May 21, 2020
This is going to be a hard post to write.
This was the worst day of my entire life. The day everything changed. The day my oldest child was killed. It was 8:18AM when my Ring doorbell picked up a man knocking on the front door. I was awake but since it only registered motion, and not a button press, I ignored it. It was a Thursday. I figured it was probably a neighbor putting out their trash. By the time I did get around to looking, I found that it was instead a State Trooper.
Knowing this probably meant “death notification” I instantly panicked. Jonathan wasn’t home yet, and he usually was by this time. He always came to my room and took off his riding equipment and sat down to eat breakfast with me. Every. Morning. But. This. One. I immediately checked the map, and it showed his location as “home.” So I let off a sigh of relief and figured he was just tired and went straight to his room instead and then looked for my daughter on the map, her location showed she was at her house. OK. Well, Jonathan was going to the police academy this fall, so I thought maybe they were coming to talk to me about him? I didn’t know…
Then my phone rang. It was 8:50 now. I didn’t recognize the number so, of course, I didn’t answer. Google Voice picked up the call. While I was looking at the transcript to see who it was, my mother opened my door and said there’s a State Trooper at the door asking for me.
As I started down the hall, I asked my mom if she had taken Honey out yet. She hadn’t. “So you didn’t see if Jonathan’s bike was outside then?”
I answered the door and stepped into another dimension.
The Trooper asked me if I was Alison Huskey. I said yes. He asked if I was mother to Jonathan Huskey. I said YES WHY? I’m sorry to inform you…
I’m sitting here three weeks later, and it’s still dreamlike. I’ve already gotten his ashes back and still – it’s so unreal. I was 17 when he was born, at 3:33 in the afternoon on July 14, 1994. He was ten weeks early, 3 pounds, 14 ounces, 16 inches, this tiny, fragile little being that became the new center of my universe. They told us then, he could end up blind, deaf, have a multitude of health problems, but his prognosis was fair – as long as he didn’t develop Necrotizing Enterocolitis. Then when he was a week old, he did. Then they told us if he makes it through this without having to have surgery, we’d be pretty well in the clear. Then when he was a month old, he had to have the surgery. They removed a section of dead bowel and left him with a scar that went from just the side of his bellybutton almost the entire half of his belly. He made it. We brought him home. He grew into a happy, healthy little boy. My grandparents and I read to him every day, and nurtured his love of learning. As long as I can remember, he wanted to be a police officer…
Now a police officer was telling me I’d never hear his voice again. I’d never get a 2 hour lecture on the nuances of the Civil War. I’d never see his smile again… Ryan, my middle child, went to talk to the Troopers while I called Cheyenne to have her come over. I also got in touch with his father. And I sat, stunned.
I was told he’d tried to pass an 18-wheeler and somehow ended up clipping the corner of the flatbed trailer, and that it was instant. That wasn’t entirely accurate. Turns out, the local gobshite newspaper filled us in on the details. He was thrown from the bike and ended up in the center lane of the highway where he was hit by a car. I’ll never forget the way whoever wrote the article put it. “The driver had no time to stop.” They even misspelled his name and only just recently corrected it after I’d been trying to get them to. On their facebook page, on the facebook post for the accident, on their website, on the phone… Jerks.
I’ve since found out a lot more information. He was not dead until he was hit by the car. In fact, his helmeted head is what broke the car’s radiator. Another witness said there was “plenty of room” yet the bitch driving that car didn’t even try to miss him. I was told there was another car in the lane next to her. I don’t care. I would rather swerve and hit another car than hit a human being. I would do the same for a dog or cat. But not a possum. Fuck possums. Sigh.
So, as far as I’m concerned Mackenzie Warrens of Houston, Texas is a fucking murderer. She killed my son. And then, get this, when she didn’t get a big enough payout for her totalled Kia, she claimed “BODILY INJURY” against my insurance. I’m told the only information they can provide regarding that is that it’s “not physical injuries.” So… Let me see if I understand this. That fucking cow turned two broken arms and a broken ankle into “blunt force trauma to the head” and she’s getting a fucking check.
MY FAMILY is destroyed. Our lives will never be the fucking same. This fucking nasty cunt… I can’t. I’m so full of rage and utterly distraught.
I wouldn’t wish this experience on anyone. Except maybe that fucking piece of shit Mackenzie fucking Warrens. Money grubbing whore. Emotional trauma my fucking ass. Pay fucking attention to the road. DPS take this bitch’s fucking license before she kills someone else’s kid.
Mackenzie is my daughter’s middle name. We’re fucking changing it.