Chapter 1: No Escape, Even in Death

From kindergarten all the way through college—I lived under my dad’s thumb. Couldn’t push back, not even once.

I can still feel it, you know? That suffocating grip—like he was the weather—always looming, never letting up. Every school play. Every baseball game. Every single report card. He was there. Always. Some comment. Some demand. Some look that said, "Don’t even think about stepping out of line." Even as a kid, I knew better than to even dream of fighting back.

Finally, I made it to graduation. Without a second glance, I took a job in the farthest city I could find.

I remember standing on the platform at the train station, diploma in hand, the world wide open ahead of me. I picked Chicago, a thousand miles from our little town in Kentucky, thinking the distance would finally buy me peace. I told myself, 'You did it. You’re free.'

Or so I thought.

I actually breathed easy for the first time in years, even bought myself a cheap burger to celebrate. I didn’t know then how short-lived that freedom would be. I was so naïve—so damn hopeful.

Then he showed up with my mom and moved into my apartment.

It was like a horror movie—one day I opened my door and there they were, suitcases piled high, my mom looking apologetic and exhausted, my dad barking orders about where to put his things. My tiny studio suddenly felt like a prison cell. No escape.

Ever since they moved in, he stirred up trouble every day. Because of him, I lost my job. Because of him, my mom fell into depression and took her own life. Then, because of him, my wife fell and lost our baby.

Every day, a new disaster. Arguments with neighbors. Bills unpaid. My dad showing up drunk at my office—embarrassing me in front of my coworkers. My mom grew smaller and quieter, retreating into herself until one day she just… disappeared. And when I finally found someone who loved me, he found a way to ruin that too. The day I lost my child, I thought I’d already hit rock bottom. Turns out, I was still falling.

I couldn’t take it anymore and confronted him, but he stabbed me with a kitchen knife, gutting me. I died with my eyes wide open—regret burning in my chest.

It wasn’t even some dramatic showdown—just another night, another argument in that cramped kitchen. The knife was in his hand before I knew it, and suddenly I was on the floor, the linoleum cold against my cheek, blood pooling, the world going dark. I remember thinking, "Is this really how it ends? After everything?" My last breath tasted bitter. So much left unsaid.