Stalk Home: A Memoir

By Amanda McMurtrey

Amanda is a newly single parent in nursing school trying to make ends meet by pole dancing at a local bar. She meets Brent, her Prince Charming when she notices a slow change in his personality. Before long, she finds herself trapped in an abusive relationship and gaslighted into submission. Stalk Home is a true account of a domestic violence survivor. It encompasses Amanda's struggles and determination to decipher between lies and reality. Isolated and alone, she feels like she's drowning, caught in a whirlwind of emotions. Is loving Brent worth losing herself? Can she walk away when the stakes are this high? Can her premonitions convince her to leave before Brent's violent and perverted desires cause irreparable damage? Stalk Home is a must-read, a tumultuous roller coaster ride that will leave you hanging on the edge of your seat.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jun 23, 2023
• ISBN: 9798350907100

Book preview

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This book is dedicated to my best friend, Tammy, my family, and my wonderful husband. Without your support and patience, my book and my sanity would not have been possible.

In honor of all domestic violence survivors and those who weren’t fortunate enough to make it out alive.

Stalk Home

A Memoir

©2023 Amanda McMurtrey

This is a work of creative nonfiction. While all the stories in this book are true, some names have been changed to protect the privacy of people involved.

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

print ISBN: 979-8-35090-709-4

ebook ISBN: 979-8-35090-710-0

Contents

Preface

Chapter 1. The Beginning of the End

Chapter 2. First Date

Chapter 3. My Hero

Chapter 4. Confessions and Trucking

Chapter 5. Easter and the Motorcycle

Chapter 6. Geysers and the Intervention

Chapter 7. Moving in and Breaking Down

Chapter 8. The Security System and the Biker Club

Chapter 9. Oil Field Daddy

Chapter 10. Dreams of Alaska

Chapter 11. The Poltergeist and the Pistol

Chapter 12. Old Car, New Car

Chapter 13. Congratulations?

Chapter 14. I Did a Bad, Bad Thing

Chapter 15. Broken

Chapter 16. Sildenafil

Chapter 17. Gaslighting

Chapter 18. Graduation

Chapter 19. Premonition

Chapter 20. The Secret

Chapter 21. Sturgis

Chapter 22. Leaving

Chapter 23. The Aftermath

Epilogue

Preface

Right now, I’m stuck. I’m trapped in the space between the living and the dead. Call it numbness, call it disassociation.

I’m compelled to write, but I find myself lost within the swamp of alphabet soup bubbling in my mind. I’ve always been inquisitive by nature, always seeking answers when sometimes there are none to be found. I’m trying to remember, and forgive, the tangents and irrelevant details.

Is everything relevant? Or is nothing relevant?

The frustration I feel makes me teeter on the brink of insanity. One wrong step, and I’m dead too. Or am I already dead and have yet to realize it? Am I being punished for past transgressions? Sins from another life perhaps? Is this my karma?

I write this now, picking at the edges of my champagne-glitter acrylic nails—a birthday present from a man I thought I knew. My nails—minor extensions of a version of myself that existed before the main event.

I loved him in those moments—like the rides on the back of the Harley to the nail salon. I would get my nails done as a Vietnamese woman gingerly went to work buffing the callouses from his feet. He was the ultimate macho man. He towered above me at six feet three inches, and 240 pounds. He was a bearded, tattooed, ex-Navy SEAL, bad-ass biker. He walked with confidence and commanded respect. He could walk into oncoming traffic like he was invincible. People would stop in awe, as if he were a majestic bison sauntering across Yellowstone.

Brent Bear, I called him. My giant teddy bear who would give his life to protect me.

I’m wearing his HMK sweater. I need to wash it, but I can’t bring myself to wash him out and off of me. No, not yet.

I can hear him now, in his gruff and condescending tone, scolding me for smoking in it. So, what do I do? I instinctively reach for another cigarette. I light it and deeply inhale as a cloud of smoke slowly engulfs me. It brings no comfort, especially since the clerk at the local gas station gave me the wrong box of cigarettes. I was too detached to notice.

Cliché or not, everyone has a story to tell, and this is mine. It’s one of the few things I can truly call my own. It’s a story of love, lust, control, manipulation, greed, betrayal, revenge, and despair. It will offend the sensibilities of any rational human being. It’s raw and unfiltered in its purest form, and I refuse to apologize for being authentic.

After all, one of us had to be.

Chapter 1

The Beginning of the End

I was fine. I was fine without him. I had everything. I used to scream these words at him whenever he failed to deliver on promises made. But like the flies to a carcass, I always went back for more, always believing his candied words and dreams for our future.

But I was fine. I was better than fine.

I’d recently kicked him, my alcoholic husband, out. I’d been enrolled in a registered nursing program at a local community college and was set to graduate in the spring of 2019. I was drunk on liberation and a new chance at independence.

It was just me and Squeak again with our two dogs. Moosie was a black-and-tan miniature pinscher, and Boogie Boy was a white Chihuahua mix. Squeak and I were the unstoppable duo, the coolest chicks in Idaho Falls.

Squeak is my pride and joy, my daughter from a different failed relationship. She was eleven by this time and completely perfect in my eyes. While I hadn’t taken into consideration the financial repercussions of kicking my husband out, I’d managed to find the perfect arrangement that would be the solution to our financial needs: I groomed dogs at a local grooming salon by day, a skilled trade I acquired years ago. By night, I was Mayhem, the mistress of darkness.

I’d decided to put the eight-inch platform shoes back on and dance at probably the most conservative strip club in the United States.

OK, let’s be honest. There wasn’t any stripping involved. It was a glorified bikini bar at best—a dive bar that sold only beer. A hole in the wall, but I loved it. I’d never expected my breast implants to be a financial investment, but the girls definitely helped. I’ve always had an ass, so that wasn’t a problem. While I wasn’t a size two, and never will be, I was perfectly curvy and proportionate, a welcome addition to the two bean poles who were already dancing there.

I had my CNA certification and could have worked in hospice for a measly $9 an hour, or I could end my night with anywhere from $250 to $600 cash in my pocket. I wasn’t ashamed. It was a means to an end as well as an ego boost. There was something extremely satisfying about having power over a man and his pocketbook. I would leave them hot and hard, with hope and fantasy of something more.

Now, I’m only human, and as a human, I have needs. One night I made the mistake of agreeing to a casual sexual tryst. While the guy was well-endowed and I was in need of a good dicking, his member got shy, and I ended up having to get myself off. I’d thought I’d made it clear that I was interested only in sex. At first, I didn’t even let him into my room, for God’s sake. Imagine my surprise when I woke up all cricked out of shape from sleeping on the love seat, and he was still in my fucking house!

It was awkward, to say the least. I’m not fond of being stared at, especially when I’m trying to sleep. He scored a little higher up on the creeper scale for my liking. For all intents and purposes, I will refer to him as Stage 5, because that’s what he became—a goddamn Stage 5 clinger.

Like a puppy excited to go on a car ride, he was always there with his pleading eyes and needy disposition. It was pathetic. He made only about $800 a month working part-time doing janitorial work. He begged me to stop dancing and offered to give me his entire paycheck if I did. I scoffed at the offer and reminded him of our sex-only arrangement. Besides, I made at least double that in a month working only weekends.

From the very beginning, I told him that I value my alone time and my privacy. I kept dropping little hints like, I can’t miss you if you don’t leave and Did you forget where you live?

He couldn’t take a hint. His very presence irritated me. I felt smothered, and I hated him for it. I wasn’t prepared to be anyone’s mommy. I was already a single parent.

Nearing the end of our arrangement, I’d begun to talking to and texting Brent. I met him while dancing at the club. While this was a big no-no, I was intrigued. When he first came in, he didn’t seem to pay me much attention. We chatted a little, and he told me he was ex-military. We played a game of pool, and he showed me his tattoos. The tattoo across his shoulder blades was absolutely atrocious. It read, Country Boy. Underneath was a woman with curly hair on a motorcycle. The proportions were all wrong, and she appeared awkward and boxy. The face was something nightmares are made of. To be completely honest, she had the face of Tim Curry.

I remember asking him in the most sarcastic, dry tone I could muster, Why on God’s green earth do you have a tattoo of Dog the Bounty Hunter’s wife on your back?

He forced a chuckle and told me it was his ex-wife.

Everyone makes mistakes, I sang as I trotted away, swinging my hips in my neon green platforms.

However, it was Darlene, another dancer, he was smitten with. She was a recovering meth addict who’d recently been introduced to cocaine. However, she was also twenty-two, free-spirited, and vivacious. I wished I had an ounce of the energy and enthusiasm this girl had for life.

She was enchanted with Brent and made me well aware that he was off-limits. She pulled me aside and said, Mayhem, I want him.

I whispered back in her ear, I’ll give him a couple of lap dances, but you can go ahead and have him.

By God, I wish she’d kept him.

I didn’t see him at the club for about a month. Then, one evening, I was sitting at the bar taking a long drag off my cigarette when he walked in the door. He was wearing a pink snowmachine racing coat, a Monster-sponsored baseball cap, and glasses, and he had a pretty good beard growing on him.

His first words were, Hi, Mayhem. Can I buy you a drink?

His name escaped me, and I felt like such a shithead. Then it came to me. Sure, I said. It’s Brent, right?

He professed, Yeah, you’re breaking my heart. I came in just to see you, and you don’t remember me?

I was shocked. Did he come in to see me? I wondered. Why?

I told him I was sorry but that the glasses and the beard had thrown me for a loop. He settled down next to me and told me about his over-the-road trucking adventures, potato farming, and the current trucking company he worked for. A cue ball jumped off the pool table and landed just underneath our feet. Leave it to my insensitive ass to make an ill-timed joke about PTSD and grenades. I knew he’d seen combat firsthand, but sometimes I speak without thinking. He didn’t seem to be as bothered by the comment as I was.

He bought two lap dances from me, so I led him back into the VIP room and instructed him to sit on the bench. I slowly unbuttoned his shirt and peeled it off. As I ran my fingers down his chest and through his hair, I noticed a sizable collection of scars near his sternum. Many had indentations.

He said, Never mind those. I was shot in combat overseas.

I placed his hands on my hips and gently kissed up and down the sides of his neck, stopping only to nibble, gyrate, and moan as if I were enjoying it as much as he. Normally, I’m completely shit at acting. I hated drama class in high school. I considered it a form of lying, which I’m equally terrible at. I’ve always said that the FBI should use me for training and demonstration purposes in the tell-tale signs of deceit. My eyes shift, my voice quivers, my face flushes, and my ears get hot while I attempt to tell a bald-faced lie. If you’re lucky enough, I start to pace around, busying myself by fumbling with the laundry or dishes—anything to distract from the guilt on my face. I’ve never understood how people can lie so effortlessly.

So when I was dancing, I wasn’t Amanda anymore. I was Mayhem, my sexy, witty, mysterious alter ego, if you will. This justified my facade and sultry performances.

While changing positions on Brent’s lap, my knee grazed his package. Yep. Just as expected, he was rock solid. He wasn’t enormous, but big enough to catch my attention.

Halfway through the second lap dance, he asked me if I would like to go out on a date with him sometime. Normally, I would have said it was against club rules to date patrons or use the excuse that I was too busy with work and school. However, for some reason still unknown to me, I agreed and slipped him my number on a napkin, with my real name scribbled at the top.

A mistake that would haunt me for the rest of my life.

Chapter 2

First Date

Brent started texting me almost immediately to ensure that I hadn’t given him a fake number. Once he realized my number was authentic, he stood up, lumbered over to the stage, and tossed me a crisp $10 bill.

I pouted my freshly glossed lips and mouthed the words thank you.

With that, he tipped his cap, gave a nod, turned, and briskly strode out of the building. Strange, I thought. It seemed he wasn’t too inclined to return my attention and wasn’t prepared to pay for exclusivity for the night. But he knew he didn’t need to. He had my number.

We made plans through messaging to meet up at a local bar for drinks, a couple rounds of pool, and karaoke. While I’m a terrible pool player, I’m an avid singer. I’m able to hold my own, and I have a knack for choosing the perfect songs for my vocal range, tone, and style.

Before our date, I decided to take a bubble bath. I had my phone on the side of the tub to keep myself entertained while I soaked away my exhaustion. I had two part-time jobs and went to school full-time. Between clinical hours and my two jobs, the only day I had to rest was Sunday. However, that day was also reserved for homework and studying for exams. Thursday through Saturday, I averaged only about three hours of sleep a night. One of the few self-care rituals I allowed myself was my occasional soak in my jetted tub.

I closed my eyes and slowly lay back in my tub to rinse the shampoo from my hair. With eyes still closed and my lips just barely breaking the surface of the water, I felt a presence and was certain I wasn’t alone. I audibly gasped and sat up with such force that I sloshed about half a gallon of sudsy water onto the floor.

It was none other than Stage 5, leaning against the doorway, completely expressionless.

What the fuck are you doing? I snapped. You’re just letting yourself in now?

The disdain in my voice poured out effortlessly, and my words, like vinegar, made him wince.

Where are you going? he asked.

Out, I responded bluntly. You’re smothering me, and I need some time away from you. I need to reevaluate what I want, because I don’t think whatever this is, is working. I was up front from the beginning about what I wanted and what I didn’t want.

I was livid that he thought he could come in without asking and act like he had a right to me. You show up at my house uninvited, you want to be with me 24/7, and I just can’t. You’re draining me. I’m sorry, but after work, school, and my daughter, I don’t have a lot of energy or time to invest in you. I’m sorry.

Well, what time are you going to be back? he asked. Because I’d like to discuss this more with you.

I’ll be out until closing, I assume. Don’t wait up for my call, because I’m probably not going to be in the mood to rehash this with you tonight.

Stage 5 sulked, then slunk his way up the stairs and out of the house like a child who’d been chastised.

I was nervous to meet up with Brent, but Lord only knows why. It felt as if a sparrow was caught in my chest, beating its wings frantically against my insides, trying to escape. I just wanted to make a good impression. But why was I so fixated on having Brent’s approval? Why did his opinion matter so much?

I shook the negative self-talk from my brain. Then I got out of the tub and threw on my favorite pair of jeans and my gray sweater with the embroidered cherry blossoms on the sleeve. I meticulously applied my makeup, threw my hair in a bun, and headed out the door.

As I pulled up to the bar, I checked my makeup in the mirror before opening my driver’s door. Then I stopped. On second thought, I decided to power-drag a cigarette with the intent of calming my ass down before exiting my 4Runner. Halfway through my menthol smoke, I gagged and put it out. That was enough of that. I grabbed my driver’s license and my car keys, then got out to make my grand entrance.

After getting my ID checked at the door, my eyes immediately started scanning the room for Brent.

Bingo. There he was. He already had a pool table picked out and was leaning over it with a pool stick in hand. With one eye closed, he bit his lip and took his shot. I didn’t want to break his concentration, so I hung back and watched. With a flick of his wrist, he sunk the eight ball into a corner pocket. A coy smile spread across his face, and when he looked up, his eyes met mine.

Hi, Mayhem. Or can I call you Amanda?

You can call me anything you want, but Amanda works fine.

Well, Amanda. What are you drinking?

A double Jack in Diet Coke, I blurted out, probably too quickly.

Hmm. I wouldn’t have pegged you for a whiskey drinker, he said with a raised eyebrow.

Well, I’m mysterious and full of surprises, I said with a wink.

I quickly gulped down my drink, almost giving myself a brain freeze. Then, like magic, my face and chest flushed, and the tops of my ears went hot. Yep. I was buzzed. I hadn’t eaten much before I’d left, and I’d let my nerves get the better of me.

Whoa, easy there, tiger. Are you all right? Brent asked.

Oh yeah, I feel fanfuckingtastic. I’m gonna go put my name on the list ’cause I wanna sing. I pranced over to the DJ and told him what song I wanted.

When I turned around, Brent had another Jack and Coke ready for me, and I immediately began sipping it. Somehow I felt as if I was embarrassing myself over and over again. I kept profusely apologizing for stupid things. I explained it had been so long since I’d been on a date that I didn’t know how to act. With a wave of his hand, he quickly dismissed my concerns.

We played a couple of games of pool. I won once, but only because he let me play slops. We talked about movies, places we’d been to, and music we liked.

Before long, the DJ announced my turn to sing and my choice of song. I’d almost forgotten entirely about singing. With sweaty palms and my heart thumping, I took hold of the microphone and made my way over to the screen. I sing better when I’m sober, but somehow I managed to sing Bette Davis Eyes flawlessly in my raspy style without any hiccups, regardless of my shaking. I could feel Brent’s gaze, like lasers burning holes in the back of my head. He slowly made his way to my left, and I could see him in my peripheral vision. His expression showed complete awe and adoration. I caught his gaze, and, like the naive girl I was, I blushed and cast my eyes downward.

When my song was over and the applause and hollering from the patrons had subsided, I playfully scampered over to Brent. Before I could say anything stupid to inevitably fuck up the moment, he placed a hand under my chin and firmly brought his lips to mine.

His kiss took my breath away. It made my knees weak and set my thighs ablaze. There was more passion in that kiss than in the entirety of my marriage.

After the dizziness subsided, Brent led me to a chair along the south wall and carefully guided me onto his lap. I willfully obliged without hesitation. I was immersed in the moment, no doubt throwing my head back and laughing hysterically at an ill-timed joke, when Brent’s arm suddenly flew up and blocked something from hitting me square in the face.

I sobered up instantly.

Brent shoved me aside and lunged out of the chair. Stage 5 had managed to discover my whereabouts and had thrown a pack of tropical Starbursts at my head!

I was furious. I’d been trying to distance myself from him for over a month, and he wasn’t taking a hint. I’d told him I needed space and didn’t want to see him tonight, and this was how he listened? He was acting as if we were together even though I’d reiterated daily that we weren’t.

How did he find me? I wondered. Did he drive to every local bar looking for my car? He was giving off serious creeper vibes, and I’d had enough of him.

I had to tug on Brent’s arm, dig my heels into the carpet, and lean backward with my entire body weight to prevent Brent from sending Stage 5 to meet Jesus.

Luckily for Stage 5, he was able to skulk his way outside and disappear into the night. Once Brent finished ranting about the little fucking bastard triggering his PTSD, I convinced him to calm down and leave the bar. The last thing I wanted to do was make a scene.

We sat in Brent’s blue Dodge pickup truck in the parking lot while we decided where to go. I chain-smoked about four cigarettes while I regained my composure and explained to Brent the predicament I’d found myself in with Stage 5.

Brent listened intently, then interjected, Do you want to go to Denny’s?

I was confused by his question but relieved at the thought of a change in scenery, so I silently nodded between drags on my cigarette.

On the ride over to the diner, Brent asked me about my friends and family. I babbled and chattered on about a childhood friend I’d recently kicked out of my house. She was a homeless meth addict who’d been living in Olympia, Washington, until she’d called me begging for help. Though I’d had my reservations about the notion, I’d finally capitulated on the condition that she detox, hold a job, and follow my