgiveness, then God. And it was the same every week.

But in the time where he felt guilty (I called it the cooldown-warmup period) he would be kind. He would bring my mother flowers, freshly picked. He would bring me and my baby sister candy and toys. He would have my mother relax while he cooked a glamorous meal. He would have the table set up all nice. We would sit and talk and laugh and eat and burp and laugh some more. That was who we wanted my father to be. I realize now that the flower picking, candy bringing, dinner making, table setting man he showed was a facade. He showed who he truly was when he grabbed my mother by her wrists and threw her down on the ground, smacking her over and over and over again with his belt. Every time since then, when my father tried to serve his “famous mashed potatoes”, I glanced at the red stain on our white living room carpet -- only slightly faded from my mom scrubbing it over and over and over again -- to remind me. He’s trying to trick you, I would think to myself. 

This is not who he is. He’s a liar. 

I don’t know if my mother loved him. She must have. I mean, she stayed. Isn’t that what people do when they love each other? Stay? No matter how many times he beat her, yelled at her, cussed her out, left her, she always stayed. I assume there are people you care about. Tell me I’m not alone in my confusion! 

Although, as much as my mother loved my father, I know she loved us more. Each day before school, she would wake me and my sister extra early to check for any visible bruises or cuts. If there were, she would spend half an hour applying concealer to hide it. It was our secret, she said. She took extra care for our friends to not see. I’m glad she did that. If someone saw and asked me what happened, I would have to lie. You know I don’t like to lie. 

“Don’t call for help,” she would say, “they won’t save you. They’ll only take you away from me, you understand? Please don’t let me lose you.”

It was the 30th of January that my father came home, reeking of bourbon and cigarette smoke. He was muttering God knows what. We knew what was coming. My sister and I creeped up the stairs to wait for mother to call for supper.

We could hear the deep, drunken voice booming from the kitchen. 

“Where’s the food? The table isn’t set- kids!”

Then my mother’s timid voice: 

“Dinner’s not ready. Why don’t you go shower, it’ll be ready when you get out.”

There was silence. My father’s voice became quieter, but I could still hear.

“I’m hungry now.”

“It’s not ready.” Now, this was the closest she’s ever come to standing up for herself. I was surprised, but more so worried. If she were to get chastised I wouldn’t want her to be alone. I instructed my sister to stay at the top of the stairs while I crawled back down. I turned the corner to peek my head into the doorway to the kitchen. She had her back to him, mixing the bubbling chili. My father was behind her standing over her like a predator. His hair stood in two spikes on the side of his head, shaped by his hat and the glob of hair grease he uses each morning. His tongue swiped over his chin, licking away the beads of sweat formed by the heat of the pot. The end of his shirt was untucked from his trousers, creating a forked tail behind him.

He breathed. 

Then he said, “Have I told you about my day? Let me tell you about my day.” His hand shifted to pull at the tie around his throat.

He stepped closer to her. Her knuckles were white from gripping the wooden mixing spoon.

“Three more of my men quit today.” He said. “I had to miss lunch trying to convince a fourth to stay. This f*ckin’ recession…” He shook off his jacket and threw it over a chair. It slipped over the back and piled on the floor. He ignored it and kept talking. “My boss is on my back. The CEO is flying in this week and once he sees how everything is going, I might be out of a job. That means no more house, no more food, no more money.”

And then my mother said, “That sounds hard, honey.”

“Yeah.” Then he stops and stares at her, continuously mixing the chili. Personally, I thought the chili was mixed enough. 

Then he continued.

“Yeah, so imagine when I come home, wantin’ to just relax and eat dinner and watch T.V. and my useless wife says it’s not ready yet.”

That was when my mother doubled down. She was like, “Oh I’m sorry, I had to go the the bank and I lost track of time,” which really set off my father because then he started rambling about how he’s the breadwinner of the family and she doesn’t do sh*t and she doesn’t deserve his money, things like that.

She then decided to repeat her previous statement about dinner being almost ready. Not the best idea, evidently, because he stepped right behind her and said:

“I don’t think you’re hearin’ me.”

He grabbed my mother by her arm and pulled her away from the pot. The wooden spoon pulled back with her and clattered on the floor. Red chili splashed on her shoes. 

Now, I don’t know what came over me. I told you, my family and I have been in this situation before. But this time, I had an urge. I needed to stop him. I stepped out of the doorway, placed my fists on my hips and shouted, “STOP!”

My father was clasping her wrists. Her skin was tight around his hands. I could tell it was hurting her. They turned their heads at the same time. I could see my father’s yellow teeth through his curled lip. 

My mother was horrified. She immediately said, “No, darling, I’m alright. Just go back to your room.” 

I wavered. My father’s eyes were piercing into mine. It’s like he was daring me to move. To walk away. To leave her.

I dared him back. “Leave her alone.” I said, stepping closer to him.

He laughed. A condescending, booming laugh he had. A look at this stupid kid laugh.

“Darling, please.” My mother begged. “Go back upstairs.”

“No, no. Let the kid stay.” My father sneered. “The hero.”

I could feel my heart beating in my chest. I ran my fingers over my palms over and over again, unable to alleviate the clamminess. He let go of her wrists. The floor groaned as he stepped closer in my direction. 

My mother begged him to stop. He told her to shut up.

She grabbed his arm and begged him some more. He tore it from her and smacked her in the face, making her topple to the floor. 

“I said shut up.”

That was it. I snapped. I yelled and ran headfirst in his stomach, ramming him into the cupboard behind him. He faltered, gripping the marble countertop to stay up.

“You- you little *sshole.” He heaved, clutching where his stomach came in contact with my head.

I stood, watching him bring himself up. I couldn’t believe I had actually done that. My father. The one I had been afraid of, the one who made us cower in fear, barely standing. His breaths were short and raspy, trying to grasp the air he lost. It made me feel powerful.

He peered at me through his eyebrows. They were knives, carving “I’m going to kill you” into my skin. He stood and grabbed me by my shirt. I wriggled in his grasp but he didn’t loosen his grip. 

“You think you’re special?”

He grabbed my throat with his free hand. 

“Huh? You think you’re big and strong?”

His grip tightened around my throat. I scratched at his hand, clawing at his fingers and digging my fingernails into his skin. I couldn’t breathe. My vision was going black. My legs wilted from the lack of circulation.

“I’ll show you how special you are.”

Right when I was on the brink of passing out, he threw me to the floor, banging my head against the kitchen counter on the way down. My vision was blurry.

He kicked me in my stomach. Again. And again. I could taste blood in my mouth. Everything was happening in flashes. Him towering above me, kicking me over and over with his black combat boots. My ears were ringing. I could hear screaming. I shut my eyes. Everything was black.

I opened my eyes.

My mother was over me. Her eyes were red and swollen. There were splotches of red all over her face. Some of it rolled down her chin and dripped on my nose. There was a clatter, like she dropped something. Then she embraced me. She didn’t say a word. Her short, breathy sobs said enough.

Over her shoulder I saw him, not moving, bleeding out on the white kitchen tile.