Broken

 I wrote this work of nonfiction on a bitterly cold January evening—at the top of the list under the FAQ was is this real? and did this really happen? Yes.  It was December 30th and the incident was so haunting within my memories that I began to expressively write them down. I currently live with my uncle, and when he would go to the bar and induce his vodka, I would be alone with only my memories of devastation. I’m not an author, but I tried my best to captivate what was insidiously tormenting me…I cataloged each event that happened to me and my family on that frozen winter night and wrote this based on a true story work of literature with only my memory…and I remember it very vividly, and I will sure as hell never forget.    Based on a True Story    <span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: garamond, serif;"><font color="#FFFFFF">December 30, 2009 <p style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 13.5pt; text-align: justify;"> <span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: garamond, serif;"><font color="#FFFFFF"> <p style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;"> <span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: garamond, serif;"><font color="#FFFFFF">My name is Jacob Thomson, and my life of seventeen years was developed within a family of a mother, father, and sister. My parents loved each other with eighteen years of a strong marriage and my sister had recently turned twelve. The best word to describe our family was happiness. <p style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 13.5pt; text-align: justify;"> <span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: garamond, serif;"><font color="#FFFFFF"> <p style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;"> <span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: garamond, serif;"><font color="#FFFFFF">And now I’m cutting the bullshit. My name is Jacob Thomson, and I’m an orphan. I hope the previous paragraph didn’t make you believe that this is a happy story; all of that happiness was applied in the past tense—it is the past and will never return as it can only migrate down the timeline of my life in the opposite direction of my destiny’s destination. <p style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 13.5pt; text-align: justify;"> <span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: garamond, serif;"><font color="#FFFFFF">The Christmas decorations were in the final stages of their replacement in storage and the year of 2009 had almost concluded until some fucking asshole broke into our house. I was in my room and awaiting the arrival of New Year’s Eve as I slowly drifted off into a deep state of slumber. I assume my sister Emma had fallen asleep hours ago, but my parents were still up and awake by the time that the two hands of the clock pointed north with a chime. <p style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 13.5pt; text-align: justify;"> <span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: garamond, serif;"><font color="#FFFFFF">I heard an utterly loud shattering of glass and my eyelids were instantly retracted with a rapid pulse of fear and thoughts of what the hell was that? I’m seventeen and wasn’t scared to abandon my bed and sleep for an investigation. I walked to my bedroom door and grasped the chilled doorknob. As I attempted to turn the brass fixture and discover what the shattering of glass was, something stopped me…my parents were screaming, and it was undeniably due to horrific fear. <p style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 13.5pt; text-align: justify;"> <span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: garamond, serif;"><font color="#FFFFFF">My hand released the doorknob with newly developed sweat upon my palm— now I was scared. Those screams…they just didn’t sound right as they echoed through the hallway and terrorized my sense of hearing. And then I was hearing No, no! and confirmed my suspicions of disaster. And after that: Shut the fuck up! and I nearly vomited my fear from my body. That was an unfamiliar voice of aggression and it was within my family’s household. <p style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 13.5pt; text-align: justify;"> <span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: garamond, serif;"><font color="#FFFFFF">I could no longer contain myself in the darkness of my room—I flicked the light switch with a trembling hand and a quivering lip accompanied by tearful eyes. The tears are still flowing down my cheeks as I write this story more than a month later. <p style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 13.5pt; text-align: justify;"> <span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: garamond, serif;"><font color="#FFFFFF">And then a couple of gunshots…they were louder and more terrifying than the screams. I didn’t know what was being shot at, but I could still hear both of my parents screaming in terror. They were alive, but my fear refused to vanquish my body as some motherfucker was threatening my parents with a gun. <p style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 13.5pt; text-align: justify;"> <span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: garamond, serif;"><font color="#FFFFFF"> <p style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;"> <span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: garamond, serif;"><font color="#FFFFFF">I don’t know why it took so long, but then I remembered three numbers: 911. No, I do remember why it took so long…I had never felt the traumatization of terror to this brutally painful extent as I was literally frozen with fear. I forced my glaciered legs to retreat from the door and I grabbed my cellphone; this isn’t one of those stories where the phone lines are down or there’s coincidentally no signal. I had shitty reception here in the state of Montana, but I managed. <p style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 13.5pt; text-align: justify;"> <span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: garamond, serif;"><font color="#FFFFFF">I heard 911, on the other end of the line and an extremely minor release of relief was within my emotions. And then more deafening gunshots followed by You fucking bitch! and I could only let out a sob to the operator as the trepidation of fear overwhelmed the relief. Hello? What’s your emergency? and another moment of speechless gulping occurred until I could clear my throat and cry My house has been broken into, and I gave the operator my address, and then I waited. <p style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 13.5pt; text-align: justify;"> <span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: garamond, serif;"><font color="#FFFFFF">There were only two seconds of chronology until I heard Emma screaming my name. I dropped my only line of communication and opened the door—Emma was there and staring into the depths of the hallway. I progressed and grabbed her shoulders but it was as if she didn’t even notice me…she could only see what I tried so hard not to see…but I looked. <p style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 13.5pt; text-align: justify;"> <span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: garamond, serif;"><font color="#FFFFFF">Emma and I stared through the tunneling hallway of darkness and into the living room of which we saw our mother…and beyond her, we saw Larson McCormack. I’m not even bothering to change the names within this true story—Google Larson McCormack and see what sick and twisted fucked up shit comes up. <p style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 13.5pt; text-align: justify;"> <span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: garamond, serif;"><font color="#FFFFFF">And then just as Emma attempted to scream Mom! the redundancy of gunshots occurred. The pistol’s barrel was aimed directly at my mother’s head and a semiautomatic firing of rounds was released. I don’t have an accurate count for the number of shots fired, but it was too fucking much. I saw my mother’s head erupt into streams of blood that twisted throughout the air and spiraled through an instant shedding of her blonde hair. <p style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 13.5pt; text-align: justify;"> <span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: garamond, serif;"><font color="#FFFFFF">I pulled Emma with so much force that her blouse had been torn and my fingernails were within her flesh. We reentered my bedroom and collapsed upon the floor—I’d never swore within the presence of my little sister until the moment I realized that my mother’s head had been severed from her body due to an excessive amount of bullets that projected from Larson McCormack. I cried with a dry throat and dampened cheeks Fuck! and I knew that the criminal had saw us; two unarmed children at the end of the hallway with worried faces that had witnessed their mother’s undeserved execution. <p style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 13.5pt; text-align: justify;"> <span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: garamond, serif;"><font color="#FFFFFF"> <p style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;"> <span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: garamond, serif;"><font color="#FFFFFF">Larson McCormack would step through our doorway any moment and shoot the living shit out of both me and my sister. I inspected Emma…her breaths were wheezing and she began to cough up blood…her torso revealed a large splotch of blood that had left her body and soaked her blouse. A stray bullet from the murder of my mother had struck my little sister. <p style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 13.5pt; text-align: justify;"> <span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: garamond, serif;"><font color="#FFFFFF">Emma couldn’t even scream…she only gazed at me with dying eyes and an agape mouth of drooling blood…why the fuck did I keep her in front of me? I still blame myself for that damned bullet that pierced her pancreas. From my experiences of fictional media, I’ve been told to apply pressure upon the wound—I did, and I could physically feel the hole within her flesh as the blood gushed from it and coated my hands like red latex. The hole was about the size of a nickel and was releasing more fluid than what seemed possible; it flowed down her chest and abdomen and pooled upon my carpet. <p style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 13.5pt; text-align: justify;"> <span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: garamond, serif;"><font color="#FFFFFF">I remained at a constant rate of pressure upon my dying sister as she coughed and sputtered words that I wish I understood, but it only sounded like a gargling of blood. And I almost forgot about Larson McCormack, but then I heard my father shouting with a deepened voice that boomed an escalation of decibels Fuck you! Fuck you! and then another shattering of glass in addition to thuds and cracks and other indescribable onomatopoeias that reached my ringing ears as a struggle of which pertained to my father. <p style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 13.5pt; text-align: justify;"> <span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: garamond, serif;"><font color="#FFFFFF">The profanity continued as I watched Emma with despair and remembered the 911 call—I reached for the phone and the operator was still online. They’re trained to never hang-up on one who is requiring assistance. I need an ambulance! My sister’s been shot, and the words rolled off my tongue and spilled from my mouth with a foul and revolting taste of disgusting horror—I never believed that those words would’ve been said. <p style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 13.5pt; text-align: justify;"> <span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: garamond, serif;"><font color="#FFFFFF">A dispatch was developed but no one had arrived. I’d estimate that it’d only been minutes since the call, but within those minutes my mother had been killed and my sister had been shot. Another thirty seconds and my father would probably be dead too. And then I heard Jacob! Emma! And I temporarily abandoned my sister with hopes of rescuing my father from whatever terrorizing dangers he was concealed in. <p style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 13.5pt; text-align: justify;"> <span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: garamond, serif;"><font color="#FFFFFF">The noises had settled and I approached the living room with hopes of Larson McCormack’s termination and I hoped it’d be as violent and demented as my mother’s assassination. I eventually entered the same room of which held my father and Larson McCormack…my stomach had been turned inside out and my heart was electrically stimulated by a rapidly malignant digestion of fear…I stood inches away from my mother’s bloody and decapitated corpse and glared at the murderer who stood within the debris of broken glass and furniture…he held a gun with its barrel pressed against my father’s forehead, and then Larson McCormack pulled the trigger. <p style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 13.5pt; text-align: justify;"> <span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: garamond, serif;"><font color="#FFFFFF"> <p style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;"> <span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: garamond, serif;"><font color="#FFFFFF">And then I, Jacob Thomson, was converted into an orphan as I watched my father’s skull exit through the back of his cranium and I felt the splatters of blood land upon my face and I realized that both of my parents were now deceased due to the brutality of grotesquely vicious violence. The bullet was pointblank as it speared my father’s forehead and annihilated his brains and removed the upper portion of his head. All that remained was his jaw that presented his lower row of teeth as they dangled from his unsupported neck. I saw the top of his spine and blood was profusely spewing onto the ceiling instead of being redirected into his brain of which was now smeared across the room. <p style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 13.5pt; text-align: justify;"> <span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: garamond, serif;"><font color="#FFFFFF">And then my adrenaline exploded through my pulse with vengeance—I didn’t know where the police and paramedics were, but they were somewhere other than within my family’s household. I’ve never participated in a football game, but I tackled Larson McCormack with so much force that I dislocated my shoulder; but I didn’t give a shit about the pain because I had already felt the maximum excruciation of a broken heart. <p style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 13.5pt; text-align: justify;"> <span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: garamond, serif;"><font color="#FFFFFF">Larson McCormack dropped his gun and collapsed upon the shattered glass as I was mounted on top of his chest with fire in my eyes. He had broken into the house through the window, and I grasped the shards of glass within my hands and began to repeatedly stab him. I finished what my father had started: Fuck you! Fuck you! and even with a dislocated shoulder I used both arms and both hands to thrust the sharpened fragments of glass into his face. After one particular incision traveled into his mouth and down into his throat, the glass shard broke upon impact and was lodged within his esophagus. <p style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 13.5pt; text-align: justify;"> <span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: garamond, serif;"><font color="#FFFFFF">Larson McCormack (unfortunately) suffered very little; another shard of broken glass was lunged into his throat and tore the flesh into a fillet of excessively bleeding skin. That was the death of the fucking asshole who killed my family. But I wasn’t done. I treated the cadaver with so much disrespect as I continued to pick up the broken glass and implant it into his head—the blood had squirted from his gashes and onto my face, but I took no notice as I treated him like a taxidermist’s project and was stuffing the body with glass as I heard the broken fragments crumble within his head and a pleasurable viewing of a mutilated face lied before me with jagged edges of glass jutting from its entire surface area. <p style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 13.5pt; text-align: justify;"> <span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: garamond, serif;"><font color="#FFFFFF"> <p style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;"> <span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: garamond, serif;"><font color="#FFFFFF">And then finally the authorities entered the house and its crime scene and pried my bloody and wounded hands from the body; there were massive pieces of broken glass beneath the flesh of my palms, but I didn’t feel any physical pain…it was entirely overwhelmed by the emotional pain. I always believed that’ll never happen to me, but my beliefs were massacred with the disproven hypotheses of an enjoyable life that would only end by natural causes—not by fucking Larson McCormack. <p style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 13.5pt; text-align: justify;"> <span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: garamond, serif;"><font color="#FFFFFF">The next morning I saw my house and its broken window on the news—the anchor’s description wasn’t nearly enough detailed as to what I had witnessed. It was simply referred to as shot in the head and the listening audience was given the largest understatement in history. <p style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 13.5pt; text-align: justify;"> <span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: garamond, serif;"><font color="#FFFFFF">My mother and father were dead and Emma had died in the hospital due to severe blood loss from her punctured vital organ. I was fostered into my bachelor uncle’s care and my life had ended as my habits evolved into drugs and alcohol while I coped with an abusive guardian. But there is not enough weed or wine coolers in the world to allow me to live on with my family’s death that began with a broken window and ended with a broken heart. <p style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 13.5pt; text-align: justify;"> <span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: garamond, serif;"><font color="#FFFFFF"> The new year was only a continuation of my life of which was now undesired—I slit my wrist daily, and one of these days I’m going to let it bleed a little longer than usual…and I will become reunited with my family. <p style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 13.5pt; text-align: justify;"> <span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: garamond, serif;"><font color="#FFFFFF"> <p style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 13.5pt; text-align: right;"> <span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: garamond, serif;"><font color="#FFFFFF">Jacob Thomson <p style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 13.5pt; text-align: right;"> <span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: garamond, serif;"><font color="#FFFFFF">February 12, 2010