Page 1 of Stronger Than Blood
Chapter one
Prologue - Mick Hensley
The old dirt road wound through the pine trees that hung menacingly overhead. The driver, a man who looked to be in his early forties, hadn’t said two words since Mom had shoved me into the back of his car.
It seemed like ages since we’d turned onto the road, and I was feeling nauseous as I bounced around the seat.
At least I knew where I was since I’d been here twice before. The first time had been filled with good memories. When I was little, my mama had brought me home for some reason I no longer can remember. There had been more food than I’d ever seen before, and my grandmother had made me a small stuffed dog.
I’d prized that little dog, the only toy that survived my mother’s frequent moves, until one of the drug addicts Mom seemed to collect had used it to wipe his face after eating pasta and tossed it in the trash. Of course, Mom had laughed along with her other stoned, crackhead friends.
As a child, I’d learned not to hold on to hope. Don’t love anything or anyone. Everything on the planet was temporary,and when you cared about something, someone eventually took it away.
Nothing about the second time I’d come here had been good. Even now, the visit was the source of my nightmares.
The little white house sat perched off to the side of the old road. I was a bookworm and knew that any author would have called it picturesque and romantic in its simplicity. I could even imagine reading the words in my head. But as it came into view, all I could remember was the blood.
When the car pulled up in front of the house, panic gripped me for a moment. I could almost hear Mom’s screaming, the roar as the bullet was fired, the metallic smell of blood that slowly dripped onto my head and shoulders.
I pressed my eyes shut, practicing the breathing techniques I’d read about in a library book on meditation. But even with deep breaths, my brain shut down, closing off so I didn’t have to deal with the trauma of the past.
When I reopened my eyes, an old woman was sitting on the front porch swing. I knew her, although only vaguely—my great-grandmother, Ida.
At first, I didn’t move. Instead, I watched, letting my mind memorize her. I did that whenever I met strangers: I’d memorize people. Then, I knew who to run from or who to avoid if they got to be too much.
My great-grandmother’s long, gray hair hung loose around her shoulders. The woman represented all my fears and, if I’m honest, all my hopes too. She had shot the man Mom had brought with us that day, and though she hadn’t managed to save my grandmother, there was no doubt she’d saved Mom and me, as well as herself. The maniac had gone there with a purpose: to kill everyone he could, and he’d almost succeeded.
Memories flooded me like when they released water at the Pickwick Dam where my mom would sometimes take me.
I was little, small enough I fit snugly in my grandmother’s lap. I can’t see her face, don’t even remember what she looked like. Just that while I sat in her lap, I felt safe, loved… In a way I never usually felt.
She smelled like cookies, and the shirt she was wearing had some kind of fluffy substance on the collar. I wasn’t sure what it was, I just remembered that it was white, and it tickled my ears, which caused me to giggle.
When I did, she’d bend down and snuggle into my neck, kissing me there, then tell me how much she loved me. Something no one else had ever said to me.
It’s strange how those memories stuck in my head, especially after what happened next.
I don’t know what prompted it, but I just remember one minute I was being held, and Grandmother was promising me a cookie early before we ate. Then…BANG
At first I thought rain was pouring down on me, when I looked up into the face of the man Mom had brought with her. He was ugly. I didn’t like him. I never liked Mom’s men friends, but this one really made me feel sick in my tummy.
His face was scarred, and his hair looked like Chucky the doll’s. Mom had watched that with one of her other men friends and let me stay up to see it with them. I cried by myself for nights after watching it. Funny how much he was like Chucky. Or not funny, not really funny at all.
He was holding a gun, and in my memories, there was smoke coming out of the hole at the end. I read on the internet that smoke really didn’t come out, but even now, I can clearly picture the gun with white smoke pouring out the end.
I don’t know if I understood that I was about to die, at least not until my grandmother’s hands fell to her sides. I looked down and realized the rain that’d sprayed over me was red. Red as inblood, but not like the blood on television. This was brighter and thicker and dripped down my hair onto my arms.
I looked back up at the man, who was still smiling. I remember at some point someone, probably a social worker or a policeman, said he’d likely been trying to shoot me and missed. I always wondered if that’s why he smiled? He was getting to try again?
I remember watching as his head exploded, blood and pieces of flesh blown from his head—his brains?—splattering onto the far wall. My current nightmares still included the sight and sound of that goop hitting the wall, while Ida, this woman, my great-grandmother, stood in front of him holding a larger gun and looking fierce. I know now it was a hunting rifle and she must’ve had experience using it.
My only way of dealing with that day was to research and research. Looking for any information I could about what’d actually happened, at least relating to the things I could remember.
But I don’t recall what happened next, only blackness with some sirens, lights, strangers—all men in uniforms surrounding me. At some point I was in a hospital, but… it’s mostly blank. Dark, scary, empty memories…
The knock startled me. I looked up and saw my great-grandmother standing at the car window. How had she moved so fast? “You should come in before the driver charges me another month’s wages.”
Did she still work? I hesitantly opened the car door, and after she’d paid the driver, I followed her up to the old house.
