1998: Linnet Street 14 [Chapter 5]

Chapter 5: The Breaking Point

The storm had been building for days. Duane's drinking had reached a fever pitch, and the tension in the house was unbearable. Every step he took, every word he slurred, felt like a ticking time bomb waiting to explode. We all walked on eggshells, trying not to set him off, but the pressure was too much. It was only a matter of time before something gave way.

That night, the air was thick with the promise of a storm. The sky outside was dark, the wind howling through the trees, rattling the windows. Inside, the atmosphere was even darker. Duane had come home from work in a foul mood, his eyes bloodshot, his movements jerky and uncoordinated. I could smell the alcohol on him the moment he walked through the door, and my stomach churned with dread.

Yvonne was in the kitchen, trying to finish making dinner. She was moving quickly, her hands shaking as she chopped vegetables, the knife clattering against the cutting board. She was trying to keep herself busy, trying to ignore the storm brewing in the next room. But I could see the fear in her eyes, the way her shoulders tensed every time Duane muttered something under his breath.

Therése and Rickard were in the living room, huddled together on the couch, their eyes wide with apprehension. They weren’t playing or talking like they usually did; they were just sitting there, waiting, their small bodies pressed close as if trying to find comfort in each other’s presence. I stood in the doorway, torn between staying with them and keeping an eye on Duane. I didn’t trust him—not tonight, not with that look in his eyes.

It happened so fast. One moment, Yvonne was in the kitchen, stirring a pot on the stove, and the next, Duane was on her, his hand gripping her arm with bruising force. I didn’t even hear him move; it was like he was a shadow, slipping silently from the living room to the kitchen, driven by some unseen force.

“What the hell is this?” Duane snarled, his voice low and dangerous. He yanked the spoon from Yvonne’s hand and flung it across the room, where it hit the wall with a sickening splat. “You call this dinner?”

“Duane, please,” Yvonne whispered, her voice trembling. She tried to pull away, but he tightened his grip, pulling her closer until their faces were inches apart.

“I work my ass off all day, and this is what I come home to? This is what you give me?” He shook her, his eyes wild with anger, spittle flying from his lips.

“Let me go,” Yvonne pleaded, her voice breaking. She looked so small, so fragile in his grasp, and something inside me snapped.

“Stop!” I shouted, my voice cracking as I bolted into the kitchen. I didn’t think, I just acted, throwing myself between them, pushing Duane away from her with all the strength I could muster. “Leave her alone!”

Duane stumbled back, more from shock than from the force of my push. For a moment, the room was silent, the only sound the harsh breathing of everyone involved. Yvonne was trembling, her eyes wide with terror, while Duane glared at me with a look of pure hatred. I could see it in his eyes—the anger, the resentment, the madness that had been building inside him for so long.

“You little shit,” Duane hissed, taking a step toward me. “You think you can tell me what to do? You think you’re the man of the house now?”

My heart pounded in my chest, but I didn’t back down. I couldn’t. Not with Yvonne and my siblings standing there, watching, depending on me. “Stay away from her,” I said, my voice shaking but firm.

Duane’s lip curled into a sneer, and for a moment, I thought he was going to hit me. But then something shifted in his expression, something dark and twisted, and he turned away, grabbing the bottle of whiskey from the counter and taking a long, deep swig.

“This is all your fault,” he muttered, more to himself than to anyone else. “Everything was fine until you came along. You ruin everything.”

I didn’t know if he was talking to me, to Yvonne, or to someone else entirely—someone who wasn’t even there. But the words cut deep, and I felt a surge of anger and helplessness rise up inside me. I wanted to scream, to hit him, to do something to make him stop, but all I could do was stand there, shaking with the effort to keep myself together.

Yvonne reached out and touched my arm, her hand cold and trembling. “Christer,” she whispered, her voice choked with emotion. “It’s okay. Let’s just… let’s just go.”

I nodded, and together we backed out of the kitchen, leaving Duane alone with his bottle. My legs felt like jelly, and my heart was racing, but I kept moving, kept my body between him and Yvonne, just in case he tried to follow.

We found Therése and Rickard still huddled on the couch, their faces pale with fear. When they saw us, they bolted up, running to Yvonne, burying their faces in her skirt. She knelt down, wrapping her arms around them, holding them close, whispering soothing words that did little to ease the terror in their eyes.

I stood there, feeling useless, my hands clenched into fists at my sides. I wanted to do something, anything, to make this better, but there was nothing I could do. The damage was done.

Duane’s aggression had shattered whatever fragile sense of safety we’d had left. Therése and Rickard had seen it all, their innocent eyes forced to witness the violence that had been simmering beneath the surface for so long. And I knew, in that moment, that nothing would ever be the same.

That night, Yvonne put the kids to bed early, trying to shield them from the reality of what had happened, but I could see it in her eyes—the realization that she had lost control, that the man she loved had become a danger not just to her, but to all of us. She didn’t say anything, but the tears that slipped down her cheeks as she kissed Therése and Rickard goodnight told me everything I needed to know.

I stayed up, sitting in the hallway outside their rooms, listening for any sign that Duane was coming up the stairs. My body was tense, my muscles coiled, ready to spring into action at the first hint of danger. I couldn’t let my guard down, not for a second. I had to be ready, had to protect them, even if it meant facing Duane again.

But Duane never came upstairs. He stayed in the kitchen, drinking himself into a stupor, muttering to himself in that low, angry voice that made my skin crawl. I couldn’t make out what he was saying, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to.

As the hours dragged on, I found myself thinking about what had happened, about the way Duane had looked at me, the way he had spoken. There was something different about him, something that went beyond the alcohol, beyond the stress. It was like he wasn’t himself anymore, like he was becoming someone else—someone darker, more dangerous. Someone like Gordon Perón.

The thought made my blood run cold. The parallels were too strong to ignore, too clear to be a coincidence. I didn’t know much about Gordon Perón, but I knew enough to see the connections, to understand that whatever had driven him to madness, to violence, was the same thing that was driving Duane now. It was like the past was repeating itself, like the darkness that had consumed Gordon was now consuming Duane.

And the worst part was, I didn’t know how to stop it.

Yvonne had always been the strong one, the one who kept everything together, but even she was starting to crack under the pressure. The realization that she couldn’t protect us from Duane, that she couldn’t keep us safe, had shaken her to the core. I could see it in the way she moved, the way she spoke—there was a fragility there now, a fear that hadn’t been there before.

But it wasn’t just fear for herself—it was fear for us. For me, for Therése, for Rickard. She knew, just as I did, that staying with Duane was putting us all in danger. But I also knew how hard it was for her to admit that, to acknowledge that the man she had built her life with was the same man who was tearing it apart.

The days that followed were tense, filled with a kind of silent dread that hung over the house like a dark cloud. Duane’s moods swung wildly, from sullen and withdrawn to explosive and violent. He’d lash out at the smallest things—a spilled drink, a misplaced book—and every time, I found myself stepping in, putting myself between him and my mother, between him and my siblings.

It was exhausting, both physically and emotionally. I barely slept, my mind always racing, always on high alert, waiting for the next outburst, the next sign that the storm was about to break. I didn’t know how much longer I could keep it up, how much longer I could hold everything together. But I had to. I didn’t have a choice.

Yvonne tried to talk to Duane, to reason with him, but it was like talking to a wall. He was too far gone, too deep into whatever darkness had taken hold of him. And with every passing day, I could see her resolve weakening, her strength waning. She was breaking, just like the rest of us.

One night, after another one of Duane’s tirades, I found Yvonne sitting in the living room, staring blankly at the wall. The kids were asleep, the house quiet except for the soft hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen. I stood in the doorway, unsure of what to say, unsure of how to help her. She looked so lost, so defeated, and it broke my heart to see her like that.

“Mom?” I said softly, stepping into the room.

She looked up at me, her eyes red and swollen from crying. “Oh, Christer,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

“For what?” I asked, sitting down beside her.

“For everything,” she said, shaking her head. “For bringing you here, for making you live through this. You shouldn’t have to be the one protecting us. That’s supposed to be my job.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. I wanted to tell her it wasn’t her fault, that she was doing the best she could, but the words felt hollow. The truth was, I didn’t know how to fix this. I didn’t know how to make it better.

“I don’t know what to do,” she confessed, her voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know how to make him stop. I don’t know how to protect you.”

I felt tears prick at the corners of my eyes, but I blinked them away, forcing myself to stay strong. “It’s okay, Mom,” I said, even though it wasn’t. “We’ll figure it out. We’ll get through this.”

But as I said the words, I didn’t believe them. The darkness in our house was growing, and I didn’t know how much longer we could hold it back.

That night, I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, my mind racing. I couldn’t shake the feeling that something terrible was coming, that the storm we’d been living under was about to break. And when it did, I wasn’t sure if any of us would survive it.

In the darkness, I heard the familiar sound of footsteps, slow and deliberate, echoing down the hallway. I closed my eyes, trying to block it out, trying to pretend that it was just my imagination. But the coldness that seeped into my room told me otherwise.