Pretty much profile of my father towards his demise. It represents the wildest irony of my long damaged relationship with them:
1976 my father got influenced by the long arm of Westboro Baptists, via persistent efforts despite my father's non-religious nature, these radicalized local southern Baptists convinced him to commit an honor killing of his "evil" son.
He set up an electrocution death trap and scenario designed to lead me into it. Not only was the palpable feeling that something was very wrong about this scene when I came home from the school bus, but after my father demanded I retrieve a tool for him with specific instructions from under a vehicle, I walked around the corner towards the tool shed and our German Shepherd jumped on me... stared me directly in the eyes and whined. It just confirmed to me something was "off". Sure enough, in the shed a 220 volt welding line was wired into the all metal torque wrench my father had asked me to retrieve, from my stocking feet my father had demanded I take off my "good school shoes" before stepping in the oily puddle he'd created I'd have to step in to get there, where the opposite line was wired into. (I digress to add the threadbare nature of those "good school shoes"
I took a wooden handle tool and flipped the electrified item off the table, several sparks flew. I was madder than hell. I let out a staccato yell as things crashed around and sparks flew, to simulate a having been suddenly fried.
When he entered the tool shop, I handed his slack-jawed face the tool and told him in icy tone never to demand anything of me again. I didn't sleep a wink that night. I became very frightened of what he'd try next, maybe with a firearm. I grabbed the hidden pack frame early the next morning I'd been preparing for some time, disappeared from there and survived on the streets nearly 2 years until nearly my 18th birthday when I surfaced at my Aunt's home in Southern California.
I had been dealing with physical bullying at school for two years, the religious freaks were the ringleaders of. I was covered with bruises, obviously so yet none of the faculty of that school in a deeply religious town, and now a very red area intervened.
I had sublimated this event for many years, until odd nightmares, flashbacks were driving me out of ability to sleep at all. After exposure therapy via a university study, all this shit came to the surface.
Flash forward 30 years. My parents were fiercely independent, however, my father was wrecking his car every day. Futile attempts by local police to remind him he had lost his driving privileges led to impounding his vehicle. My older siblings were tied up with health problems of their own, and begged me to see if I could go rectify some of the quagmire their situation had become. Ironic twist on the prodigal son, if you will, I returned to put my father into a lock down nursing home against his will, and set up home care and meals on wheels for my mother. She was relieved not only to have her physical abuser out of the house, but then she could watch her classic movie channels without constant exposure to Fox News drivel that had driven him completely, violently mad.
My father passed away a couple months later. My mom enjoyed the relative peace and care for 2 more years.
There it is. I finally publicly posted the actual crux event that drove me to homelessness in my youth that has always only remained in my unpublished novel.
Best hopes your husband is able to rectify the troubles there and come home.
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