It all begins somewhere, and often it starts at home. I understand what a potential mass shooter can look like.
I first encountered him when I was just 13. The morning was still dim, and I was in my track uniform, pouring a bowl of my favorite cereal. As I turned around, there he sat at our round, faded blue table, engrossed in the newspaper, a steaming cup of coffee in hand. He was a large man, with wavy hair and a beard that mixed strands of black and white. His bright blue eyes reminded me of a department store Santa. He smiled at me, introduced himself, and I hurriedly told him to clean up after himself before he left.
My mother had met him the previous night at the local bowling alley, a bustling hub in our small town filled with a bar, bowling leagues, and an arcade. Normally, we accompanied her, indulging in pizza and sodas, but my youngest sister was unwell, so my mother went alone. She had been searching for companionship for some time; raising three little girls without a job was a heavy burden. Her second marriage had ended just a year prior. After meeting him, he began staying over every night.
Weeks passed, and one Christmas Eve, I awoke to find them both missing. A note indicated they had driven to Las Vegas, a four-hour trip, and asked me to look after my younger sisters. I felt no anger, only hope. She was lonely, drinking more, and the laundry was piling up. He made her feel alive again—he even bought each of us brand-new bicycles. I wanted this relationship to succeed for her sake, and for ours.
On Christmas morning, I woke before dawn, and they still hadn’t returned. The tree was lit, and the cookies and milk remained untouched. I ate the cookies, drank the milk, and took some of her money from the cigar box. With my new bike, I rode to the 7-Eleven on Grand Avenue, buying gifts for my sisters—records for our band, “Wonder,” and a special one for my mother, Helen Reddy’s “You and Me Against the World.” I wanted her to know I would always be there for her.
When my mother finally called hours later, she was on her way back. We ended up at a Chinese restaurant for dinner, where she proudly showed off her new diamond ring and announced their engagement. From that moment on, he moved in with us, and life began to change rapidly.
I had never liked meat, but he insisted on meatloaf for dinner, which was his favorite. I refused to eat it, and although my mother defended me, he was now the man of the house. I soon learned that I couldn’t leave the table until I complied. One morning, my mother shook me awake. She had a black eye. I never witnessed him hit her, but I understood the unspoken fear that loomed over our home.
He bought her an expensive red sports car, a Lotus, and soon, they were off on another trip, leaving us alone. I took her keys and drove my sisters to school in the new car; however, my lack of driving skill led me to crash into a tree. The school staff called my mother in Vegas. She returned with visible injuries. He walked past me, ignoring my presence, while she quietly said, “I took it for you.”
As their fighting escalated, my mother began drinking heavily. The urgent need for parenting faded, and when food ran low, my sisters and I would take a taxi to the grocery store. I learned to forge her signature on checks, and though everyone in our small town was aware of what was happening, nobody intervened.
When the fights erupted, my sisters would come to my room, and I learned how to barricade my door. I mastered the art of concealing her bruises, and sometimes, the ambulance would come.
We would escape temporarily, hiding in hotels, pretending to be spies on the run. But inevitably, he would show up with flowers, and we would return home, lured by promises of fun and adventure. Yet, the cycle of violence continued, and I was determined to protect my family.
One night, the fighting abruptly silenced my mother’s scream. I called 911 and crept downstairs, knife in hand, to find him hunched over her. I pressed the blade to his neck, preventing further harm. The ambulance took her away, and the police arrested him. We found refuge in a neighbor’s backyard, but everyone knew what was happening, and still, no one spoke up.
Weeks later, I was pulled out of class. My mother had come to speak with me. It was Halloween, and I was dressed as a vampire. She had just been discharged from the hospital and looked frail, with stitches covering her head. She had bailed him out, and he was waiting at home, pleading for another chance.
I couldn’t bear to face him. My mother could endure the pain for me, but I had reached my limit. My younger sister ran away to live with our father, who had remarried, while my youngest sister cried herself to sleep. We were a fractured family, moving to a new house on a secluded road.
The last time I saw him, I was 16. I returned to collect my things, and he met me outside, holding a shotgun. There was an unsettling finality in his calm demeanor. I was leaving for good. My sisters remained in that house, and my mother was still trapped.
Everyone around us was aware—neighbors, teachers, friends—but the silence was deafening. No one intervened.
My stepfather never murdered my mother or me, but if he had picked up a gun, no one would have been surprised. The community would have said, “He was a violent man; everyone knew.” But because we weren’t part of that family, it didn’t seem to concern us.
Had he turned a weapon on strangers in a public place, the same indifference would have persisted. Now that innocent lives have been lost in places like churches, nightclubs, and schools, the issue of domestic violence has spilled into the public sphere.
Research shows that most mass shooters have a history of domestic violence or have harmed a family member. Right now, someone knows the next potential mass shooter; someone is being blamed or abused.
It’s time to stop turning a blind eye. Domestic violence is often a precursor to greater violence. We must recognize the signs and take action.
If you’re interested in understanding more about home insemination, be sure to check out this resource on pregnancy and home insemination. You can also find expert information on couples’ fertility journeys and the best practices for intracevical insemination through these links.
Nobody would have been shocked if I had died.
Summary
This piece narrates the harrowing experiences of a young girl living in a violent household where her stepfather’s abusive behavior escalates. The story highlights the pervasive issue of domestic violence, illustrating how it often goes unnoticed and unaddressed by those outside the family. It emphasizes that such violence can be a precursor to larger tragedies, urging society to pay attention to the signs and take action.