Page 19 of Cole: Bloodlines
Henry didn’t sleep at all that night. He lay on top of the bed, shaking violently, eyes glazed and fixed on some indistinct point on the wall of his bedroom. Though he had scrubbed himself raw in the scalding bath, he still felt the woman’s bloodon his hands, heard her voice in his head, pleading… pleading for death…
Please… kill me…
After leaving the bath, Henry went to his room wearing just a towel, his mind numb with the horror of what his father had forced him to do. At the window, he saw his dad by the large pig pen, tossing things over the fence. The heavy sows and the strong boar went into a feeding frenzy, shoving violently against each other to get at whatever his dad was feeding them.
But Henry knew what it was. His dad was “cleaning up the mess.”
Pigs will eat every part of an animal, his dad had told him: bones and all.
The perfect cleanup crew—no evidence left behind.
Henry then thought about the pugs his dad butchered, the bacon and sausage he made from them, and all the breakfast meat Henry had eaten. He puked again, even though his stomach was still empty.
After dry heaving, left with a bitter taste of raw bile in his throat, Henry crawled onto his bed without dressing, and lay on top of the covers as the biting cold seeped into his raw skin. Maybe he would freeze to death, and the nightmare would be over. He stared at the braided bracelet, the leather wet from the bath. A single blood drop stain darkened a spot on the leather band. His eyes fixed on that stain as if it meant something deeper that his thirteen-year-old mind couldn’t quite grasp. He finally closed his eyes, praying with all his might that they never opened again.
His prayers went unanswered, and he opened his eyes to a chilly morning, fog pressing against his bedroom window, too thick for the early sunlight to penetrate. Warmth filled his body beneath a heavy blanket that had been draped over him during the night.
Henry felt hollowed out as he dressed and headed to the kitchen. The smell of bacon wafted through the house, and Henry’s stomach flipped, nearly making him rush to the bathroom. He fought off the nausea and took his seat at the table while his dad used a fork to turn the strips of bacon in the frying pan.
“How many eggs?” his dad asked without looking at him. “One? Two?”
Henry felt lightheaded from nausea and the overwhelming terror from yesterday. “I’m not hungry,” he whispered sickly. “I-I don’t feel good.”
“Got to keep your strength.” His dad looked at him. “You’re a growing boy.” He cracked two eggs into a second frying pan. “Though you took a huge step in becoming a man yesterday. I know the first one isn’t easy, but you did well.” When the eggs were ready, he brought a plate of eggs, bacon, and toast to the table, placing it before Henry. He gripped Henry’s shoulder a bit too hard. “Next time, you’ll do better.” It wasn’t so much a reassurance as a demand.
Henry stared at the slices of cooked bacon—once his favorite breakfast food—and tried not to puke right onto the plate as he imagined the pigs tearing into the dead woman’s flesh, devouring her down to her bones, then eating the bones, too.
“Go on,” his dad said with a firm squeeze to his shoulder. Henry winced. “Eat up.” He returned to the stove and shut off the burners. “I have to run into the station for a bit, but I’ll be back early.” The smile he flashed at Henry made the boy’s blood run cold. “Maybe I’ll bring you home a… treat. Something more your style to practice on.”
No… no… please no…
His dad left a few minutes later, and Henry threw away his breakfast. He stepped outside and sat on the porch steps,gazing down the long, winding drive. The fog was beginning to lift as the sun slowly burned it off.
I don’t know what to do, he thought with utter despair as he hugged his aching stomach and rocked back and forth. Tears streamed down his face as he thought about Ezra. Ezra would tell him to run away, far away, and never come back—and Ezra would go with him.
But Ezra wasn’t here, and Henry was too scared his dad would catch him if he ran. He hung his head, sobbing against his chest.
A truck engine rumbled in the distance.
Henry jerked his head up, his heart pounding as he thought his dad was coming back. But it was too early for his dad to come home. Henry stood up and wrapped his arm around the porch pole, squinting down the driveway. When he saw the Bronco, he thought it was his dad after all. As it got closer, he recognized Deputy Roland behind the wheel.
Relief washed over Henry, but only slightly. What would the deputy do if Henry told him about his dad? He seemed kind, but Henry was just a kid—and his dad was the Sheriff. And his dad had threatened to hurt the deputy if Henry told him anything.
“Hey, there.” Deputy Roland smiled as he stepped out of the truck. His smile didn’t send cold chills down Henry’s spine like his father’s did. “How are you today, Henry?”
Henry wiped his wet eyes and shrugged.
The deputy frowned as he approached. “Hey… what’s wrong?”
Henry sniffed, his chin trembling. “I… I miss Ezra.” It wasn’t a lie—not at all. He missed Ezra so much he wanted to curl up and die.
“Here, sit down.” Rolan patted his arm and sat next to him on the steps.
“My dad isn’t here,” Henry whispered.
“I know. I came out to check on you.” He gently squeezed Henry’s shoulder, unlike his dad’s painful grip. “I’m sorry Ezra had to move away. It’s tough being apart from someone you care about so much, especially when you’re young. But I’m sure he’s thinking about you.”
No, he isn’t, Henry thought as his heart shattered and tears ran down his face. He’s dead—my dad killed him!
