Filicide - Chapter Two
Survivor’s Guilt
“Victoria… Victoria… they’re… they’re…” sobbed an incoherent Rose on a phone call to me one otherwise pleasant Saturday evening among friends in early June 2024. “They’re going to what, Rose?” I listen to the sounds of my drunk sister sobbing “They’re going to kill me… Victoria….” Yes, Rose was drunk, as usual, but I know what she said is a serious concern. I know because I lived alone with them the last two years of high school. I don’t know if I could relive it if I woke up and this was some dream, and I was a child again in that haunted house of horrors.
Rose was incoherent and distressed about her pending disability decision, which she saw as her only opportunity to escape Gary and Beth Balcom after 42 years of severely life-threatening and degrading psychological and physical abuse. Tears poured down my face and her pleas for help tugged at the chords of my soul. Pleas only I could understand. Although I was on a camping trip with friends, I felt an obligation to take her call. Because no one else was there for her and no one else could understand. Each time I get a call from her, I wonder if it’ll be the last. So, I take it.
I tried to come up with reassuring words for a hopeless situation as I stared out at my friends, laughing at the camp. While previously connected with them, instant disconnection took hold. “I don’t deserve to enjoy myself here because she can’t” I thought. And suddenly the phrase “Survivor’s Guilt” crossed my brain. I don’t recall hearing the term, and wondered where it popped in from, but returned my attention to my crying sister. I realized no one would understand and trying to tell them would only bring everyone down on a trip meant to be enjoyed. I made a decision in that moment to leave. I didn’t belong. I had an obligation to my sister.
I had walked away from the campsite into the woods for privacy, but returned to my tent at the site, and zipped myself in. I waited about an hour, slowly packing up my things, as Rose continued to sob about the hopelessness of her life, how they were forcing her to vote for Donald Trump, and how if she didn’t get disability, she would certainly kill herself. I’ve been thinking for a long time the death of Rose will be my undoing, but all efforts to prevent it have failed. The weight of my dedication to parenting, combined with the awareness I couldn’t cope with losing her, has often left me in a near-constant state of distress. As I listened to her words, cries and pleas for her life, I remembered the teenager I once was, on aol instant messenger, begging anyone who would listen to believe me that my life was at risk. No help came for me. And I’m aware, weak as I am, no one will help Rose besides myself. I was shaken to the core of my being on that call, and totally alone with a hopeless situation. My friends would not have the answer, and I’d only damage relationships by letting them in on my helpless situation.
Once packed, I told Rose I’d call back, and excused myself. My friends were concerned, since it was sudden and I was supposed to stay an extra day. I told them I was fine; it was just that my sister needed someone to talk to. My heart ached, knowing they wanted to support me, but if I told them the issue, it wouldn’t be possible, no matter how good their intentions. So, it’s better to say nothing at all.
I packed up the car and drove into the night. When I made it to the highway, after about fifteen minutes on the dark mountain roads, I phoned Rose back. At first, when I couldn’t reach her, I panicked, worried she had hurt herself and that’s the last time I’d hear from her. Eventually, she phoned back, still completely incoherent and crying. My heart ached with helplessness, pain, love, and injustice, as I cried alongside her. I don’t recall what was said other than how heart wrenching it was. As is often the case, Rose’s incoherence eventually increased to the point of babble, and she became quiet. Eventually, there was just breath. “Rose?” “Rose?” “Rose…?” I say to no response. I hope that’s not the last time I speak to her. I say a silent prayer she’s not dead. I want to call for a welfare check, but she’s on probation and that may or may not make her life worse (if that’s possible). Calling Gary and Beth is obviously worse than calling no one at all. I call Jack for support, but he doesn’t answer. I gulp back painful tears into my aching throat as I realize there’s literally no one else in the world who could provide support and understand, especially at this hour of the night. And with that thought, I hope my sister wakes up alive in the morning and press on, alone, crying into the night, feeling a connection to her, who is now a dial tone, and no one else.