Case File Gibson

The case of Chase Gibson always amazed me as a social worker, especially in such a quaint town of Essex Connecticut. It's a quiet quaint town where everyone knows everyone and before Chase, it was always that way. I've never met such an interesting yet ordinary 15-year-old boy who had the wisdom, strength, and perseverance of no adult I had ever even met till he grew up of course. However, let's start from the day I met him which to me would be the start of something I had no idea change my life as well as the lives of millions around the world. It was a quiet Tuesday morning on the corner of Aldon street. I was walking up to the Gibson residence at about 10:30 Am. As I walked up to the house all I could hear was a large dog barking and the sound of whines and tears that appeared to be coming from a child along with the screams of a clearly drunk father. Those were the only sounds you can hear for what felt like miles. And to my surprise, none of the neighbors was woken up from them as if this happens all the time. I was also able to tell from my past 20 years of experience the father could be abusive as "assumed" in the file. So I approach the door with much caution for not only my safety but the child's well-being. As I begin to knock on the surprisingly clean white door flung open sending a hint of terror down my spine as I keep a strong posture. A large caucasian man about 6ft tall, looks like he could weigh 200 pounds or more, brown eyes, black hair, which had to be Micheal Gibson. I can smell the scent of alcohol fresh off his breath as he breathes as if he has been drinking since the crack of dawn. At that moment I knew something wasn't okay and that kid needs to be taken out of there quickly. The man almost yelled in anger which was only strengthened by alcohol, "Who the hell are you and what do you want, woman ?!". It was not to my surprise that he answered this since the mailbox was filled to the brim with letters that looked like they came from the school, the Lincoln High School for the Wise. So I respond, " Hello Sir my name is Jacqueline Phoebe

and I am a social worker from child protective services. I am here to investigate the case against Michael Gibson concerning Chase Gibson. Are you Mr. Gibson correct?". I knew I was correct but it was protocol to ask to make sure we were talking to the right person. Mr. Gibson still yells' ' Look lady I don't care why in god names you are here. I want you off my freaking steps now!" And as always I followed my protocol and said in a calm collective manner, " I am sorry to tell you I can not leave and I have a warrant. If you do not let me in now I will have to get the police involved to enforce it.". "You know what fine, whatever, get your way. That's what you goshdarn government rats are good at doing".

Mr. Gibson let me in with rage in his eyes but I was stunned to also see a hint of sorrow in his eyes as if something awful had happened to him. That's when an awful draft came from the house that was so strong if this was my first day on the job I would have puked. It smelt like feces, ammonia, rotten food, and alcohol. I was amazed at how they were even still alive and could be living with this strong potent smell. As I step into a pile of dog feces and plenty of more feces along the hall like if it was a trail to the dog. You can see a Mount. Everest tall pile of dishes some with full plates of food covered in mold and trash in the kitchen. I prayed that the smell of death was rotten meat that was left out and never cooked instead of something worse. I watched my step as I walked around the house to inspect the rest of the house to see if there was at least a clean comfortable room that this poor child slept in. I can already tell these allegations were sadly true. I can feel Mr. Gibson eye me like a hawk as I started to walk around the house. The bathroom and the two bedrooms were even worse than the kitchen. I was shocked to find that one of the rooms belonged to the dog. Even the dog who barked loud and ruthlessly was in awful shape. It seemed barely trained and not groomed for months on end. The living room was the worst out of all, there were rows of empty liquor bottles enough for 2 or more bars. Some bottles were even big enough to last more than a few months but only lasted probably at most to 2 days for Mr. Gibson. There was also a couch, tv, nightstand, and astonishment to see a mattress in one of the corners of the room.