Read Human Frailty, a Detective Mike Bridger novel Page 1

Human Frailty

  A Detective Mike Bridger novel

  By Mark Bredenbeck

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  Copyright 2013 by Mark Bredenbeck

  Book design by Mark Bredenbeck

  “This book is a work of fiction. Names, Characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, governments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.”

  “All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the author is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.”

  You make me cry,

  to show your love for me.

  You make me scream,

  so you know I feel.

  You make me bruise,

  to put your mark on me.

  You make me hide,

  so that no one cares.

  You make me fear,

  so life doesn't belong to me.

  You make me bleed,

  so that I may die.

  Make me cry.

  Prologue

  Looking out of the window into the darkness he watched, fear and anticipation of the arrival. The later it got the worse it usually was. Things he had no control over, making him feel useless, scared, unloved.

  He had no protection from it, no one who looked out for him. He was constantly frightened.

  It had been going on for as long as he could remember; hurt that never ended, even after it ended.

  The gate squeaked on its rusty hinges, the sharp sound of the latch closing sending a shiver down his spine. He heard footsteps on the path, the sound of heavy boots.

  The key turned in the rusty door lock, the sound that preceded it all.

  "Why the fuck is this bloody house so cold?" The sound of his voice echoed in the bare hallway outside his door.

  He knew to keep the lights off and pretend to be asleep.

  "Where the fuck are you bitch? Why can't you keep a fucking heater on?"

  He heard noises in the room next door as the walls were paper-thin. She was moving around, slowly, woken from sleep, resigned to her fate.

  He heard the song on his father’s lips, out of tune and slurred.

  "How was your night dear?” Her voice sounded timid and far away.

  "What do you care? The house is fucking freezing, what have you been doing all night?"

  "Your tea is in the oven if you want it."

  "Why would I want it after it’s dried out in the oven? It’ll taste like shit."

  The sound of bottles clinking in a crate came through the walls. "I'll have to make do with one of these." he heard his father say.

  "Ok love, I'll go back to bed now if that's alright? I'm a bit tired."

  The anticipation was giving him butterflies. Maybe it would be different tonight.

  "Sit down", the drunken anger in his father's voice made him jump in the darkness of his room. "Keep me company; you never talk to me anymore. It makes me feel like you don't want me."

  Silence…

  The sound of glass breaking broke the short silence. He heard a chair crashing onto the floor, wood splintering.

  "I said sit-the-fuck-down."

  His mother’s stifled scream signified the beginning.

  Hiding under his blankets, he tried not to listen.

  The cries came through the walls; the walls shuddered with the impact and then the noises stirred dark pictures in his mind. The pictures frightened him more than the actions, so he had to see, to block out the pictures.

  Crawling out of bed, he opened the door slowly; the hallway was dark. The only light was coming from the kitchen. The light inside flickering as the bulb swung on its cord.

  Crying and swearing, anger and emotion, it all poured out into the hallway in great big puddles of blood, the images in his mind distorting the reality.

  He watched as a shadow fell across the open kitchen door, then he saw a body fall. His mother was lying prone on the floor, eyes staring into the darkness of the hallway, into the darkness in his head, eyes showing only fear and self-preservation.

  The eyes told him it was his turn now; he looked back at a mother with no love.

  He tried to melt back into the darkness; maybe he will not see.

  He heard the sound of bottles clinking in a crate, the demon drink; it would give him a reprieve, if only for a while.

  Go back to bed. Get some sleep and then get up in the morning, it will be okay in the morning.

  He knew when he got up that song would be on the radio, the same one she always played. The tune was stuck in his head.

  Don't cry sissy… Father hates any sign of weakness.