At Daddy’s Hands
Courage Knows No Age
Jacob Paul Patchen
© Copyright Jacob Paul Patchen 2019
Black Rose Writing | Texas
© 2019 by Jacob Paul Patchen
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publishers, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a newspaper, magazine or journal.
The final approval for this literary material is granted by the author.
First digital version
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Print ISBN: 978-1-68433-344-8
PUBLISHED BY BLACK ROSE WRITING
www.blackrosewriting.com
Print edition produced in the United States of America
Recommended Reading
Dedicated
To those who are currently enduring the torments of sexual/physical/mental abuse, to those who have braved the harassment of this evil, and to those survivors who have outlasted that hell. This is for you.
Thank You
To my family for the love, support, patience, and guidance when I needed it most. Thank you to those courageous people who submitted their true stories to the back of this book. I hope that your voices roar. A very special thank you to Nikki Foster Russ for all of her time, energy, patience, and support on this project. Nikki, without you, this book would not be what it is today. Thank you to Jason Hillyer for the artwork. Thank you to my readers, my friends, and my hometown of Cambridge, Ohio for the continued support, love, and daily inspiration that you graciously give to me. Finally, I thank the Lord for blessing me with the ability to bring awareness, help, and change through my words. It is a privilege and honor to write for you.
Message from the Author
For a couple of years, I worked as an Activity Director/Case Manager in a mental and behavioral health facility for adjudicated youths, ages 13-17. During this time, I worked alongside therapists, case managers, and parents to correct dangerous thinking, build life and social skills, and break patterns of mental, physical, and sexual abuse.
Working both with inpatient and outpatient clients, I was able to see firsthand the effects that sexual assault has on children and their families. As tragic as it is for many of these children, it’s what they know as normal behavior. For many of these children, they had endured years of sexual, mental, and physical abuse, believing that it was their fault. They considered it punishment for behaviors that they had done rather than understanding as their abusers’ wrongdoings, that it was their abusers’ mental illnesses or evil intentions that caused them harm. It took months and years of counseling to build their self-respect, self-confidence, and trust back up.
Many of these children had abused their own siblings, family, or friends of the family in the same manner in which they were abused by their fathers, mothers, uncles, or family friends. You see, the biggest revelation that occurred to me while working in this field was that sexual/mental/physical abuse is a long chain that stretches down through the family. In most cases, it is a learned behavior that had happened to the abuser at some point in their life, and most likely, from someone that they knew. Their father did it to them because his father did it to him and his uncle did it to him, and now he does it to his sister or brother or cousin. Sexual abuse is a terrible and sickening cycle.
I have witnessed a system that has failed these children. I have monitored family visits between the abuser (father) and the victim (twelve-year-old female) that were allowed by the court because the evidence was not substantiated. I have witnessed self-harm and suicide attempts, escapes and run-aways. I have seen a system that would rather penalize its employees than try to help the victims of these crimes.
There is such a taboo associated with sexual assault that people are afraid to talk about it. People are afraid to discuss what to do if someone becomes a victim of sexual assault. Adults shake off the signs, because “that couldn’t happen in this family, this school, or this community.” But, I assure you, it happens everywhere. And there are abusers out there that are getting away with it because we enable them, through lack of intervention, inaction, and lack of prosecution. In some cases, criminals are more likely to do more time in jail because of drug-related crimes than sexual assault or abuse.
How do we allow this to happen? How can our system be so inhumane? Folks, it’s up to us to change that.
My aim here is to build up the courage and the strength to be able to break that mold, to snap that chain. I want any victim or survivor that is reading this to know that you can get through this. I realize that the system is damaged, that the policies are strict, and that the odds are against you. But I have seen success. I have witnessed children break through that mold and change the outcome of their family’s history. I believe in you – because I know that there is strength within you. I know that your abuser has sucked the life right out of you, left you confused, terrified, broken and ashamed. But hear this, there are those of us who are on your team; there is so much support out there, whether it be teachers, coaches, counselors, family, friends, or groups and programs… there is an army in your corner. But it is up to you to break that link. It is up to you to ring that alarm.
And I believe that you are strong enough, brave enough, smart enough, and beautiful enough to fight it, and win.
Please note: This is a fictional story placed in a real town. In no way am I trying to draw negative attention to the small town that I grew up in. I love this town, this small area, and all the close-knit people in it. In no way am I trying to bring negative attention to the police, judges, or anyone else in this town. I have many friends that are in law enforcement, and I know them to be exceptional people. But, by naming a real place, I felt it would make the story more impactful. But, either way, fiction or not, this is a very real and everyday issue that we need to come together to solve.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Recommended Reading
Dedication
Thank You
Message from the Author
One - The Assault
Two - Nikki
Three - Ally
Four - Tyler
Five - Ashley
Six - Jim
Seven - The System
Eight - The Monster
Nine - The Resolution
Ten - The Healing
Real Stories from Survivors
Abuse Help Information
Books by Jacob Paul Patchen
Note from the Author
About the Author
BRW Info
One.
The Assault
2018, October
Jim Handler had just shoved his way through a mess of shoes, book bags, and jackets piled in front of the door. It had been another long and trying day at work. Home didn’t make things any better. Depending on which way he leaned, the house smelled of either burnt toast, fresh dirt, muddy sweat, or spilled wine. His right hand was clenched when he slammed the door shut.
“Damn it, Ashley!
What the hell do you do all day?”
A sinful darkness replaced the evening glare and stretched down the hallway. Jim basked in it for a moment. It was only the flashing light from the TV in the living room to his left that snapped enough light through the small walkway for him to see Tyler’s muddy football pants wadded up with his practice jersey and nearly on top of Jim’s good pair of Nike sneakers. The round, matte black clock in the hallway, still missing the battery cover from the last time it was knocked from its nail, crept its way past 5:37 p.m.
Ashley turned up the volume to a rerun of The Bachelor. She was still in the same thing she wore to bed: a pair of black sweatpants and an oversized, grey, Meadowbrook Football sweatshirt that read in orange letters One moment, One day, One game: One Chance. Her tangled blonde hair was in a loose, messy bun, thrown together with a deep sigh after a quick glance in the bathroom mirror at the dull bruising on her left cheek from her husband’s tempered right hand last week. The kids were already dressed, fed, and at school, by the time she finally lifted her fuzzy, fleece blanket from her pounding head and hazel, bloodshot eyes. Annoyed, she groaned at the bright morning light as she crawled out of their king-sized bed at 10:43 a.m. on this glaring October, Thursday morning.
She looked at ease; her small, frail frame curled up on the new leather sofa, black to match the half-drawn curtains and the loveseat to which Jim claimed ownership. Relaxed as she seemed to an outside eye, as she readjusted her red Ohio State throw blanket to cover up her left foot (that had kicked reflexively when Jim opened the door); as comfortable as she seemed, her stomach was tense and churning. Her grip had tightened around the stem of her wine glass, and she nibbled at the inside of her lip.
The virtually empty bottle of Merlot swished as she dragged it from the coffee table to pitch another Percocet into her dry mouth and wash it down with a single gulp of red wine. The draft from the door blew gently at the curtains, letting in enough dusty light to catch the wave of angst splashed across on her face.
Ashley was full of emotions. She was angry at the announcement from their dog, Shooter (a name that their son Tyler gave to his German Shepard puppy the day his mother brought him home seven distant birthdays ago) barking in the yard as Jim’s white Chevy Silverado rolled up the gravel drive. She was annoyed at the sound of Jim’s black leather dress shoes growing louder as they marched across the porch to the door. She was agitated, flexing her jaw at the tone of Jim’s voice as he wrestled with his shoes in the dimly lit entrance. Finally, she was afraid, deep down, inside-her-chest afraid, as she held down the “volume up” button on the warm, slippery remote that she just realized she was strangling.
“Turn it down or turn it off!” Jim shouted as he peeled off his fancy new shoes. “My head’s been pounding since noon.” He spoke to the wall as he hung up the only welcome his children gave him, the only evidence of their existence this evening was their clutter piled high right in front of the door. He sighed, tickling his neatly trimmed mustache as he arched off his favorite black blazer (he told his girls that it makes him feel like one of the “men in black”) and placed it on the coat rack between Tyler’s letterman jacket and Ally’s fur-lined, hooded coat.
Ashley shook her head. “Angry, again. Great. You leave those kids alone, tonight.” She mumbled as Jim cocked his head to hear her, squeezing his bitter brows together and dismissing her demand like a tyrant to his oppressed.
He pressed his hands against the wall and bowed his balding salt and pepper head, finding the strength for self-control and trying to ignore the echo of Chris Harrison’s dramatic line, “Ladies, this is the final rose tonight,” drumming at his temples from the TV behind him. He tried counting out loud to ten, a technique he learned as a kid when he would count his father’s goats as they were put into the barn for the night. He discovered it to be relaxing, calming… focusing on the number instead of the fear of a belt whipping from his father if he left one out for the coyotes to kill. Often, he would use this technique when he needed to refocus and calm down.
But today he didn’t give it much of a chance. With a loud, deep sigh, he turned toward Ashley. Hell with it, he thought. There was rage on his face. There was tension in his chest. His Glock 9mm was bulging from his right hip and tucked firmly into his department-issued holster just a few inches behind his pocket. His detective’s badge in front of his pistol gleamed from the flickering of The Bachelor’s dramatic build-up as he crossed into the open walkway between the living room and front hall. His strides were stretched and powerful, agile and quick, balanced and athletic against the creaking of the hardwood floor. He walked heavy heeled with a soft spring from his toes, reminiscent of his old track and field running days, chasing down the leader at the state qualifying 1600-meter run. Back then he understood pain. He respected it. He craved it. He used it to release his own mental torture, his own burning agony of a fractured reality. Back then he was more of a hero than he is today.
His mouth was tight and stern. His eyes – dark and small. His hands were solid fists, scarred across the knuckles. His hate was heavy, and Ashley could feel its smothering heat getting closer.
Ashley had come to expect the hate. She lived with it all around her. Hate from her three kids, all in their teens and rebellious. Hate from her friends for not leaving the man that she called her husband. Hate from her neighbors for the shouting and burnout tires, slinging gravel at all hours of the night. She could even feel the hate from her dog for not putting up a fight when Jim forced her to tie him up outside. But especially, she had finally accepted the daily hate from her husband. It was this hate that had fueled her drug and alcohol addiction. Now she realized that his hatred was the only emotion left that she knew was real.
“I said… turn… that… down!” He growled as he reached the couch.
Ashley snapped out of her clenched-teeth daze. She glanced at the hovering monster shouting above the volume of a blonde haired Lacy desperately confessing her love to a sharp dressed Ryan. She clutched the remote, searching for that familiar power button. But the remote was slick with perspiration. It slipped from her hands and landed with a sharp rattle onto the dark, hardwood floor.
Her eyes opened from their misty, bloodshot slivers as she gazed up to a lumbering maniac firing a day’s worth of anger from his thunderstorm eyes. His dark, demon figure blocked out the warm embrace of Lacy and Ryan after she had accepted his final rose.
For Ashley, time slowed down. Jim pivoted and cocked his hips. He was prepared to take a swing. His broad shoulders rotated as he raised his opened hand toward the shadows flashing on the ceiling. And with a snap of his wrist, like a bullwhip, he landed a loud hand on the top of her healing bruise.
All at once, the pain came back. Her glass of wine flung from her hand. The lamp and wine bottle crashed down onto the remote control, striking the power from the TV, leaving the two of them in near darkness. There was a soft silence, a short gust of comfort at not seeing or feeling him there anymore.
Then, came the ticking of the clock in the hallway… the excited bark of Shooter tied to an old oak tree in the yard. The room started to spin. She felt faint, dizzy. Then, there was a frustrated huff in front of her. Then another. And another. Louder. Louder. He shifted his weight forward on the creaking floor. She could smell his sour breath, she could feel his heat, his fire.
His evil whisper erected the hairs on her arms.
“Don’t test me! Not today, Ashley!”
It was the last thing she heard before it all faded to black.
. . . . .
“I think Dad’s home,” Tyler said just loud enough for his older sister to hear across the hall in her room.
Tyler was upstairs, relaxed on his bed, bouncing a tennis ball off the wall and catching it. He had his favorite song, “Whatever it Takes” by Imagine Dragons, playin
g on his phone. He stroked his barely-there hair on his upper lip, deep in thought. His school therapist had given him the tennis ball a few months ago. Tyler recalled standing outside his door, nervously playing with his dirty blond hair just behind his ear, a habit he learned years ago while waiting for his father to get home. He laughed to himself about how he had to literally talk himself into reaching out his arm and knocking on Mike’s door. He was proud of himself for not turning around and walking away.
He still thought about that day and how much he had changed since then. Mike, a tall, black man with a short graying beard, chuckled to himself for jumping at the sound of Tyler’s heavy knock.
“Yes?” His deep voice rattled through the door, filling Tyler with a second wave of hesitation.
“Someone there?” Mike closed his laptop, walked to the door and swung it open, hoping to catch the prankster that knocked and ran.
“Oh! Hey, Tyler. I wasn’t sure if anyone was there or not.” He said surprised.
Tyler looked up at Mike’s tall, smiling face, inviting him into his office.
“Hey, Mike… uh, you got a second?”
“Sure, come on in. Have a seat.”
Mike offered Tyler the purple chair in front of his desk. Tyler’s face was priceless, just like many of the other males to enter Mike’s office, they looked at his purple chair as if it were Barbie dolls, glitter, or a pink hula-hoop.
“What’s on your mind?”
Tyler’s growing athletic frame fit awkwardly into the deep purple armchair. Indeed, it was a chair that was a common joke for Mike to endure. It took some encouragement and probing questions, but Tyler eventually told him about the panic attacks he got before football games. He explained the sick, empty pit in his stomach that seemed to devour his insides in one big terrifying gulp. He described the intense burst of heat that caused his heart to thud hard at his sternum. Tyler confessed that many evenings, just before his father got home, he would get a pain in his chest and had to struggle to catch his breath. Often, he could even feel his body trembling.
At Daddy’s Hands Page 1
