Prologue

Visions of her Cherokee grandmother, Cordie, flashed through Mary’s mind as her
mother, Marguerite, informed her that her stepfather shot himself and was in the
hospital. Oh no!

No! This can’t be! Not after the joking around at my home last night. NO!!!! Did
she use me last night? She’d never use her scapegoat child. No, she couldn’t! Even
Marguerite wouldn’t sink that low! Or would she? Marguerite had always been
abusive and vile to most people, and especially to her children and husbands, but
would she shoot Harold?

Yet, here I was, and I had to tell the police that, yes, my mother was at my home all
evening and into the night. How despicable that my mother connived her way into
using me as her alibi.

~

With great difficulty, I’ve come to realize that for all the blogging I do for others, I’m not able to find people who will blog me, support me. Thus I’ve decided to post my own snippets here and there. If you have read this far, thank you kindly.

~

Chapter One

 1960s

“Chills raked Mary and she shuddered. Was she more shocked that her mother shot her stepfather with murderous intent, or that she left Mary as her alibi?”

Let us back up. I should give you some background before we get to the shooting. I want you to understand the sociopathic people I lived with and the rage they couldn’t control. Marguerite’s rage was uncontrolled, quick, aggressive, and always held vengeance. I want to fill in background so that you understand sociopathic people and the rage they can present to another person or persons. My mother was a sociopath. Her rages were uncontrolled, and she acted fast, aggressively, and with vengeance.

As I grew up, I wanted to believe that my mother was a good mother, but I always knew something was off. Marguerite thought she was the best mother on the block—perfect even—but I learned quickly that not all mothers are made the same. I wanted to believe that my mother was a good mother, but always knew something was off. Marguerite, always seemed to think that she was the best mother, perfect even, but not all mothers are made the same, which I found out from an incredibly early age.

I remember the Christmas when I was about two years oId. We had a cedar Christmas tree with lights and tinsel. Somewhere, I found several small glass Christmas lights and held them in my hands. No one noticed me, so I took my pretty treasures and sat behind the heating stove in our small house on North Grand Avenue in Lyons, Kansas. For a reason only a two-year-old would understand, I put one of the light bulbs in my mouth and bit down. The glass broke, but I didn’t get hurt. I thought, oh, that was a cool sound, so I broke the other one in my mouth too!

My mother, older brother, and sister were in the same room, but it was my mother who found me behind the heating stove, blood pouring from my mouth. She flew into a ballistic rage! I was in trouble. She spanked my butt, put a coat on me, and yelled at me all the way to the hospital. She was quiet while they pumped my stomach, but she was good at hiding her true self from people with authority. She wouldn’t risk a doctor thinking she was anything but a perfect mother. When the doctors were sure there was no glass left inside me, and with only a small cut on my tongue that didn’t require stitches, they sent me home. I will never forget her rage, and that is probably why I remember the incident so vividly.

To be continued…