Page 112 of Not Made to Last

I don’t know why it was that moment that fueled a sudden rage inside of me. She’d reverted to being a child… a hopeless child who was afraid of the fucking dark. And I knew it wasn’t her fault. I just knew it…

I waited until I knew my parents had gone to bed and found the key to my mom’s office. I went in there and sifted through her desk drawers looking for… I don’t even know what I expected to find; I just know that it wasn’t there. So, I turned on her computer, went through her emails, and then her files… and I found it… the police report.

I sat in there with the door locked and the computer screen my only source of light, and I read

Every

Single

Word

In the voice of my sister.

Nick Harper was a camp counselor in his mid-thirties who had spent days grooming my sister—taking advantage of her young mind and then… taking advantage ofher.

After my sister’s allegation, the camp suspended him from his position and put him onpaidleave. I couldn’t see through my tears. Through my anger. But when I saw a note attached to the file stating “Not enough evidence”, I couldn’t see through my rage.

Nick was easy to find. His name and address were listed and his socials were open for anyone to see. He had a wife. Three kids. All girls. I don’t know why that last piece of information sent me spiraling, but it did.

The car picked me up just outside my house at close to one in the morning and drove me the two hours to Nick’s house. I walked around the neighborhood, waiting for darkness to turn into light, and then hid behind an oak tree on the opposite side of the street, waiting for my opportunity.

I didn’t know what I planned to do once I came face to face with him. I just knew that I wanted to hurt him.

It was close to seven in the morning when the front door to Nick’s house opened. I watched as his wife and daughters got into the car and left, and then I crossed the street and onto their property. The house was small, single story, and I walked around it, looking for an open window or something.

Anything.

The backyard had a kiddie pool, and there were these dolls lying in the dirt… the same dolls my sister used to play with, and seeing them… seeing them just doubled my rage. The screen door on the rear of the house was closed but not locked, and the main door was wide open. I stepped inside as quietly as possible and right into a laundry room. The house was dead silent. No TV, no movement. Nothing. I found myself in the small living room filled with toys, and I ignored everything else around me when I saw the fire poker next to the fireplace.

He was asleep—face down, his arm tucked beneath the pillow, and?—

There wasn’t a single thought in my mind.

Just this… outburst of fury.

Rage.

Violence.

The first blow was to the back of his head, and I remember being surprised by how much blood sprayed across the room. He awoke, flipped over, and shielded his face with his arms. But I just kept going, holding the fire poker in both my hands and swinging downward. Over and over. I didn’t aim for a specific spot. Didn’t look at the damage. I just… kept going. And then?—

Then there was this squeal, and I think it was the only thing that could’ve made me pause. I looked to the doorway, to the little girl standing there, and I remember… I remember cursing at myself because I didn’t count the number of girls that got in the car.

There were only two.

Her eyes were big, blue, and so full of fear when she looked at her blood-covered dad and then me… and as soon as she looked in my eyes… she pissed herself… I saw it trickle down her pajama bottoms…

She ran out of the house.

And I should’ve run, too. Not to follow her, but to flee. But there was this man on the bed, groaning in pain, and he was still breathing while my sister was at home, afraid to be alone, afraid to be touched, afraid of the dark… She was dead inside, and in my mind, it only made sense that he should be dead too.

He was coughing blood, his arms at his sides, and there was bloodeverywhere. It didn’t stop me from dropping the fire poker and climbing on top of him. I wrapped my hands around his throat and squeezed.

His eyes were brown, bloodshot, and I squeezed harder, harder, harder.

I couldn’t stop.

Even when I heard the sirens…

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