Sadness and Violence
Nick Bates

I tried making it on my own when I stopped it. I was eleven years old, carrying an old city map (the ones that were so big, they were dubbed ‘bums blankets’), and wearing the complete Goodwill collection circa 1997.  In reality, this meant that my hand-me-down rags were sold at the “real store” sometime during the Reagan administration, long before my brother, Teddy, or I were even a twinkle in my young mother’s eyes.

I made it exactly twenty-three hours on the streets before the cops found me. There I was, smeared with my mother’s blood, trying to get a moment of uninterrupted rest in the back corner of the St. Louis Public Library. In the foggy moments that blur reality from the temporary bliss of sleep, I faintly saw the librarian mouth the words “over there.” They pointed toward my general direction. I was caught. Could they know it was self defense? 

“You’re in no trouble, m’boy, we just want to be askin you a few questions,” the tall, clean shaven police officer said almost sing-song like. It struck me as equally annoying and amusing. This was the thickest Irish accent I’d ever heard. 

“I’m Officer O’Malley.” 

He cleared his throat. This officer spoke with the softness of a man who had seen it all, but who hadn’t let the badge harden him. 

“What’s your wee name?”

“Given that you found me, I have a damn good guess that you know who I am, but you can call me Andy.” 

I surprised myself by how cold I was acting. My upbringing taught me that swift and harsh punishments came from sassing an adult. Equal feelings of guilt and fear washed over me. I was ashamed of myself. 

“Sorry sir, I was rude to you.” I said all of this while my eyes were fixed upon my blood stained hands and shirt. The flood gates in my eyes finally opened.

“With what you’ve gone through wee Andy, I would’ve expected you to be ready to fight anyone who said more than three words to you.” 

O’Malley said this with the saddest smile I’d ever seen. 

He cleared his throat again, “Your mama will make it, but we’re working on finding you another place to spend the next few days. Between you and me, you had her within an inch of her life.” The light was gone from his eyes. He looked at me and I knew that he knew.

The next three days were spent in a kind of foster home while authorities search for someone who would be brave enough to take in the demon child who allegedly stabbed his own mother, and suffocated his infant brother. With some deeper digging, the police came to the correct assumption that the missing child; who had left a bloody footprint going out the door, was acting in desperation and self defense. The bruises on the young, lifeless baby had told the story of an abusive adult. A repeat offender. If only the truth spread as fast as those rumors did, then maybe my reputation wouldn’t have been tarnished. 

My grandpa on my dad’s side lived a few hours north and was on a week-long fishing trip in Montana while this happened. He offered to take me in, no questions asked, and I’ve been with him ever since. Grandpa was still a young man when my parents had me, and immediately he loved being in the role of the funny, nurturing grandfather. He is the strongest man I know, and has saved my life.

It’s 2004 now, and for seven long years I have refused to believe that my mom had done anything wrong. Mom was a good person. I’ll always believe that. In my mind, she will always be the same woman who stayed up in the hospital with me for hours after I had my tonsils out. The woman who made me laugh hysterically when I was younger, reading to me before bed with all of her silly voices. She could make me feel like I was the only person on Earth by how she cared for me. 

Mom was guilty of killing Teddy. We both knew it. Scars and nightmares overtake denial. She was seven months pregnant with an unplanned and unexpected (and possibly unwanted?) baby when Dad was t-boned by that semi truck. Dad had been this family’s glue. He kept us together and happy. 

Hitting me became one of her outlets in the year since dad was killed but I always believed she knew her limits. She’d always stopped swinging when the blood started flowing. She always said sorry. Life was fine. Besides, we were bad kids. We didn’t appreciate her pain so we deserved to be hit. Right?

Now, at 18 my life is in ruins. I drink a lot. I am a hollow, dark shell of myself who feels like it is my destiny and my fate to follow in my abuser’s footsteps. Mom is in prison and I hate visiting her because it reminds me of who I might become. 

My girlfriend, Alex, is the love of my life and she knows how I feel. I’m sure of it. I do hit her, though I’m not proud of it. I say it’s only because I love her so much and I worry about her. I don’t know how to stop myself...But I did. 

It was during breakfast on a damp October morning when the phone rang. Grandpa nearly dropped the cordless phone just seconds after he picked it up. He coughed twice and whispered into the phone, “Are you sure it was her? Okay then. Yes, I’ll tell him.” 

At this moment, with one trembling hand cupped around his mouth, he turned around and saw that I had been watching the conversation play out. 

“Andrew, that was regarding your mother. She took her own life this morning.” 

I had suspected this might happen for some time. State prison may not be designed to make a person crazy, but it can sure make even the strongest crack. Seven years was longer than I thought she’d last.

“She left you a final letter stating that she’s leaving everything to you.” 

Grandpa looked solemnly at me with swollen eyes.

“Burn the letter, and her stuff. I’m done with her,” I said. She had interrupted my life for the last time. 

Grandpa saw right through my poker face. The tears welled up and I knew I couldn’t hold it in much longer.

“I’ll read it to you, and then I’ll help you with your fire. Sound alright, Chief?” He actually smiled while he said this. 

I nodded hesitantly.

“Dear Andrew,

It’s been a few months since your last visit here and I do not blame you. You had mentioned that your life is ruined because of me and my selfish actions. You also called yourself a monster and that I had created. I did. But…If there is one thing I can tell you before I go, it is that you are not a product of your environment, son. I was raised by amazing parents who never hurt anyone, and your dad was too. Deep, grueling sadness is real, but the moment you let that sadness evolve into anger and blame is the moment you end up like me. Never be afraid to ask for help. I wish I had. I feel like going out like this is better for the world. Always remember, the line separating sadness and violence is always thinner than you realize.

Love, Mom”

I decided not to burn the letter. Instead, I kept it close by me for some time after. Over the following month of mourning and revelations, I started an anger management class, drained all my liquor bottles, and found a therapist. They see a future for me if I put in the work, if I stop allowing myself to cross the line between sadness and violence. I wonder where crossing into happiness will take me?