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Violence in the Living Room

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From my position in the bedroom window, I saw them—the men in blue. It had taken me two hours to work up the courage to secretly call them. Now they were standing at our front door, smiling at Uncle Carl. Even though they were in my line of sight, I couldn’t see Uncle Carl hidden behind the partially open door, but I could hear him. I could tell by his tone he was turning on the charm as he said, “There’s no disturbance here. Must have been a prank caller, a teen playing a sick joke.”

A feeling of dread washed over me. I knew the cops would believe him. Sure enough, they apologized for disturbing him so late at night, then left. It was funny, for as much time as they took getting there in the first place, a person would think they would take their time with the leaving part also.

I knew by the way that Uncle Carl said, “Good night,” and closed the door too quickly, that he was glad to be rid of them.

I, on the other hand, panicked at the sight of them leaving. I couldn’t believe they’d accepted Uncle Carl’s excuse without investigating further.

I wanted to pound on the window, but I knew Uncle Carl would hear that. I thought of opening the window, kicking out the screen, then ducking through it to run after them. That was possible. After all, our apartment was on the ground floor. I could run, catch up to the cops, bring them back, then tell them it wasn’t a prank caller. I could confess that I was the one who called them, and that Uncle Carl was severely beating his fiancé, Beth, in our living room, and I feared for her life. But, if I did that, Uncle Carl would learn that I was the one that ratted him out. Then what? Would they even believe me?

At that moment my mother was locked in her bedroom on the other side of the apartment, with the phone cord ripped out of the wall and tied around the doorknob, keeping her quiet. What would she think later on if I snitched on her brother? What would my grandmother think if I was the one that caused her only son to get arrested?

As I weighed my options, I heard footsteps in the hallway. I was out of time. I could be strong and head out that window or be weak and continue to hide.
I jumped into the bed, pulled the covers around me, turned my back to the doorway and pretended to be sleeping. Something within me cringed. Weak, I was weak. And I knew it.

It was as if the devil himself had entered the bedroom when Uncle Carl strolled in. The alcohol-induced jealous rage that had him storming around the living room only moments before seemed to have morphed into a quiet madness. As he leaned over me, I inhaled the stench of alcohol mixed with the scent of Beth’s perfume clinging to his clothing.

My heart thumped. I tried to hold my body and eyelids relaxed, as if deep in sleep. He stood there for what felt like hours, just watching me, making sure I was indeed asleep.

After hearing the soft click of the door, signaling his exit, my eyes snapped open.

What now?

I heard Beth’s muffled cries in the living room from the other side of the wall. I needed to help her.

Soft footsteps entered the hallway. They were hers.

I jumped out of bed, cracked open the bedroom door and beheld a sight I can never forget. Beth’s bloody and bruised, pale, thin body ghosted across the hallway toward the bathroom.

I didn’t think. I just called on God, closed my eyes, and moved. Sneaking with my back to the wall, I followed her into the bathroom. I closed the door behind us.

“Beth, are you OK?” I whispered. My heart was in my throat.

Beth’s long, blond hair was teased and torn. Her scalp had bald spots where hair had been ripped out. In a daze she went through the motions of rinsing blood off of her hands in the sink beneath running water that didn’t exist. I watched her for a moment, rinsing those bruised hands in thin air as she stared into space. I knew there wasn’t much time.

She looked at me. “Do me a favor, please?”

I swallowed hard. I nodded.

“Could you call an ambulance?” Her tone was soft, quiet, calm.

I wanted to ask her what I should do. I wanted to tell her that I’d called the cops, but they had left, and I was too afraid to do anything more. I wanted to tell her that it took me two hours to have the nerve to call them. How could I risk it again?

As much as I wanted to feel secure, I knew she wanted to feel more secure in that moment than I could ever imagine. “I’ve already called them,” I lied.
“Good girl.” With that said, she swept out of the room, just like that.

I wanted to grab her arm and jerk her back in, locking us both in the bathroom until help arrived. But I just stood there, bewildered, wondering. Why would she go back into the living room knowing he was waiting for her?

I heard mumbled whispers. Uncle Carl was apologizing. She was saying it was all right. I knew this was my chance. I clicked off the light and snuck into the other bedroom at the end of the hallway to the phone that I had used before. Once again I called the police. This time, I didn’t lie and tell them I was a neighbor calling in a disturbance. This time I told the truth.

Once again the yelling escalated. I heard a lamp crash against a wall. I sped back down the hall into the other bedroom, closed the door quietly, and waited. Closing my eyes tightly didn’t help drown out the screams from the living room. Against the wall a reflection of red lights flashed.

I fled to the window, threw it open, kicked open the screen and darted out across the dew- dampened sidewalks in my nightgown and bare feet. An ambulance was speeding around the corner. I ran, yelling, “In apartment 231. Hurry!”

Everything seemed to happen in slow motion after that—cops running to the door, ambulance doors opening, Beth’s limp body in Uncle Carl’s arms as he cried, repeating, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Neighbors were peeking out windows, standing on terraces, and whispering to each other with hands over their mouths. I stood in the dawn of a new day, watching the scene play out before me, knowing in my heart that they were too late. It was too late. I was too late.

Something good

Later I considered telling Beth’s family about the last time I had seen her, or about how much I had liked her. I wanted to tell them how I looked up to her. She had a career and future. But somehow those just didn’t seem the right things to say. The only right things that I could say were the ones I told on the witness stand. I thought that would help them more somehow.

I learned to keep an eye out for guys like Uncle Carl. I looked for warning signs in their personalities and made sure that if I saw abusive tendencies, to discontinue the relationship. I have seen how abusive situations can turn out of control and become deadly in more ways than one.

The good news is that even in the midst of a tragedy, God is still on His throne. I realized that night, that sometimes in the darkest moments of our lives, when doing the right thing is hard or frightening, we just need to call on God’s strength to get us through it, close our eyes, and move. After all, we “can do all things through Christ who strengthens” us (Philippians 4:13).

I would love to be able to somehow change the ending of Beth’s story and make it come out all right for her. But maybe through the story of her death, God can use something tragic that happened to one of His children to help others.

God’s Word does promise that “all things work together for good . . . to those who are the called, according to His purpose” (Romans 8:28). I do know that it is by God’s grace and His purpose that you are reading Beth’s story right now.

Cheryl Starr Fercho writes from Missouri.

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Comments

Gail
Thank you for writing this story. How I wish every young girl would read this story and take it to heart. When we are young we too often think that things will be different for us. We can't change anybody, not even a violent person. Love is never enough to cure violence.
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