Sometimes, you have to bend the rules.

     This was October 6th, 2008.  At approximately 12:43AM.  While I was still waiting to see a doctor.  Those are grey shorts with my own blood, not camouflage.

     The upper cut was the first wound as I sat down next to her around two hours before, elbow on my knee, and tried to brush the hair out of her eye.  A slice, a flinch, in and out.  I had no idea she’d grabbed the knife before walking outside, naked but for the robe I’d bought her.  I thought, when she’d gotten out of bed and gone to the kitchen after speaking to her son — who’d threatened to put a bullet in both ours heads unless I brought her back to Kentucky — she’d grabbed a cup of coffee.  It was completely unexpected.  As was her repeatedly calling me her ex-husband’s name as she screamed.
     The lower cut happened after I grabbed the blade with my right hand and pulled her over on top of me so that she’d let go of the handle.  I finally wrestled the knife from her hand, and threw it, over both of us, until it landed — where it was found later — in the parking lot of my apartment.

     I talked to police that night, but asked them not to press charges against her.  I knew she’d been through a lot, and I tried to be understanding.  I also knew that she was under probabation in Garrard County, KY for getting into a rather large physical altercation with her own sister.
     What I certainly didn’t understand was being arrested, prior to being completely stitched up, in the hospital I’d gone to for emergency services.  Or being spoken to like I was a complete piece of shit by the female police officer, who claimed I’d hit her, and cut myself on purpose. 
     Imagine my surprise — calling for an ambulance, and being put in jail for Domestic Violence.

     The case was dismissed, of course.  As if it weren’t enough that it was decided that the cuts were, “Impossible to make oneself,” given that they were neither straight nor at any sort of “normal” angle, there were witnesses to other behavior as well, that I had no part of.
     The neighbor downstairs, who she’d run to to call the police, refuted the police report — though I’d never even met him — saying that she showed no signs of being hit.  He also said that she never even mentioned to him that I’d hit her at all, and spent all of her time there in the bathroom, with the sink running. 
     My next door neighbor, who I’d only spoken to in the capacity to offer him a cigarette late one night, testified that when he came home two hours later, the front door was open and she was using the computer.  He said that she didn’t know where I was, but that I was probably at the hospital, hurt, but was inspecific as to how.  He said that she then asked him for a beer, and said that I’d hit her.  He also said, she appeared unharmed.
     I didn’t “meet my neighbors” until a few days before court.  They found out when the court day was through my landlord, and told me what had happened after I left in the ambulance…
     The officer never even looked at the scene … Never took the knife even after I told her where it was, never looked at the blood, never looked my apartment at all.  She was angry that I refused to press charges against the woman I loved, and decided that if I wouldn’t, she was just going take her word for it and throw me in jail to teach me a lesson — something that is very, very illegal in the State of Tennessee.

     After being released from jail, and with a witness, I finally rode back home with a friend — and a camera.  We found the knife she’d used lying in the parking lot.  It was photographed and bagged, with her fingerprints on the handle, and mine on the blade — where it still is, in case anyone ever asks.
     He photographed the crime scene that the officer never even bothered to visit.  The top of the steps where I’d sat, the blood on the left of the steps, the pool in front of my neighbor’s door, squirts up to the front door, all over the door outside.  The massive amount of blood I’d lost inside in trying to keep her out and get the door locked with one hand.  The blood on the floor trailing all the way to the phone and bedroom where it stopped because in my panic, I’d wrapped my underwear around it to keep me from bleeding out.
     There was a lot of blood … and for the two years I stayed there afterwards, I left the floor an aboslute mess so I never had to see that blood that would never come out of the carpet.

     I had an email waiting for me that afternoon.  It was sent before I’d even been released from jail:

Sent: Monday, October 6, 2008 2:46 PM
Subject: OMG

Mark, I am so sorry! Please tell me it’s not over! I love you!!!!!!!!!!!

     I wasn’t sure what had happened, why I’d been arrested.  But in speaking to her, and subsequent emails, she told me exactly why:

Sent: Saturday, October 11, 2008 2:46 PM
Subject: Re: Why?

I know and I love you too Mark but this time  I have lied so much I can’t fix it. I try to tell them but I’ve told them so many ways now they don’t bleive me. I am so sorry and I don’t know what to do but Mark love will find a way. Trust me on this. This too shall pass. I love you mark and I will be home soon.

     For a long time, actually believed that.  But it was only days later that people she knew started showing up at my door.  Things people have seen evidence to on this very website.  Things friends have witnessed, phone calls people have heard, police reports made and ignored due to too little information on “who” they were, and even a Kentucky police officer with his very own confession in comments.

     I even went there, early Thanksgiving morning, to pick her up when asked, to come home.  Of course, that was met with resistance from her daughter at the front door.  My arm was crushed in the door, police were called, and I was asked to stay in a motel in Hazard, waiting, to no avail.
     After that, I was asked to stay in a motel in London, waiting, to no avail.  Another time, to come and get from a bar in Hazard, where I met with an entire bar full of hostile people intent on killing me — something the police there still laugh about.

     A moment of clarity:

Her (12/14/2008 11:18:46 PM): mark
Her (12/14/2008 11:18:55 PM): i’m sorry i hurt you
Me (12/14/2008 11:19:18 PM): i miss you so bad
Me (12/14/2008 11:19:37 PM): and all i want in this world is for all this shit to go away
Her (12/14/2008 11:19:39 PM): i must say, i miss you too
Me (12/14/2008 11:19:47 PM): and i wish i could do something to help you
Me (12/14/2008 11:20:07 PM): and i wish i could hold you
Her (12/14/2008 11:20:16 PM): nobody can, i have figured out i am a lost cause
Me (12/14/2008 11:20:26 PM): only because you want to be
Me (12/14/2008 11:20:32 PM): that’s basically it
Her (12/14/2008 11:20:38 PM): just the way it is
Me (12/14/2008 11:20:45 PM): because you want it that way
Me (12/14/2008 11:20:51 PM): and it doesn’t have to be that way
Me (12/14/2008 11:21:00 PM): but you won’t do anything to change it
Her (12/14/2008 11:21:04 PM): seeing u hurts
Me (12/14/2008 11:21:06 PM): and i wish you would
Me (12/14/2008 11:21:09 PM): i really do
Me (12/14/2008 11:21:21 PM): not seeing you hurts
Her (12/14/2008 11:21:52 PM): what am i gonna do
Me (12/14/2008 11:21:55 PM): six months
Me (12/14/2008 11:22:18 PM): and nothing changes
Me (12/14/2008 11:22:33 PM): what do you WANT to do ann?
Her (12/14/2008 11:22:47 PM): die sometimes
Me (12/14/2008 11:22:50 PM): you tell me all of these things you want to do …
Me (12/14/2008 11:22:53 PM): but you never do them.
Me (12/14/2008 11:22:58 PM): just sit back and let it all go
Me (12/14/2008 11:23:12 PM): and you weren’t like that … you weren’t.
Her (12/14/2008 11:23:24 PM): i am drinking myself to death, i never eat anymore

     Then, she asked that I pick her up in a motel, January 4th, 2009, claiming that she was being abused by her friends, who threatened to kill me — and the police there told me, “Dude, whoever you knew is dead … she’s gone, man.  Just count your losses, and walk away.”

     I stopped going after that.  Although, I sent her money, several times, to come home when she asked — but she never showed.  I refilled her cellphone several times, and she’d never call.  And I didn’t dare …

     But it never stopped.

     The night of October 5th, 2009, she called to tell me I was a Grandfather, and that she needed to change, needed to fix herself.  Please come get her, she pleaded — “At Carla’s house.”  But I didn’t know where Carla lived, or even where she was, or who she was talking about … and I called over and over, and she never answered the phone….
     But when she finally emailed me the pictures, I posted them on October 27th, 2009.

     The last time I actually talked to her and tried to help her was May 2010.  And I felt horrible for not being able to do it — not like she wanted, anyway…  At that point, I had already stopped being able to help her.  I certainly couldn’t afford to go pick her up…
     Not only monetarily, but for all the scars, for all the stories. 

     On the night of June 26th, 2010, she called to ask me to pick her up in Elizabethtown, KY.  She missed me, and just wanted to come home.  She loved me … but a four hour drive wasn’t fast enough for the police she’d called, claiming that her new fiance had beaten her.  With witnesses, mind you.  There were other people listening to both sides of the conversation, because I needed that after everything I’d been through.
     Later that night, after her daughter text’d me to call back, I was told that she’d beaten her own face against the nightstand and called the police saying he’d beaten her.  She believed me, and she said that she was sorry for ever doubting me — because she’d lived with us, and knew how I treated all of them.  But more importantly, she’d been able to witness her mother’s entire transformation that night, from the very beginning, with her own eyes, to the very frightening end…
     She told me a lot … and we’d come to an agreement about all of those nights I’d called over and over, especially the night October 5th, after being asked to pick her mother up “at Carla’s,” where her mother had failed to give me an address, but used my calls as evidence that I was harrassing her.  
     Simply looking at her call log in her phone could have cleared up the confusion, but nobody ever bothered.  She was so apologetic …

     At that point, I thought, “Holy shit!  It’s finally over!  People know now, and I won’t have to deal with this shit any more!” 

     But in October 2010, she called me again, drunk, asking for money for a lawyer because, “I messed up again.  Please help me.”
     I said, “No,” and hung up.  Then I started getting text messages, supposedly from her daughter, asking for help.  I said no, and blocked the number.

     She’s done it ever since October 2008.  Apologized, told me she loved me, asked me for help.  To my own detriment, I always had.  But I guess she never understood — I stopped loving her for her own good.  And in June 2010, I stopped loving her for my own good, as well.

     Just a few weeks ago, she called me in the middle of day, with witnesses, “If you ever talk to anyone I know ever again, I’m calling the Knoxville Police on you!”  The problem is, she’s the one who’s contacted me — all of these years.  I’ve saved every number she’s ever called from, have every text message, and every email she’s ever sent me — from the very first day. 
     That started off as an act of love, to never forget.  It continued as an act of compassion, in case something happened, to know where to call and who to talk to.  And for several months, it’s been nothing more than a record in case things keep going the same way.

     Tonight, I got more text messages from a number which Police say belongs to a number in Radcliff, KY.  I was succint:

Me (10:28 pm): … Enough is enough. Leave me alone. Goodbye.

     And it didn’t hurt for once.  When every attempt to help her is met with such resistance that it’s twisted into I’m somehow harming her, when every attempt to care for her is met with her abusive anger, when every conversation ends with, “Don’t ever contact me again!” then I begin to wonder …

     Why does she keep contacting me?

Sent: Monday, December 20, 2010 4:38 PM
Subject: Re: Well..

I’m sorry but I wasn’t good for u or anyone else!

     Logic: I wouldn’t even know *how* to contact her if she didn’t keep contacting me.  But apparently, no one seems to be able to care about that fact, because they’re so busy making me into a monster that I’ve never been.  There is proof for every damn thing I’ve offered, for every damn thing I’ve been through over this woman.  And I’m sorry, but at this point, I question whether she’s really crazy, or just that much a bitch because I stopped trying to take care of her.

     But … To be honest — I hope it’s because she’s growing a soul, and beginning to feel some remorse for what she’s done.

     So basically, you people can believe what you want to believe.  But I loved her more than life itself.  And I never hurt her.  And I still won’t. 

     Enough … Enough is enough. 

     This is my final say in the matter, and something I haven’t divulged but to those who’ve been around when it’s going on.  I’ve never written poorly of her here, and I’ve certainly never hurt her.  This is all there is to it — I loved, I tried to help when she asked, and I got screwed for it.  Stupid me. 

     So please … Just stop.

     Zacque, I hope you post the pics of my hand.

     And I hope you let everyone in on the story.

     Your interpretation works for either.

     I love you, man.

     Back at the end of 80′s, when my hair was halfway down my back and I was playing in a Thrash Metal band (we said it was Power Metal — but let’s be honest), I was having a great time.  All 5’9, around 170 pounds of me could walk up on stage and play any instrument that needed to be played — of course, that was limited to guitar, bass and drums at the time.  My voice was a solid octave and a half deeper than what it is now.  I could sing bass and baritone like nobody’s business, with booming volume that would rattle our drummers cymbals even before the mic was turned on.

     Off-stage was a different story.  Nobody could understand a damn thing I said back then, as my voice was so deep that it simply faded off into the background, only to be heard by animals, those odd people who get sick before an impending earthquake, and people who were so blitzed on alcohol and downers that I sounded normal.

     We traveled around quite a bit, and just had a good time with it.  We made enough money to keep ourselves in cigarettes, food, alcohol, hotel rooms and gas for the truck and van, and pretty much the only thing we had to worry about was how we were going to be treated when we got to our next stop.  In most places, people were pretty cool, but there were certainly a few towns where there might’ve been six whole teeth in the lynch mob walking towards us at the gas station or restaurant we’d stopped at.
     One night in particular, we’d driven out of Jacksonville, North Carolina driving towards Virginia Beach.  Instead of taking the interstate like a normal human being, Michael led us through every curve of US17, through rural North Carolina at 2AM.  “It’ll be easier!” he assured us on the walkie-talkie.
     Of course, if you’ve ever seen the movie This is Spinal Tap, you know it never is.

     Around 3AM, in heavy fog in the middle of nowhere, the van had flat tire.  We all pulled to the side of the road, and all five of our long-haired, dumb-punk asses got out to watch, assist, smoke cigarettes and generally complain.  Dave and Jeremy, instead of holding the flashlights where Michael could see what he was doing, began having a lightsaber duel with the flashlights in the fog.  I had one of my typical “bad feelings” that I used to get, and started urging everyone to get serious so we could get back on the road.
     “Man, chill out!” Dave urged.  “It’ll be fine!”
     Shortly after he said it, we heard a noise that sounded like a pack of wild indians.
     “What the Hell was that?” Michael asked, just before banging his knuckles on the concrete due to a slightly stripped lug nut.
     “Probably some birds or something,” Chris said, completely uninterested as he held the third flashlight where Michael could see.
     Then we heard it again, along with a mechanical noise that sounded exactly like a clutch-slipping on a big, red truck with a gun rack in the back window.  From behind us, down the road, the lights kept getting closer, and the whooping and hollering got louder and louder.
     “Oh, shit, Michael!” I exclaimed.  “Hurry the f$&* up, man!”
     Without a word, Michael furiously pulled off the damaged tire and handed it to Chris, who quickly replaced it with another from the back of the van.
     The whooping got louder and louder, the lights closer.
     We all stood silent, watching, waiting.  We were all nervous.

     As Michael was tightening the first lug nut, they were on us.  It was, in fact, a big, old, beat up, red-and-primer truck, three people in the front and three standing in the bed holding on to the top of the cab screaming like a bunch of wild indians.  They passed us silently, all of them peering at us like they’d never seen human beings before.
     We all breathed a sigh of relief until we looked ahead, and saw the truck put on its break lights — and started backing up.
     “Michael, hurry up, dude!” Dave exclaimed.
     In a fever, he quickly finger-tightened the remaining nuts and began spinning the speed wrench as fast as he could.
     We all stood around Michael as they pulled up, still silent, still looking straight at us with looks of disbelief on their faces.  The three in the back of the truck jumped out, shirtless with overalls, and the passenger door of their truck swung wide with a loud creak.
     “Ya’ll ain’ frum ‘roun’ heeyah, ah ya?” said the biggest one, who looked like he could’ve picked the van up without the jack.
     “Uhhh, no sir,” I stammered.  “We’re driving through on the way to Virginia Beach.”
     He looked back at his five friends, quietly at first, then turned back around shaking his head as they all began to snicker.  “Ya’ll shu’ got lawng hayur!” he said.  They all began to laugh.
     We blinked back at them, holding our implements of destruction close.  My knife was ready to flip from my pocket and Michael held the speed wrench as Dave, Chris and Jeremy clutched their Maglights.
     “Ya’ll in a bayund?” he asked.
     “Yes, sir, we are,” I told him.
     “Wail,” he started, turning around to look at his friends, grinning and snickering a bit.  “Why dincha jus’ say so?  Sheeyit!”
     They all laughed.
     “Yawnt any help with’at tar?” another asked.
     Relief!

     We stood around and talked for a few minutes with them.  They were cool people, out drinking a bit and “raisin’ some hail!”  They offered some assistance getting everything back in the van, asked if we liked Metallica or Megadeth better, and even tossed us all a beer right there on the side of the road.
     Eventually, after having a beer with ‘em and acting like idiots for a while, we offered our thanks, said our goodbyes, got our mini-caravan back togther and continued on to Virginia Beach.

     It was funny… There we were, with our long hair, worrying about people judging us for it all the time.  When six people in a beat-up truck drove by in the middle of rural North Carolina, we were doing the same damn thing.

     Good people are getting harder and harder to come by these days. 

     I mean, hey, they didn’t even have a problem hearing my deep voice.

     Just goes to show, you really can’t judge a book by its cover… 

     Even the ones who are so blitzed on alcohol and downers that I sounded normal.