As I handed my son his PS3, I thought about the insanity of what had just happened. King Shit had actually told the police he had broken into my locked truck to “store” everything that had been in the room. A few days later we stopped by to get the boxes they had so kindly packed up for us. Upon opening them we saw a hint of the complete disrespect and hatred my family had for us.
The boxes had been packed with trash, including part empty coke cans, chocolate milk containers and old food. The coke had leaked onto my son’s library book and art work. My maternal grandfather’s comb that had been given to me in 1995 after he passed was now broken. The tape measure of his that I had cherished for eighteen years was gone, added to the fifty KS already owned.
The fact we had one day notice to get out, I thought they could have waited longer than ten seconds to start going through our room. Starring at the trashed mess I picked out a few pieces of paper. As I read my handwriting I started realizing what they were and I could feel the disbelief turn into anger. Knowing how hurt my husband had been after they read through his journals, I put them away before he could see them. Reading something that is private between a husband and a wife is not just an invasion of privacy, it is disgusting. It takes a certain kind of person to do that and think there is nothing wrong with it.
I wanted to take everyone in my family and make them watch while we went through all their drawers. Reading out loud every card, letter, or journal they may have kept through out their life. Touch every personal thing they own. Take anything we want and break the sentimental junk they had for years. Drink some coke leaving some in the bottom of the can, and find some garbage from the kitchen. Take it all and throw it into a cardboard box and tape it up. Then toss it back and forth while they watch not being able to do anything about it.
I would then go and break into their car. Spend a few minutes going through it and taking whatever I want. Maybe donate it to Goodwill, so they could buy it back at a discount. Take the boxes and shove them in. Make sure to lock it back up because I would not want anything to happen to their junk.
After, I would look directly at them and say… “I am sorry, did that bother you? No worries, this is just beginning. I was certain you were used to this. I mean, you are lower than the dog shit I just stepped in and wiped off on your son.”