Chapter 5: Blood and Betrayal

Uncle Jeff once dated a girl from the next town. When her family demanded ten grand for a dowry, he snapped, smashed two empty beer bottles over her parents’ heads without blinking.

The police came, sirens wailing, but Uncle Jeff never spent a night in jail. He always landed on his feet, no matter how far he fell.

"You want money? Here’s ten grand—for your hospital bills!"

He hollered it loud enough for the whole neighborhood. Folks gossiped for weeks.

His girlfriend tried to stop him. He didn’t care—smashed a bottle over her head too.

I saw blood trickle down her cheek, glass glinting in the carpet. The smell of beer and fear hung heavy in the air.

I was there, at The Drunken Oak.

I hid behind the kitchen door, hands over my ears, but I still heard every scream.

Uncle Jeff beat the whole family bloody, sent them running for their lives.

The sheriff showed up too late. By then, Uncle Jeff was behind the bar, whistling, washing his hands.

If my folks hadn’t stopped him, there would’ve been ambulances.

Dad tackled him, Mom called 911, but it was too late.

His wild-eyed look still haunts me. Sometimes I wake up sweating, that look burning through my dreams.

Next day, Uncle Jeff stuffed a bloody pig head in a trash bag and climbed into a luxury SUV parked by the road.

It was Hawkins’ car.

Windows tinted, plates from out of state. I watched from the porch as the sun glinted off the hood.

That pig head came from our sty.

I saw the blood trailing through the dirt, staining the grass.

At dawn, Uncle Jeff headed to the back field with a gleaming butcher knife.

The blade caught the sunrise, blinding me.

He didn’t look at me, and I didn’t dare stop him.

I hid in the shed, knees to my chest, praying he wouldn’t see me.

I peeked through a crack in the wall, saw him climb in the pen.

My heart pounded so loud I thought the pigs would hear.

His butchering was rough—nothing like Dad’s. He hacked and swore, sweat pouring down his face.

The sow he grabbed suffered. He stabbed it a dozen times before it died.

The pigs squealed, terrified. I pressed my hands over my ears, wishing I was anywhere else.

Then he hacked off the head and swaggered off.

Blood splattered his shirt, but he didn’t care. He whistled all the way back to the car.

Every day, Dad checked the sty. Before I could deal with the carcass, he found it.

The smell hit him first, then the sight. His face darkened.

He beat and kicked me. I curled up in the straw, bracing for the pain.

"It... it was my uncle," I whimpered, curled on the ground.

My voice shook with fear.

Dad paused, spat, and cursed, "Damn, a wolf cub you can’t raise right."

He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and stormed off, slamming the shed door so hard the walls rattled.

At noon, the restaurant stayed closed—a rare thing.

Customers rattled the locked doors, peered in the windows. But inside, Dad sat alone at a corner table, head in his hands...

The sun slanted through the blinds, stripes of dust dancing in the stillness. Dad didn’t move for a long time. And that’s when I realized: something in our house had finally broken for good.