Category : Books-Non-Fiction

Sub Category : Biography

Before my family and I moved to what I call my hometown, outside of Austin, Texas, we had lived in Norwalk, Iowa. I'd always believed we had moved because my Dad's place of work had transferred him, and they were sick of the cold, said my parents.
I had just turned six when we made the move, and didn't exactly know what either of my parents did for work, plus moving excited me. I remember being sad about one thing though. I'd never gotten to say bye to my best friend, Lindsey (not actual name). My parents had told me she had come by to say goodbye, but I had been asleep on the couch after eating a big lunch.
I was five, anticipating my a birthday coming up at that time. I was ten when I had figured out the reasons we had moved were lies. It would be three years after when my parents felt I was old enough to know the truth—everything I thought I knew about our move and the few days leading up to it was a giant lie.
After telling me the truth, I'd wished they had never told me…
When I was ten, I'd learned what exactly my Dad did for a living. He explained the company and each department and what they did, whatever he'd thought I would understand. He must've forgotten what I had known or had figured I'd forgotten what him and my mom had told me—either way, the ball was then dropped.
I can remember my Dad smiling, feeling proud about how the company was his, and his Dads before, and his Grandfathers before that. His smile faded quickly after looking down at my scrunched-up face. I was a young, curious child who was confused and needed an answer. I had no idea my question would result in the worst tantrum I had ever given my parents. All because I didn't get my answer.
Why did we move then? 
 Why did you lie to me?!
 Why won't you tell me?!!
They left me with the only answer they could give me at my age: We promise, we will tell you when you're older. This was repeated many, many times, and instigated a number of fights for three years, when they finally grew sick of it. Or, rather, I was now old enough to know… 


Lindsey, my best friend, was a cute little girl—from what I remember—with long brown hair that looked gold in the sun. The two of us would play nearly everyday, and had even made pre-arrangements for our future wedding. "House" was her favorite game. I don't even recall having a favorite game because everything I wanted to do, would cleverly be twisted into us basically just playing House again.
I will admit I did like playing the dad who would come home from work to a lovely wife who always had food on the table—even if it was invisible. My Dad would have a beer after dinner, so I would use him as inspiration. But for some reason, Lindsey would yell No! while slapping the imaginary beer out of my hand. Her face would grow as red as a red Crayola. I had to apologize and say No more, before she'd calm down.
Everyone in the neighborhood would pass by, mentioning how cute we were, playing all the time. That's how the thought of marriage appeared in Lindsey's head. All the adults in the neighborhood would constantly mention how she had looked like a young Brooke Shields. I didn't know who that was at the time, or that she was famous. I couldn't even remember that name until I was in a high school film class, surfing the web for an assignment and had come across an image from the movie Blue Lagoon.
This was a few years after I had finally learned the horrible nightmare that was the truth. So when my eyes caught that image on the computer, it dug up and played out a million more inside my head. So many memories of Lindsey were thrown at me simultaneously. I didn't even ask my teacher if I could leave. I sat in my car and cried for I don't know how long, until eventually I just drove home. There, my parents and I cried together, while they shared stories of the two of us.
Every time we played together, I remember it was her dad that ended it whenever he would call her name. I grew to hate his voice, knowing what it meant. He was taken away my best friend from me.
Then one day she had come over, knocking on the door like she always would, but it was a lot later than usual. I don't know if it's from me looking back with the knowledge of what would happen next that day, or if there really was something different about how the air felt where she stood outside on our porch. But I do remember the look she'd given me after I had just told her to come inside and both of us heard her father's angry voice in the distance.
Her face always had a lot of natural color, but all of it had been drained after hearing that voice. Had I known better I would've never let her go back home… she was white as a ghost, scared. It was the last time I saw her.
The next few days were a haze of chaos and confusion. I remember seeing bright red and blue lights outside. When I asked my parents, they told me that the neighbors were having a party. Were we invited? This question never received an answer. There was no time because my "Dad had gotten transferred."
Lindsey' and her entire family had been found the next evening, butchered by the quiet, alcoholic, and psychotic father and husband. He was known to be violent when drunk, until he'd gotten sober and claimed to be for months. Until, empty bottles of liquor were found by his wife, as well as receipts dated back to when he had claimed to be sober. He exploded in a drunken rage after she threatened him with a divorce. Nobody knows how his three children, including cute little Lindsey had been involved, nor why they were all killed.