When the Blood Runs Thick

Meeting Annie Henderson

I chase Nina up the stairs, our small, chubby fingers gripping the steps as we hurry. We burst into our room with an explosion of excitement and laughter. Leo is waiting in the kitchen for us. We're going to play dolls. Nina and I grab our twin dolls, which are named Rose and Lily. Then we bound down the stairs and explode into the kitchen. Mom is at the counter, cutting up something with a giant knife.

"It's about time you guys came!" Leo says, his Superman doll in hand. "I've been waiting forever!!"

"Not our fault that you're a meanie and didn't grab our dollies too!" Nina says, plopping down on the floor. I sit down next to her.

"Superman isn't a dolly! He's an action figure! Get it right, stupid!"

"Hey. No calling each other stupid or meanies." Mom turns and gives them the stink eye. She's a beautiful woman. Straight blonde hair and glistening blue eyes, just like the ocean.

My siblings and I begin to create a story with our dolls, the story getting more and more complex as we go. Then we hear the front door open and slam shut. We all immediately know who it is: Dad. And we all know Dad isn't the kindest man in the world, so we start to look at each other with fear-stricken expressions. Then he storms in and starts screaming at Mom. Why, I don't really know. The argument starts escalating, like a small fire developing into a raging inferno. The next thing I know, Dad is snatching the knife off the counter, its blade shimmering, and thrusts it into Mom's chest repeatedly, blood soaking her shirt and slowly dripping onto the floor. Leo, Nina, and I all scream and beg him to stop. He doesn't. Once Mom lying dead on the floor, he turns to us, blood running off the knife. He squeezes Leo's wrist, causing him to squeal, and digs the knife through his throat. Leo hits the ground and is quickly engulfed in a pool of blood. Nina and I scream, my body trembling with fear. I want to stop Dad, but my body won't allow me. Nina runs forward and grabs Dad's arms, trying to single handedly pull him back. She begs him to stop. He swings his arm, the knife slicing through Nina's throat, more blood spilling onto the floor. Then his gaze meets mine and my heart skips a beat, fear freezing my body.

"You. I've always hated you the most," Dad says, a demonic look in his eyes.

Dad kneels and starts to press the knife into my throat. Salty tears flow down my cheeks, sliding into the cut, making it sting. I feel the thick, warm, sticky blood slowly roll down my neck. Dad's brow furrows, his mouth becoming a crooked, evil smile. I close my eyes, telling him to stop, telling him that he's hurting me. Suddenly, sirens blare, startling both Dad and I. Dad curses under his breath, says I got lucky, and presses the knife to his wrist and slits it. The kitchen floor has become a sea of blood with bodies as the boats that mindlessly float in the thick red sea--

I wake in a panic, my mouth dry, my body trembling uncontrollably, and heart pounding against my chest, threatening to burst. It was just a dream... a horrible, nauseating, bloody dream. But there is one small catch to this dream: It actually happened. That day took place twelve years ago when I was five in the middle of the summer, but that day haunts me every waking moment. I do my best to suppress the memory.

But why did Dad do what he did, I don't know. I never even understood why Dad had been so angry with Mom that day. Mom hadn't done anything bad that I had known of. I also question why Dad didn't kill me right before he killed himself. Maybe he panicked and did the first thing that popped into his mind.

With a sigh, I climb out of bed and, not being much of a morning person, trudge over to my closet on the other side of my room. I slip out of my pajamas and dress in a deep green shirt with loose sleeves that hang slightly past the middle of my palm and jeans. My room is small, but so is everyone else's room that lives here in Hyate Orphanage. Hyate Orphanage is a very poor orphanage that only houses about thirty children, all between the ages of twelve and eighteen.

Hyate Orphanage is located in Eastern tip of Minnesota, only twenty miles from Lake Superior. And in the orphanage, on every room's door, hangs a sign with the occupant's name written on it. Mine reads Annie Henderson.

I glance over at my clock. It's almost seven which means that Joan, the owner of Hyate Orphanage, and her husband will soon be waking everyone up for school. Like most kids, I don't like going to school, but for a different reason than most.

Now, I know that it's sad that I've been an orphan for twelve years, but it's not my fault no one has wanted to adopt me. I mean, I want a family. I really, really, really want a family. It would be nice to have a parents that tells me they love me. Families have had meetings with me where they get to know me a bit and I get to know them. The families that do meet with me say that they'll think about adopting me and never contact Joan again about me. Not having a family has made me start to think that no one really cares for me, and no one does.

I walk into the miniature bathroom that my room is adjacent to. I shut and lock the door just so I know I'm alone and that no one can bother me. On the counter lies a razorblade with dried blood on it. I stare at it for a few seconds before picking it up. The blade is cold in my hand, but it feels right, like it belongs there. I pull up my sleeve and dig the edge of the blade into the thin, pale skin of my forearm, adding to my collection of previous cuts. Blood leaks out of the cut and the harder I press, the more blood that comes out. It streams down my arm like a thick, red river. The blood then slowly drips into the sink, sliding down the drain. Over the years, I've become numb to the pain of the blade slicing open my skin and seeing the amount of blood that spills out of my arm. The most blood I've ever seen was when I slit my wrist-blood had soaked the floor. My hands had also been covered in the warm, sticky liquid. So, after that incident, Joan had tried sending me to a support group, which didn't help me. I turn the faucet on, rinsing the blood off my arm, stopping the bleeding with tissues, and yanking my sleeve over my collection of cuts. Now, my collection is larger than you think. It's not only on my arms...

I quickly brush my hair and teeth. Before I leave the bathroom, I take a good long look in the mirror. My eyes are usually the first thing people notice when they see me because of how vibrant of a blue they are, like newly blossomed forget-me-nots. The second thing usually noticed is how many freckles I have; they span from cheek to cheek and they creep up the bridge of my nose.

Downstairs, I make a plate of food. The orphanage sometimes operates sort of like a school, though it's not one. There's several options of food in a bar and you can choose what you want, but you can only take a certain amount because the orphanage can't afford to buy a lot of food. Then you sit at one of the tables that they have set out. And, like a school, there are groups that kids fit into. These kids tend to always hang out with each other and eat together. And surprise, surprise, I belong to none of the groups. I've always wanted to be part of one of the groups, but none of them like me, calling me insane. I'm not though. I've never been insane.

"Hey, look who it is! It's the town's reject!" a kid my age yells. The room bursts into cruel laughter. My chest tightens and I duck my head. Why comments like that tear my heart apart, I honestly don't know.

I sit at a table by myself, trying my best to block out everyone's laughter and harsh comments. On my plate lies three tiny pancakes and a fluffy biscuit. Joan says I should eat more, but I'm usually not very hungry. In my opinion, the orphanage is the one basically starving us. I mean, they restrict us on the amount of food we can eat just because they don't have enough money. And besides, why should I listen to Joan? She promised me twelve years ago that she'd find me a home and hasn't. Why would I listen to a liar?