The Trigger (Cut-Throat Club).



Recently, several people who have only been reading or following my blog since the opening of Beasts of Articulation and/or Kindred Words opened up (almost a year ago, now…wow), have sent me private messages inquiring about my “story”. I realize that as a writer, I am all over the fucking place with my posts; and that the content of my blog is generally confusing as fuck to someone who just happens upon it, as a result. I know many of you do not care to read my “story” again, and I apologize to those of you who don’t. I am posting The Trigger once again in attempt at killing a bunch of birds with the one stone, because I am lazy. Anyway, for anyone who is reading this for the first time, THIS is the story of my final injury at the hands of my ex-husband (a now, deceased psychopathic murderer who fathered my only child); and it marks the beginning of my own re-birth and reconstruction, a process that I am continuing to wade through, even now – over a decade later. I have had 29 major surgeries, spent far too much time stuck in-hospital for chunks of mine and my daughter’s lives (collectively, about 4 solid years), and was scarred just as much on the inside as I am on the outside, if not more lastingly. I do not post this for sympathy or pity from anyone who reads it; simply as an explanation to the many pieces of my blog that come across as incomprehensible to someone who is not aware of my own experience thus far in Life.

As my story goes, I am an animal lover, and strive to make any animal as happy as it has the capacity to be; I am a die-hard advocate for domestic violence aid and for the many, many victims of marital terrorism; I am a die-hard advocate for the rights of children in such situations, as well. Sadly, we each know someone who is in a situation very similar, if not the same, as my former circumstance became by the time it reached its tragic ending; I am unbelievably lucky that I am not a long-dead statistic of domestic violence, and my hope is that by sharing my own history, I will help at least one other human being. Thank you, in advance, for your understanding.


In some ways, the triggering event was as horrifying as it might have been if she had discovered the lifeless body of one of her own children in that garage – HIS garage – during the earliest hours of the morning on the day of her near-death.

In other ways, it was somehow much, much worse.

The day before had been a bad one – a nasty beating and the brain fog that always accompanied them; there had been a lot of ugliness spat in her direction several times before dinner, and during the meal that she had begrudgingly cooked for him (her appetite had become non-existent and he made sure that she was perpetually dope-sick), she had sat across the table from him with her eyes on the floor, in a vain attempt to avoid the inevitable explosion that she had come to sense brewing and building beneath her husband’s skin.

By this stage of her “captivity”, the woman was allowed individual companionship with five living souls: The Ripper, Boo, and the woman’s three dogs – Sarah, Ozzy, and Vegas. This night, as the tension grew thicker by the bite of food stuffed into her husband’s mouth, it was Sarah, a chow-pit-bull mix that had come into this tragic situation alongside of a once-braver, stronger and more capable version of her caretaker: as an innocent – who lied loyally at the feet the woman’s defeated body, beneath the table on high alert. The dogs were each honed well to the man’s moods also; acting as canine tools that had undoubtedly helped the woman survive in the past.

Directly following his dinner, her giant husband went outside momentarily; and during this brief period, the woman got down on the floor to scratch some neck and belly – a luxury that, outside of him, the monster of a man she had married allowed her ONLY to share with these ever-faithful beasts.

It had at that time that her husband came back in through the back door, and she could tell from the sound of his steps that he was coming for her; she never knew why. Everything had happened so quickly: his boot to her belly, then head – repeatedly; any sense of true consciousness became likened to a strange swirling sensation that drifted drunkenly up and down with the motion of smoke trying to suspend itself in air…she notably forced herself to stay with the pain – to stay awake in defiance, to NOT let him knock her out unconscious again (a gamble of the outcome to a circumstance in which she lost consciousness was not one that typically landed the odds in her favor).

She dazedly heard yelling, clicking and cusswords; growling, snapping and cracking sounds.

It wasn’t until a much later time (years later) that the woman would recall the image of her terroristic spouse exploding at Sarah as well, for vainly trying to protect her. Sarah was a beautiful creature, one that died for her unwavering loyalty to the woman.


It was after she finished cleaning up the bloodied back of her head under the tap in HIS garage, and turned to leave, that she saw Sarah’s body on the dirt floor – semi-covered by a canvas tarp – beaten to death. THIS had been the event that changed everything very quickly, as the guilt and sheer self-loathing that followed this discovery consumed the woman within a nano-second; she went insane from all of it: the beatings, the betrayal and violation, the death that she wished would be granted more swiftly, the death that he gave poor Sarah…and reason she was now dead.

She bolted from the garage and screamed at the top of her lungs for him to come outside and face her: a challenge she knew he would undoubtedly accept as pure entertainment (the thought fueled her disgust and anger, self-hatred and guilt to the point of no return). It was then, that her inner-most warrior at last made an appearance; and the woman let this sensation have control completely.

She had felt no fear when she saw him come to the window the next time, his composed face looking warped with shock and disbelief at her sudden demands. She was screaming a plea for a duel with a man nearly two-and-a-half times her weight. She did not experience the typical fear when he began to pound angrily on the glass from inside the window, hollering things that she could not hear, but knew would be the most venomous death threats he’d ever made. She did not see much of anything besides a deepening blackness and the void of sharp edges; her thoughts huddled, unprocessed in a corner somewhere being protected by her own mind like a child’s.

Her battle cries continued until he finally came to the front door;  at approximately the same time a police cruiser pulled up two driveways down; she began to run towards the chain-link fence in that direction. She wasn’t running to freedom; she was running to tell the police that he was a murderer, to show them what he had done to Sarah – to make them understand why her heart could not go on any further in this living Hell. She was beyond any point of caring about her own safety or future by that time.

He bee-lined for her in the yard as she shuffled like a derelict in haste towards them, demanding that she first passed  his position on the front porch; her mouth sputtering, her lungs afire from yelling for so long and loud. Her long-disrepaired jaw had gradually become an un-healed injury that rendered her barely able to move it. She fell over her own frozen, numb feet, and, feeling certain she had finally met her end, looked directly towards the gathered crowd on the other side of the front yard’s fence; her huge, lumbering and loping husband closed in on her. She verbally managed to convey the message to the nearest police officer that she “was finally about to be killed…” before the final envelopment of her weakened, sinewy figure. A lot of blood and gore ensued. The police and paramedics on stand-by acted without hesitation upon his quickly executed attack, focusing every molecule of energy present in the environment on her simple continuity of LIFE.



Severe vascular injury/ies (with particular attention to the internal carotid and jugular) from forcibly displaced mandible fracture and blunt lacerations;

Multiple Maxillofacial traumas requiring numerous surgeries necessary for her jaw to eventually function properly.

For months, she would remain too incoherent to be aware of any of the events that took place that day, or the fact that her husband had escaped the scene, despite so many people being physical there, right nearby, saving her life from his deathly grips at last. She would spend the next year with the burn unit patients in a hospital to physically work right again; and then they would start to try and reconstruct her face. It would be over a decade until any detail of that day (and the days leading up to it) would return to her mind with any true vividness; like any other memory she keeps; the entire element of Sarah having somehow been washed away with her painful, daily skin debriding in those early days – until only about six months ago, while she was writing a section for this blog.

And so, it had been finding Sarah’s battered and bloody body in HIS garage that turned me seemingly insane with guilt and self-loathing…I essentially begged him to come outside and kill me…and he did in some ways.

But, not in the ways that matter most.



Ozfest and Vegas were unharmed during this incident.

Dirt Naps in the Desert – PART 1

This wasn’t a new feeling, this heart stuck in the middle of her esophagus feeling; she had grown disturbingly familiar with the pseudo-lump in her throat by now…just a little over a year’s time. Her thoughts drifted hazily back through time, trying to confirm the accuracy of her perception of time passed since she first became this way – since she lost herself in the midst of an existence under the control of a very angry, pathologically violent, faultily hardwired and precariously unstable man…her husband.
It had, indeed, been over a year, she silently decided with a slow shake of her heavy, down turned head; she was shocked to realize that she had let it get so far out of her own ability to act – to protect herself – to survive. The very notion of survival had taken on a new face in her mind these days. The recurring raccoon eyes, especially in combination with the non-healing broken jaw and collar bones that she still painfully lived with began to seem like a cake walk, in comparison to the things her husband often did when he was on a psychopathic bender.
Mr. Americano’s unacknowledged, intrinsic rage and deeply seeded hatred towards ALL women on Earth manifested differently, depending on the type of bender he was riding out; but the manifestations most certainly always involved degrading her, physically and sexually assaulting her – no matter the way things played out. Lately, he was obviously escalating quickly to a level which he’d never gone before; the terror and tension she now endured from one moment to the next, waiting like a nervous burglar near the front picture window in the darkness – searching the yard for any sign of movement, fearfully anticipating the headlights rolling over the pane of glass behind which she sat like a scared animal, stiff with fear.
He had been highly upset over Christmas; his anger had oddly been deflected off of her that time however, and he had gone on a rampage all over town to supposedly “collect” what people owed him.
“It’s bullshit that I don’t have no money for Christmas gifts for my girls while they [by “they”, he meant several of his longtime friends who were each struggling much more than we were, financially] have cash to celebrate and shit…”
He had grown increasingly irritable over the few hours prior to finally leaving that night, the night before Christmas Eve, to go “take what was his” from people who he had known since his childhood that supposedly owed him money (she never knew that part of it for sure, though). He left with a handgun in his door panel, and he was out of his mind with this fit of enraged anger over money owed to him; the entire blow-up seemed random as Hell to her, but nothing really made sense anymore.
He had returned early the next morning covered in blood, beaten half to death and looking quite defeated. He looked like a zombie walking up the path to the front door, literally – clothes torn to shreds in some places, one shoe falling apart with every shuffling step he took towards her, the other shoe missing altogether. His face had been smashed worse than he had ever smashed hers; his eyes were both nearly swollen closed (she wondered how he was able to drive home in that condition, but said nothing of it).
Her heart had fluttered at the sight of him that way: broken, bloody and betrayed by his own cockiness and temper; such a short-lived glory plummeted just as quickly as it caught air however, upon the chilling reminder that she would ALWAYS pay the price for the mistakes others made when it came to her husband; she had always bore the burdens of the stupid things people would say or do to piss him off and make him passively violent the instant that they were behind closed doors.
It was with that thought that she snapped back to the present moment: heart still planted firmly in her mid-esophagus, fear still flash freezing her every particle while she waited for Mr. Americano to return tonight. She had no idea where he’d been or who he’d been talking with – there was no telling which off-the-wall fancy he was going to bring home with him this time. One way or another, she would get the wrath for whatever had him so balls-out angry again, she was sure of that much. At some point in between an onslaught of the panicked breaths her body was reflexively forcing her to take and the all-consuming terror and anxiety attached to the anticipation of his homecoming, she actually fell soundly asleep from emotional exhaustion.

When she made the mistake of resting her head with her “good ear” (the one that he hadn’t beaten the ability to hear from) against the mattress or sofa cushions, creating the encompassing silence appreciated only by those with true hearing LOSS, it was inevitable that she would drift off to sleep every time. She loved quiet time; she loved it more with each second of her life that flew away in the wind; it was the only time she was able to think at all, the rest of her time felt like it was spent on a different planet with an alien companion that made bi-polar disorder look like a week-long bachelor party in the Glades.
More often than not, she found herself stunned to uselessness, unable to comprehend what was happening at any given time, as it was 9 times out of 10: an exceptionally unforeseen act of violence (often torture) against her, at the hands of her monstrous husband. It was during these times of sheer Living Hell that she became numb to the physical damages being done to her body somehow. During the most painful of instances, she would will herself to stand up again – over and over and over until her feet and legs refuse to follow her brains command to lift her up once more. The rest of the time though, she unfailingly did nothing but to sit in a daze and focus on the unspeakable levels of cruelty and sadism that the man who fathered her only child enjoyed to watch her squirm beneath.
She had been through all of the stages akin to this type of a female domestic hostage: denial, enabling, disbelief, self-loathing and guilt, the defensive, the law, and lastly – resignation. It wasn’t long ago that she had realized she would die this way, in this house with her years’ worth of blood stains soaking into each bedroom’s every plank of wood; she understood that this had been her fault, the decision to marry an illiterate, psychopathic giant with ZERO self-control. That was her bad choice and she owned that much of things; it was about all she owned, and she held on to it fiercely.
The night he had come home beaten and defeated, three of his “friends” in three different locations had surprised him with self-defensive responses to his bullying tactics; one had overtaken him with a club from a dark corner in a garage, one had put up the fist fight of his life and eventually got the upper hand when his two brothers showed up and joined in on his side to knock Mr. Americano unconscious. He finally proceeded to go to “Rooster’s” house (this had been the genius who introduced her to her captor/husband a few years back) and pull the gun he had stashed in his truck door as he had left the house on him in the front yard of his house.
Rooster told her at a later time that Mr. Americano had, indeed, chambered a round and aimed the gun at his face before attempting to shoot him dead then and there. The gun jammed and Rooster was close enough to grab for it. After a short scuffle, Mr. Americano found himself at a disadvantage – already worse for wear and without his gun. Luckily for him, his longtime friend has better morals and standards than he ever could have cultivated or maintained, and let him get away without further incident. It was because of this insane incident that Rooster wound up coming to the house just a few days after Christmas to speak with her while he was at his father’s with the girls to exchange gifts etc. True to his imposing notoriety, he just walked right through the front door and came in to where she was folding laundry on the sun porch out back, first startling her and then, scaring her beyond words with his story about the night before Christmas Eve and the terrifying implications behind its events.
“Look…I know things are bad for you now, but if you stick around here much longer, things are going to only get a lot worse – really fast; if you don’t beeline for it soon, you’re gonna take a dirt nap somewhere in the desert, girl…”
Dirt naps in the desert were sadly a common way for a bad person to get rid of somebody for good; she knew that. Her husband had commented about this several times in the past in reference to other people who had crossed him. She often wondered if he had already buried anyone in the Mojave out there. Miserably, it would not have surprised her to learn that he had.

All she could do was shake her head and stare at the floor as Rooster summarized a dread warning of life or death to her. The thoughts flooded in once more: the pathetically redundant cycle of possible escape plans, the law, and any trustworthy individuals who would not give her up if she ever actually got out to safety and away from him; it was a hideous, dead-end display of her paralyzed state of mentality. After several minutes, and without lifting her gaze to make eye contact in any way, she simply said:
“You better go, Rooster. If he comes home and finds you here while he’s gone, my head will roll, you know?”
Her husband had continued to behave more and more erratically and unpredictably over the few months between then and the present; disappearing for hours without word and then returning livid and explosively violent towards her. She staged a “visit” for their daughter up north with her parents, a desperate attempt to assure the baby’s own emotional and physical safety. He had never laid a hand on the girls, but that was liable to change at any moment now. One night, while she sat terrified in the front window, waiting for him to return and beat her until he grew bored and tired with the effort it took, she decided to go through with an escape. She had finally realized and accepted the fact that if she did not act, she would die…and likely soon.