November Writings: Bleeding

There was never any blood that I remember from that deer strung upside down for slaughter on the tree every November when my then stepfather brought it home from his hunt. I'm sure there was some initial processing of the deer prior to bringing it home. I honestly don't remember it bleeding, but from the things I witnessed, it seems like their should have been.

My stepfather was a church-going, wife-beating, asshole of a man. He had a quiet, gruff voice, and the look of the devil when he got angry. My mother met him when I was in third grade. By fourth grade, they were married. My stepfather had a habit of beating the shit out of my mother, and somehow always relating it back to something I personally had done. He always reminded me that it was my fault. "I hope you're happy with what you've done," he told me.

Blood on the hands of a child, bruises on the body of my mother.

I knew then that I wasn't responsible, yet that went somewhere inside me. It's hard to wash away that stain of blame from one's soul. I mean, no one forced his fists onto my mother's body, but I was admittedly extra grumpy one day when it happened. Perhaps if I hadn't whined about having to load up more packed boxes for an impending move. If only I had just eaten the venison laced chili without the tears and complaints on a different occasion. Just maybe, had I remembered my place upon returning home from a wonderful month of joy and safety with my grandmother, if I had kept my mouth shut, it wouldn't have caused the chain of events leading to him pounding his fists against my mother. 

There was never any blood that I remember on my mother, left broken in the family room floor, bruises across her body, tears streaming down her face. I honestly don't remember her bleeding, but from the things I witnessed, it seems like there should have been.

Every time they fought, every time he escalated it into physical violence, he would end the discussion by cleaning his guns. One by one he would lay them out on the coffee table. Assembling them, loading them, handling them, polishing them. It was another form of intimidation, of course.

I always wondered, fear pounding loudly inside me, which gun it was that killed those deer strung up outside on the tree every November.

I always wondered which gun it would be that killed us, as well.