On Saturday night we had a camp fire. The weather was
perfect for it. We’d had one the previous night when my daughter had a
gathering of friends around. One of the benefits of living in the country is
you get to do stuff like that.
Because this was the second one for the weekend, wood that had
been cut was getting low, so it was decided that anything that was stored in
the shed, waiting to be chucked out, could be burned. It would be good as it would reduce the size of the
skip that would be required when I move. Cardboard boxes, old magazines, broken
wooden toys, junk. You know, that kind of stuff.
Lying amongst the “stuff” was the album that had been gifted
to me and Aston’s father on the day that we got married. The day that I knew with absolutely certainty that I had made a monumental mistake. The wedding
itself was fairly uneventful. It was
afterwards, when R proceeded to get drunk, and aggressive, and very publicly
abuse my 8 year old sad and confused
daughter by calling her a bitch. Hello Wicked Step-father. The night got progressively worse when on the
way home he continued to be abusive and proceeded to get out the moving car,
terrifying my children. I think by this stage I was well and truly numb – left
my body, watching it all from far above. Sweet disassociation….
Laura saw it, and asked me, “Can I burn that?” I mutely
nodded, and watched as she threw it onto the fire, knowing that it was more
than an album she was throwing on. I stood and watched the flames engulf it.
Then Laura came out of the shed with the air rifle, and fiercely chucked it
onto the fire, and my heart started to break.
I stood behind her with my arms around her as tears ran down
her face, my own tears hot and heavy with shame, falling as well, both of us
re-living the trauma of her being shot in the thigh. By a stupid man, who knew
better than to ever point a gun at someone, regardless of whether they thought
it was loaded or not.
On the first weekend of the first week Laura started high
school, R, Laura, Nathan and a friend of Nathan’s were shooting targets with
the air rifle. R was drinking, as usual. Of course, nothing I said was ever
heard, or paid attention too. I hated the damn gun. Like I hated him drinking,
and by this stage, pretty much everything about him. I was inside the house
with Aston, when I heard Laura scream. You know, the type of scream that a
mother knows without a doubt that their child is badly hurt. I ran to the door
and saw her on the ground. R picked her up and carried her inside, all the
while telling her to stop carrying on, that the gun was empty.
I looked at her leg and there was a very definitive entry
point, an entry point that could not have been made by air. Which I screamed at
him. And as always, because I could never possibly be right, he had to prove a
point, and stood in front of us, Laura screaming NO! and promptly fired the air
rifle at his own foot. Which of course did nothing, because by now it had
nothing in it. That was embedded in my daughters thigh! So, I was right – air cannot penetrate flesh
and leave an entry point. Funny that.
He took her to the hospital, where they tried to get the
pellet out, unsuccessfully. Consequently she was scheduled for surgery first
thing on the Monday morning to have it removed. The whole time, Laura was more
concerned about me losing it with R, then what was going on with her. Which only enraged me more, and finally
ignited within me the courage to do something about the nightmare my children
and I were living. But that’s another story.
Having to see your child go under general anaesthetic is a
horrible experience. Especially when the child is having a panic attack. Thankfully
the hospital was wonderful and allowed me to stay with her in the theatre until
she was completely under, and came and got me to be there when she woke up in
recovery.
I really don’t know if I will ever be able to forgive him
for doing this to my daughter. She has two 10 cm scars on her thigh, and
constantly gets asked how they happened. It’s hard enough being a teenager
without any other elements thrown into the mix.
Throwing the air rifle into the fire has opened up a wound
inside her heart. Inside of my heart. No amount of prompting on my part to talk
to someone about the incident, to help her process it, has had any result. This
last week she has been crying a lot, and thinking a lot, and having flash
backs. All classic symptoms of PTSD.
I feel helpless. And guilty, and burning with shame. I may not have pulled the trigger, but I brought him into her world.
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