Is She Dead Yet?

As I prepared an overnight bag for little Michelle, Jeff showed up unexpectedly at the apartment and wanted to take our daughter for the weekend. He was on his way to take Jeff, Jr. to New Jersey for his weekend military reserve duty. I told Jeff that we had other plans and that he could not take Michelle that night. Jeff became agitated and started to move restlessly throughout the apartment pacing back and forth between the living room and kitchen area. He started clenching his teeth as if he were about to explode. Then all of a sudden he picked up a kitchen chair and smashed it against the table, shattering the chair into pieces. I hardly had to time to react before my seven-year-old screamed. I yelled for her to run into the back bedroom and lock the door. She ran to the back of apartment and I could hear her crying. Jeff's eyes looked wild, and he frantically looked around the room for something else to pick up.

He picked up another chair and began banging it against the floor yelling, “Why, why, why, are you doing this?” As the splintered pieces of wood went flying around the room, I backed up against the kitchen wall. By that time, Jeff, Jr. was yelling at his father, who was totally oblivious to his son's attempts at intervention. Jeff's rage led him to the TV.  As he picked up the 19” television, he raised it over his head and came towards me. My back was up against the wall, and I realized that I was about to be seriously injured or even die in a split second. This man was about to kill me. Almost as fast as my son jumped in front of me, his father turned a few degrees to the right and smashed the television against the kitchen floor. The sound was excruciating. He was completely out of control, and with the piercing sound of crashing glass, you could see the light bulb go off in his head, and he realized that something horrible was happening. It was as though he had come back to his senses. My son was standing in front of me, shielding me from his father with his arm outstretched as he was prepared to block the TV from hitting me.

Suddenly, there was pounding on my apartment door. Someone was banging and yelling from the other side. I noticed that there was blood coming from somewhere. It wasn't mine. It wasn't Jeff's. It was my son's blood. His hand was bleeding, and broken glass and pieces of compressed wood were everywhere. The elder Jeff ran out of the apartment as soon as he realized what had happened and his son darted out after him in a flash. My neighbor was on the other side of the door, and when the pair flew past her, she stepped in to see if Michelle and I were okay. Jeff, Jr. had run out to his father's truck just in time to reach inside and smear blood on his father's shirt as he sped off.

I heard my daughter crying and whimpering from my bedroom. I ran back to her and convinced her that it was all right to unlock the door. I told her that daddy was gone.