Solved Murders - True Crime Stories - The Day My Father Cut Me with a Saw Was the Day I Cut Him Out of My Life Forever #68

Episode Date: August 7, 2025

#horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #ScaryStories #creepypasta #horrortales #familytrauma #cuttingties #toxicrelationships #darkfamilysecrets #survivorstory  The day the narrator’s father cut them with a saw marks the breaking point, leading to a permanent and painful severance from a toxic past and the start of healing and self-preservation.  horrorstories reddithorrorstories scarystories horrorstory creepypasta horrortales family trauma toxicrelationships abuse survival healing darksecrets emotionalstory brokenfamily scars betrayal

My father and I always seem to have a difficult relationship. I tried to be a good kid, but it didn't seem like it was enough. I struggled through school, having a hard time being able to keep my grades higher than A.C. He criticized me for it, saying how I just wasn't applying myself. I tried to help out around the house more when he became physically disabled, cleaning the whole house except for his room. He still called me lazy and told me I don't do anything for him. He would even accuse me of stealing from him.

Not money, though. He thought that I was stealing tools of his and hoarding them in my room. He even thought that I had stolen some of his medicinal plants. I never did any of this. Never once did he think that it might have been the shady crackheads that he invited over regularly. But because he thought I was stealing from him, he would regularly search my room. He would tear it apart, flipping over my bed, pulling out of my bed, pulling out of him. out drawers from my desk, even looking inside the tower of my computer. He found nothing,

and when he was done, he would make some excuse for his actions by saying that I must have sold them to my friends to go by drugs. I was getting tired of it. It was starting to become a weekly problem. Each time, he would tear apart my room. Each time, he would find nothing. And every time it happened, I was the one stuck with reorganizing my room. This went on, almost through my entire teenage years, and I finally had enough. I had to stand up for myself. One day, he was looking for a set of tools, a bag of wood chisels. He couldn't find them.

And so started the accusations. Where are my chisels? He said, I don't know. I responded, don't you lie to me, boy. I'm not lying to you. I bet they're up in your room. I don't have your tools. That's it, I'm going to go look in your room.

If I find them up there, I'm beating your ass. I had had enough. He was accusing me of something I didn't do again, and it needed to stop. I stood up, I'm not going to let you tear apart my room again. Excuse me? You do this every time, I said, whenever you can't find something of yours, you blame me. You go into my room, tear it apart, and then Then accuse me of selling it when you can't find it.

You're not going in my room. He started to shout, I pay for this roof over your head. It's not your room. It's my room. You're lucky enough to even sleep in there. I shouted back, that's just an excuse to get away with violating your kid's privacy. You're just a child, he yelled, you don't have the right to privacy while under my roof. He took a step towards my room.

I bolted, ran past him, booked it up the stairs, slipped into my room and closed, and locked the door. He came up after me, jiggled the doorknob, and when he realized it was locked, he started to bang on the door. Open this door right now. He screamed. No, I yelled back, I'm not going to let you tear apart my room again. He banged on my door each time harder than the last. I realized he was using his body to try and break the door down. I saw the door frame start to buckle. So, I braced my body against the door.

He felt the resistance from the other side, really. You're going to block the door. Damn right, I am, you crazy bastard. Fuck this. He said. I heard him walk down the stairs. I kept my back braced against the door. I knew it wasn't over.

He finally came back upstairs, huffing and mumbling. something to himself. I heard what sounded like a chord falling to the ground. Then, I was shocked at the next thing I heard. My father turned on his circular saw. He began cutting through the door. I saw the blade peek through the wood. He was being extreme, so I decided to be extreme in response. I shouted loud enough to cut through the noise, if you want to cut through this door, you're going to have to cut through me. He stopped, paused for a moment. He stopped, paused for a moment. then that'll be your own damn fault. He started the saw back up. I thought that there was no way he would actually cut his own son, especially with a saw. Sure, he's hit me in the past, but actually

drawing blood, that was too much. Then it happened. I felt the blade nick me in the shoulder. I pulled away instantly. I put my hand on the spot the blade caught me and sure enough, there was blood. He actually cut me. I realized then that he was willing to hurt his own child just to get his way, and it he didn't care. I stood there, waiting for him to finish cutting through the door. When he made a big enough hole to put half his body through, he reached in and unlocked the door. When it swung open, I stood in his way, stay out of my room. He stepped forward, looming over me, get the hell out of my way. I pushed him, he stumbled back, but he caught himself. He pushed back. I swung, hit him in the jaw. He didn't even flinch. He pointed a finger at me, hit me like that again,

and I'm calling the police on your ass. Go ahead, I responded, whose side do you think they're going to take? The kid who just wanted his privacy, or the adult who took a saw to his son's door and cut him with the blade. He seemed taken aback by this. He realized what this scene would look like to an officer of the law and knew that they would see it as child abuse. Get out of my way, boy. If you want me to move, you're going to have to move me. It seemed like that's what he was looking for. He stepped forward, slapped me across the face, picked me up under my armpits, and slammed me on the ground.

He stepped over me, started tearing apart my room again. I stood up, grabbed him by the back of his shirt and pulled. He wasn't expecting this, but he whirled around and backhanded me. I fell to the ground again. He stood over me, I feed you, clothe you, keep a roof over your head and this is how you treat me. You ungrateful little shit. Get out of my house. Don't come back unless you're crawling on your hands and knees begging to be let back in.

I stood back up again, grabbed the same. my backpack and started to put clothes into it. What are you doing? My father shouted, I said, I'm packing my clothes. I paid for those clothes, not you. Those are my clothes. You're lucky I'm not kicking you out but ass naked. I'm taking some clothes with me, I said, I'm not going to go around in the same clothes for weeks until I get paid. He didn't stop me. I packed my bag and went to leave. Before I made it out the door, I heard my father shout, at this rate, you're going to end up on drugs or in jail. I kept walking. I walked until I felt like I was a safe distance from that house. And when I felt I was far enough away, I collapsed. I started crying. My whole body felt weak.

I managed to pull out my phone and call a friend of mine. When she picked up, she immediately heard me crying, hey, what's going to? on, why are you crying? I explained what happened, told her I got kicked out, that I didn't know where to go. She asked me, where are you? I'm going to come pick you up. She came and got me. We went over to her place, but she let me know that I wouldn't be able to stay there for long due to her rental agreement. I spent the next couple of hours calling friends and seeing who I could stay with. I spent the next couple of months couch hopping, before I finally got a job at a hotel that offered seasonal housing, and then I moved in with another friend of mine, who eventually became my girlfriend. Things settled down for me, and I began to finally build up my own life.

Then one day, almost a year after the incident, one of my friends informed me something about my father. Dude, he said, his phone in hand, I just looked at the county jail roster. Your dad's in jail. What? I responded, let me see that. I looked, and sure enough, there he was. His mug shot a face of sour aggression. Apparently, my father had gone over to someone's house with a friend of his to help this friend get her clothes back. When he got there he was greeted at his truck window by one of the brothers that lived there. My father explained that he was just there to help his friend get her clothes back, but when he looked back at his friend in the truck, he felt something hard hit him in the back of the head. From his statement, my father blacked out,

and his years of training from being in the Marines in his youth took over. He reached down into his door, pulled out his revolver, pointed it out the window, and emptied the cylinder. Six shot fired off and three of them had struck one of the brothers living in that house. He was dead on the scene. When my father came to, he didn't know what had happened, and he said he was confused as to why he woke up in a jail cell. He was tried. He pleaded self-defense. His lawyer made a plea deal. But the judge wasn't having it. The judge said that his story was suspicious due to my father's checkered criminal background and that she need to see all the evidence before making a verdict. After eight months of court hearings,

the case was finally dropped. The judge found that there was insufficient evidence to be be able to prosecute my father due to the fact that all the eyewitnesses that night were all high on methamphetamines. He was to be let go. But on the day my father was to be released, he was picked up by two agents of the FBI, driven to the nearest state penitentiary, and was tried, and ultimately plead guilty to possession with intent to distribute methamphetamines. And it wasn't a small amount. It was a lot. Ten pounds of methamphetamines were reported to be in his possession at one point. He was sentenced to 12 years in a federal penitentiary, with five years of supervised probation, totaling up to 17 years. Cosmic Justice, if you ask me, he's still in prison to this day.

But he isn't going to be serving the full 12 years. When I looked online at his release date, it says that he'll be getting out of prison on July 17, 2027. That would only make it eight years of incarceration. My guess is that he talked. Probably had a couple of agents give him an offer. That if he told them where he got the drugs that they would lighten his sentence. But, I know how these things work. You don't just get that amount of drugs without it coming from some kind of gang. He'll probably get out and they'll hunt him down for snitching on their operation. After all of this went down, I really sat down and thought about it. If he really did talk, and this related to a gang, I could possibly be in danger. I shared a last name with him. I kind of

looked like him. I still had some of his vocal mannerisms. So, I decided to do something to protect myself. I filed to change my last name. That way his name couldn't come back to me. I did research into it. Learned about the kinds of questions I would be asked and how long the hearing would take. They usually last around half an hour. I signed all the paperwork, paid the fees, and was given a date for the hearing as well as the number of the courtroom I would be in. On the day of the hearing, I showed up to the courthouse. I went to the floor my hearing would be at and looked for my name, and the time they would call me in. To my surprise, I found out that they changed the courtroom I would be in. I didn't know why until I was called in. When I sat down and looked at the judge overseeing

my hearing, I quietly laughed to myself. It was the same judge who oversaw my father's trial when he killed a man. The same judge who refused to let my father have a plea deal because of his criminal background. She began the hearing, we are here today for the hearing of underscore underscore underscore underscore underscore underscore underscore underscore underscore underscore underscore. It is my understanding that you are looking to change your last name. Let me ask you, why are you wishing to do this? leaned into the microphone and said, disassociation from a negative parental figure, your honor. She looked down at her papers, nodded her head, picked up a stamp, and marked a sheet of paper, from this day forward, you shall now legally be known as underscore underscore underscore underscore underscore underscore

underscore underscore underscore underscore underscore underscore underscore, please, come up to the stand to collect your paperwork. I stood up and walked to the stand. When she handed me my paperwork, she gave me a look of pride. Something that told me I was doing the right thing. I left the courthouse with a new name and newfound confidence. Sure, I still share the same blood as my father, but I don't need to share his last name. But I know that when he gets out two years from now that he's going to try and get a hold of me. He's going to try and make up for the years he's abused me. Try and tell me that he's changed. But I won't let him, and he won't be able to find me. I have a new name. I have a new name. I live in a different state now.

I look different than how I did back then. Even if he has changed. Even if he has made himself a better person, that doesn't mean I have to let him back into my life. I have learned that blood does not make you family, and for the blood of mine that he let for me that day he kicked me out, he was the one who made that choice to sever me from his life. And I will stand firm on that for the rest of my existence. The end.