Blood On Her Hands

Chapter 46

The prison stood ominously on top of a steep hill. While Vincent drove us up, I could feel the incline in my stomach. It was all barbed wire and chain-link fences for a quarter mile. The grass fields between them were a muddy brown, filled with weeds and stray plastic bags. The sky was darker than it had been earlier in the day and I watched three crows fly in circles around the parking lot as Vincent spoke to the security guard in the booth. The parking arm lifted for us to pass through, causing the crows to scatter. 

On the drive over, Vincent and I decided it would be best if we recorded this conversation just in case. We didn't have any of the fancy equipment we had used when speaking to Darren. Instead, I had my smartphone with its built-in voice recording app to rely on. 

I was going in by myself but before I could step into the visiting room, Vincent stopped mr with a gentle tug on my sleeve. 

"Remember, who your father is, isn't who you are." 

What might have seemed like such an obvious statement to anyone else had weaved around my heart to give it a reassuring squeeze. My whole life I had identified myself too closely with my family. It was natural to want to belong somewhere and to someone, especially when those people shared my DNA. However, I let my family tell me who I was to my own detriment. The narrative that I was somehow inferior because of what I had gone through had embedded itself into my self perception. Of course it was difficult to be strong when I had always been told I couldn't be. 

Because of my father, I spent years being afraid of myself. I saw blood on my own hands, worrying that I had it in me to be the same merciless killer he was. I feared I was genetically disposed to being something evil. I needed to know him, to know he wasn't all bad, so I could believe I wasn't either. But I was not like my father. I didn't have to be. It was a conscious choice I could make, not a family curse that could sneak up on me. 

I was Mickey. I didn't have to be like my family and I didn't have to be who they said I was. 

"Thank you," I said to Vincent. Then I stepped into the visitation area. 

I sat at a steel colored table. The surface was cold as ice so I kept my palms in my lap. There was only one other visitor in the large room of tables but it seemed as if the meeting was coming to an end. The older man who was visiting stood up as a guard put a short inmate in handcuffs. Just as the short prisoner was walked out, a new one was walked in. 

My father. 

I could feel my pulse in my throat. 

In all the pictures I had seen, my father had a subtle intensity. He didn't smile in any of them but it didn't make him appear scary but more so like he was a serious man. His towering height, braced jaw, and angular eyebrows had made him seem like the kind of man who was no fun to be around. Boring at best, stuck up at worst. If there was anything in his appearance that could have hinted at what he would later go on to do, it was what bled out from his inner workings. Physically, he hadn't looked like your average, stereotypical idea of a criminal. 

The man I saw being led to my table was different. 

His shoulders and chest were big enough to stretch the fabric of the jumpsuit out. His wrinkles were like leather, deep and dry. He should have only been in his fifties but I supposed that prison could have an effect on the natural aging process. Infused with his wrinkles were scars. Some ran across his face in white lines. Some were swollen and red. His nose was odd too, crooked and bumpy. It was like it had been broken and never set right. 

Still, I could see traces of my own face in his. 

I didn't say anything until he was sitting before me. His palms rested in front of him. His ankle was handcuffed to the table. His expression had been blank as he made his way over to me. I was wondering if he was angry since I stopped writing to him. Then, his shoulders started to bounce. His wrinkled and scarred face scrunched up.