In the streets near my childhood home, I navigated a delicate balance between innocence and vulnerability. At four years old, I was a small girl with scraped knees and bruised elbows which were a testament to the relentless torment inflicted by my older cousin, Dale. He lived next door, and our lives intersected in ways that left indelible marks on my young soul.

Dale’s favorite game was to ride his bicycle quickly and deliberately into mine whenever he could. The pavement became my adversary, and my scraped limbs bore witness to Dale’s twisted game. I’d pick myself up, tears streaming, and wonder why he targeted me. Was it jealousy? Cruelty? Or perhaps something darker lurking within him?

If I was at my uncles house, playing with Denise, I knew to be home as twilight approached. As I prepared to leave that’s when Dale would start whispering tales of the boogeyman into my ear. He painted a vivid picture: gnarled claws, eyes like dying embers, and an insatiable hunger for little girls who dared to be outside after dark. My heart raced, and I’d sprint home as fast as I could, his taunting voice echoing, “There he is! He’s going to get you!” Once safely at my door, out of breath, I could hear his maniacal laughter as I slammed the door closed and locked it.

Sadly, this is only two examples of the torment, both physical and emotional, that he put me through. Eventually, my family moved to another town where healing began. The scars remained and eventually Dale’s cruelty faded into memory.

I have such mixed feelings about Dale. On one hand, I loved him; on the other, I was terrified of him. His tortured soul left an indelible mark. I hope he was able to find the peace he deserved. His life was a storm of anguish, and at age 57, he departed this world, leaving behind a legacy of pain and unanswered questions—not just mine, but others who loved him as well. Whether he ever discovered peace remains a mystery, concealed within the folds of time.