My life has never been a quaint one, but I’ve become accustomed to some version of normalcy while working the long hours I do now at a correctional facility. Out of the nearly 400,000 currently employed Correctional Officers in the United States, I figure myself to be among the veterans. It’s not that I’ve done the job all my adult life, but many people don’t even last a month. Hell, there are plenty who walk out as soon as they step inside of a housing unit. It’s a world within the outside world that most people choose to ignore. But that’s besides the point… if anyone is interested in more details regarding my job then dm me.
The point is that I am away from home for more than half of the day, or in this case, more than half of the night. I left for work yesterday at 1734, which was actually a bit later than normal. I had slept in, it’s difficult adjusting to the night shift after a year on day shift. That time somehow stuck to my brain, like I couldn’t get rid of it. Nonetheless, I made it to work on time and everything was fine. I conducted my counts, I responded to 2 minor disturbances, and I even assisted an individual who was having suicidal thoughts. She survived. All in a night’s work.
Once 0600 rolled along, I gladly rolled the fuck out. I made my way to my vehicle just like anyone would do after a long day of work. I was so happy to be on the road and on my way to bed. I preemptively stored the remaining cigarettes I had in the center console. I knew I’d need them at some point. I then backed into my driveway and observed my surroundings. No one was looking so far as I could see, so I took off my shirt. I didn’t like the badge being displayed going into my house, even though I knew most of my neighbors were fully aware of the job I held. I shut off the car and went inside my home.
I immediately went to feed the cats. Lucy didn’t dart for the food bowls though, which was strange. I nonetheless proceeded to take off my jacket and headed to their food containers. I poured the food, and yet Lucy still hadn’t come. Oscar slowly made his way over to my feet, looked at the food bowls, and then stared back at me without taking even a nibble. I was confused at this point, but not terribly concerned. I removed the duty belt from my waist and hung it on the coat hanger. As I walked up the stairs, I began to sense….dread…I don’t really know how to explain it. I didn’t feel or smell anything strange. My bones were tingling, though.
I live in a 3-story townhouse, and once I reached the middle level everything seemed normal. So I, the alcoholic that I am, decided to pour myself a glass of bourbon. This wasn’t an everyday thing, but a most days thing. I enjoyed my glass of bourbon on my back deck and killed a half dozen cigarettes in the process. Once I realized it was almost 0800, I decided to head inside and get myself settled for some much needed sleep. I took a swig from my bottle and then proceeded upstairs. It was so quiet; normally I would at least see my roommate at this point, if not I’d hear him getting ready for work. Occasionally my babymama would be awake also, but typically she slept in until 0900 or 1000, along with our child, so I wasn’t concerned. Perhaps my roommate was sick. I undressed and then redressed into some comfortable fittings in preparation for my long awaited slumber.
I opened my bedroom door, and the sight bestowed upon me at that moment will never leave my mind. Never… Only parts of my babymama were on the bed. Other parts on the floor, ontop the dresser, and blood streaked all 4 walls. It was brutal, and I immediately shut the door, ran back to the bathroom to grab my hidden revolver, and cocked it. I collected my thoughts, and then went back in. My son wasn’t there. I checked the closet and then proceeded back into the hallway. I opened my roommate’s door and was met with a similar sight. Body parts everywhere, blood strewn about, and no child.
It took me a while, but I eventually went back up and realized that there were numbers written on the walls. In my room where my babymama was slain, it was “2004” and where my roommate was slain it was “1990.” I’m not sure what this means, and yes I already contacted the cops. I hate it but they’re here now, and the primary objective is to locate my son. Does anyone have any idea what the numbers might mean though? Obviously years, but do those years hold significance to anyone reading this? I’m fucking devastated, so please let me know as soon as you can. I need to find my son.