The Blood Cried Out

By Deborah Stewart

A poignant, true story filled with raw emotion and suspense. This story details the events that took place in and out of the hospital after my only son was brutally stabbed due to Gang Violence. Journey with a family to hell and back and read of the miracle that God performed. With medical records, crime scene photos and newspaper articles included.

Written by Deborah Stewart.
Additional contributions by Scott Johnson.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Deborah Stewart
• Release date: Oct 1, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301368785

Deborah Stewart

www.scottjohnsononline.com

Book preview

The Blood Cried Out

Deborah Stewart Contributions by Scott Johnson

Copyright 2012 by Deborah Stewart and Scott Johnson

Smashwords Edition

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Postscript

THE BLOOD CRIED OUT by Deborah Stewart.

This is a true story, related just as it happened.

However, for obvious reasons, names have been changed and omitted.

Dedication

This book is dedicated to my mother, Macie Frye, Whose prayers and constant encouragement helped sustain me through a trauma that stretched, first through an hour, then extended into days, weeks, and finally months.

It is further dedicated to the many Christian friends, relatives and even strangers, whose fervent and continuous prayers helped bring the mercy of a loving God to my son and myself.

ACKNOWEDGEMENT

Much love to Edward L.Johnson.

My writing coach, mentor and faithful friend.

Thank you for believeing in me.

Forward

As I attempt to tell this story I pray for guidance from the Holy Spirit that I may tell it in a way that will be pleasing to God; that I may glorify him in such a way that everyone who reads it will be touched. My one goal being neither pity for my son nor recognition for myself but rather to fulfill a promise I made to God; to witness and testify of the miracle I am about to share with you.

I pray that, after reading my story, those who are weak in faith become renewed. Those weak in spirit are revived. Those in need of a miracle will be reassured, and, above all, those who have never met God will want to meet him.

I pray that everyone who reads this will be blessed and give praise to His precious name, as I do daily; every time I see my son smile, hear him laugh, and have the privilege of putting my arms around him, I am reminded of what a loving, merciful and awe-inspiring God I serve.

MIRACLE:

AN EVENT OR ACTION THAT APPARENTLY CONTRADICTS KNOWN SCIENTIFIC LAWS.

ANY OCCURENCE THAT CANNOT BE EXPLAINED BY THE LAWS OF NATURE.A MARVEL --Webster

CHAPTER ONE

The massive words TRAUMA CENTER split the black velvet sky and glistened like rubies in the darkness of night.

Glaring at us. Taunting us. Beckoning to us as we neared Harris Methodist Hospital in Ft.Worth, Texas.

The glow of the lights pierced my heart as the huge letters quivered and blurred before dissolving into a pool of red; a red as crimson as the blood-soaked sheets I had, only minutes earlier, saw covering my son's body.

I should not be coming here, I thought. I do not belong here.

My child does not belong here. This is a nightmare; something one reads about in the newspaper and says How terrible! How could this happen, and why? a million times, Why? But this is where the police had directed us to come. The grim look on my husband, James’ face, the wet tears on my own, and the stark reality of that sign told me it was true; we should be coming here, we did belong here, and our son was here!

May 3, 1992, had started out like most days in Texas, sunny and warm. Our Arlington neighborhood was coming alive with sights and sounds of spring.

Later, Mom, my son, Scott, yelled as he hurried out the door en route to his part-time evening job at a local grocery.

I did not hear the phone ring that night.

I was awakened by my husband James' cries.

Get up! Get up quick! he cried out, Scott's been hurt!

Hurt? Hurt how? I questioned. He's supposed to be working. I said, confused. He is at work. James replied, as he handed me the telephone receiver.

Your son has been injured, the store manager stated. You need to get here immediately. The urgency in his voice betrayed his composure, and with a multitude of questions running through my mind, I only took the time to ask one: Is he hurt badly? I stammered.

Yes, ma'am, he answered, He's very bad. He’s been stabbed, and Care flight is on their way.

He spoke those words like a burden of guilt he had been harboring and the weight of them brought me to my knees.

One does not have to be an EMT to know that when a helicopter has been called to transport a patient, they are in grave danger of losing their life.

Fortunately, King Saver Grocery, where Scott worked, was only a few blocks from our home. It was situated across from a multi-complex apartment building, and as James and I

approached the parking lot, all we could see were people; seemingly hundreds of people everywhere.

The ambulance sirens had attracted the apartment residents as well as curious neighbors and onlookers. The police had already barricaded the store entrance and the helicopter was circling over-head looking for a spot to land.

I jumped from our (still moving) van and began running towards the store. The unimaginable had just happened, and my heart was pounding with fear of the unknown.

As I was making my way through the crowd, a police officer suddenly grabbed me from behind, spinning me around.

You can't go in there! he said sharply.

I have to! I screamed. My son is in there. He's hurt. I have to get to him! I have to see him! I cried, as I struggled to free myself from his grip.

Ma'am, listen to me! the officer demanded, as he tightened his grasp.

"You don't want to see him like that. His Intestine is protruding from his stomach. There is a large hunting knife lodged in his face...

Trust me; he is not a pretty sight. It’s best if you don't see him," he said flatly.

Sheer terror took my breath away as I clutched the front of his shirt with both hands and looked at him directly, eye to eye.

I felt my throat constrict as I attempted to speak. That's my baby in there, I sobbed. My only child. This might be the last time I see him alive. Don't deprive me of that chance, I pleaded. Please don't take that from me!

For what felt like an eternity, he held my gaze but said nothing, and then I saw a hint of compassion in his eyes. He knew what I said was true. Perhaps, he did not expect me to see him alive again either, or maybe he did not want the burden of guilt I had just dropped into his lap. Whatever the reason, he agreed to let me see him for one second when they brought him out.

One second, he stressed. But you've got to calm down. I will. I will. I promised, bargaining like a child.

Time stood still as the officer continued to hold on to me while answering James' questions: No, they did not catch the attacker. No, they had no idea who did it. Yes, he was in critical condition. No, they didn't know why it happened...did we?

I stared blindly into the crowd. My eyes wide open and yet disbelieving. It was surreal. Like an out-of-body experience.

The rapid beating of my heart pounded in my ears, and my thoughts became a whirlwind of emotion as I tried desperately to comprehend what had, and was still, happening.

I wanted to scream and run away, but I was grounded in fear.

Now stay calm! the officer ordered, as the paramedics came running towards the helicopter, carrying Scott, securely strapped to a stretcher.

Throwing his hand up to stop them, he released me. This is his mother, he told them. Give her one second.

I'm here baby, I told him, as I gently kissed him.

My breath caught in my throat, and a terrible foreboding swept through me at the touch of his skin.

Drained of color, Cold and clammy. In a word: lifeless.

In my heart, I felt that he was almost gone.

Don't give up, honey. Please, don’t give up. I pleaded, I love you.

Eyes closed and barely conscious, he attempted to nod his head as a gesture that he had heard me.

I stepped aside and the EMTs continued running towards the careflight copter with him.

I never saw them load him; I never saw them leave with him.

The cruel reality of it all overwhelmed me.

My mind succumbed to the mental anguish I was feeling, throwing me (heart-first) into a bout of hysteria.

My body wretched with convulsive sobs as I attempted to make my way back through the crowd to our Suburban...

Crying aloud. Praying aloud. Pleading with God...

Pleading with God not to take my sons life- aloud.

I was oblivious to everyone and everything around me.

I was in my own world, a world of hurt.

Take me home! I cried frantically, as James helped me back into the vehicle.

Home? Home for what? he asked anxiously.

I have to call mother, I explained, She’s my only link with God and I've got to know that she's praying.

He needs prayer now, I told him, This very minute!

James could not imagine making a phone call at this crucial moment. I could not imagine not making it.

As hard as it was to admit, and especially at a time like this, I was not sure if my prayers would be heard, but I had no doubt about my mother's.

I had witnessed the power of prayer many times in her life.

She had faith to