Blood: Blood Trilogy, #1

By Ruth Miranda

'Chaos' Nilsson has it all: a successful career in the music industry, fame, money, the girl. 
He also has a monkey on his back, brought about by the visions that plague his mind and haunt his every waking moment; visions that will only be quietened when he numbs himself with generous amounts of alcohol and drugs. 
After an accident that nearly costs him his life, he embarks on a journey of self discovery, in search of his roots and the secret to the blood coursing through his veins

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ruth Miranda
• Release date: Feb 28, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386404057

Ruth Miranda

Ruth Miranda is a Portugal born and raised author who feels more comfortable around words than people, especially if those words happen to be in English, a language she once taught for a living - amongst other varied jobs. She started making up stories in her head as a child, to put herself to sleep, but the stories kept growing with her, so eventually, they needed to be put to paper.

Book preview

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (or undead), events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover design by Ruth Miranda

FOREWORD 

My husband and our son stand, as usual, the first and foremost on my acknowledgement list. They, after all, put up with everything that has to do with book writing and all that stems from there. This time, they even helped out with choosing a cover for this novella, as I found myself having a hard time settling for one.

This novella came to me precisely because of the cover, see. I was playing around with covers for another work when I happened upon an image that caught my eye and my imagination. Immediately, a story burst into life, a strange little story, one I knew would end up being quite short, even though I wanted to dive into the lives of other, less important characters presented here. It took me exactly two weeks to write this story, and as much to go through it and adapt, change, take away or add details that I felt necessary.

I hope you like it, dear reader. After all, this one is for you. All the weirdos who don’t conform, who don’t submit, but keep pushing through.

1

‘I am walking, trudging through deep snow, on my way home from school. It’s cold, I’m freezing. See, they’ve taken my jacket, I’m down to my wool sweater and my mittens. The beanie, too, they took it last week.

I don’t really want to go home, but I don’t really want to stay out here in the cold, either. The best thing I can hope for is to be sent to my bedroom with no dinner. I hope and pray to whatever gods there are that this is what he chooses to do.

But if he’s in one of his moods, I’ll get a spanking. Last time, three ribs broken, and when she tried to stop him from doing any more harm, her jaw got caught in the middle of his fury. We had to wait until he collapsed drunk on the couch to get out of the house and make it to the hospital.

She lied and said we skidded on the snow and fell down. No one believed us, I could see it in their eyes; no one bothered with it either.   She’s nice, I like her. She’s soft and gentle, tender and raw. There’s a scared rabbit look to her grey eyes, all the time; but she brings me hot tea and biscuits late at night when he sends me to bed without dinner, and she cooks me pancakes when he’s scheduled to work Saturdays at the factory.

I can’t remember a time when he was nice to me, I can’t remember a time when I felt loved. As nice as she tries to be, I can’t find the love a mother has for a son in her eyes. I know I’m a disappointment to them, and some days, I do feel they’d be better off without me. Resolve sets into my heart, as the house looms closer; as soon as I can I will leave, as soon as I turn sixteen and am not required to stay at school any more.

I shuffle my feet through the snow, it’s already getting dark. I hope he’s not in, even though I know he’s working nights this week; I hope he has already left so he can get a drink or two with his mates before work. But the car is there, I see, and my heart drops, my stomach drops, I am suddenly sick. He has no idea what time I’m supposed to get home, nor does he care. I can cross over before he’s able to spot me from the window, and go to the library, do my homework there.

It will be warm and quiet. It will be safe.

But what if they’re hanging around the park when I leave the library? I can take the long road and avoid crossing the park, but if they’re there, they will spot me and chase me. I’ll get a beating before I reach home. The beating I so much wanted to avoid.

So maybe I don’t go to the library, maybe I cross over the Larsson’s back lawn and hide in the shed until I hear him leave. There’s a flashlight inside, shoved into a shelf, behind some of his tools. There are also a couple of old coats she keeps there in case they’re needed, I can wrap myself in one or two of them and stay warmer. I can get my homework done in silence, in peace. I can be safe, in the shed.

So that is what I decide to do, I will go to the shed and wait for him to leave for work before I go home. At least I won’t go hungry, not tonight. I just have to make sure he doesn’t spot the light through the cracks and crannies in the wood. It has no windows, the shed, and I am so grateful for it. 

I run across the Larsson’s back yard and jump over the fence, silently.

I have become very good at this, at being undetected, invisible. You soon learn how to do that, when you realise if you’re seen you’ll get a whacking. I keep to the shadows as much as I can.

The shed has a padlock, but it has been broken for ages. I push and pull at it, my eyes darting this way and that in fear I get spotted, and then the lock comes off and the door opens. As I get in, I try to place the padlock again; I settle for what I can do. The door is closed, and he won’t come in here.

I didn’t see the light in the kitchen; which means she’s not home from work yet and has left no dinner for him. He will soon be leaving, then, to have a meal with his mates, drink his fill and then go to work. He does security work at the factory. She’s an administrative clerk at a local clinic. They lack for nothing, but are not rich.

I don’t know where their unhappiness stems from. I was born into it; see, as far as I can remember, they were unhappy together. And he seems to blame me for it all. I remember being small, smaller than I am now, not yet at school but at daycare; I remember sitting in the living room, on the rug, playing with a set of blocks she had brought home for me, and him coming in to step on one. He was barefooted.

The first thing he did was smack me in the face, the second thing was pick up the block set and bin it. She waited for him to go to sleep and retrieved it, washed and dried it, placed it in my room. Warned me I could not play in the living room any longer, only in my bedroom.

I got used to being tidy from an early age. My clothes are always neat and either hanging in my closet or folded into drawers. My shoes are kept under the bed, along with the slippers. My toys too, inside a large plastic box. And the few books I have, always arranged by size on the shelf in my bedroom. I also never leave the bathroom in disarray after using it. Anything else, and I would get the tail end of his hand, sometimes his belt. I learned to be invisible and leave no trace of my presence.

Sometimes I wonder if I even exist.’

2

Caius ‘Chaos’ Nilsson stretched his legs across the rug, the tip of one boot colliding with the metal feet of the coffee table. His eyes were red rimmed from lack of sleep and drug deprivation, his mouth parched, his hands sweaty. Reaching for the water bottle, he unstoppered it and drank long. Eyes set on the female seated across the room from him, he wondered what she wrote in her handbook, wondered if her handwriting was readable, if it was a flowy, pretty stream of letters or something more akin to undecipherable hieroglyphs.

His attention came to fall upon her long, narrow-fingered hands, with pristine manicure, and the way she held the pen between the thumb and index finger seemed somehow sensual. Like the curve of her lips, and the ebony sheen of her skin, or the feet encased in high-heeled pumps, half hidden underneath the length of her pants. She was well into her forties, and very attractive. She was also very much married, as the large ring upon her finger showed, combined with the photos of who he had assumed to be husband and children scattered all over her desk. Plus, she was the kind of woman who would never have given him the time of day, other than on a professional level.

Which was what they had, Caius reminded himself. She was his psychiatrist, old enough to be his mother – and yet, the rise and fall of her bosom woke no maternal memories in him – and cold enough to freeze his overheated hormones. And perhaps he should take this seriously, the twice weekly consultations, at least they seemed to help get rid of the discomfort those visions always left in him.

So, Cai, you were saying you never felt loved? the woman inquired, still taking down her little notes.

He sighed; it irritated him she resorted to that kind of intimacy he had never allowed her. She was not a family member, nor a friend or a member of his band, to go around calling him Cai.

No, you’re not listening, he barked, tips of his fingers pulling on a loose thread on the fabric of the armchair he sat on. It’s not me. These visions, they don’t belong to me. You don’t get it.

"Cai, how can they not belong to you, if you’re having them? Have you considered the possibility that these dreams are just a way your brain has to deal with all the guilt you have riddled yourself with?"

"Guilt?" he half shouted, jumping up on his feet and pacing the room.

Yes, Cai, guilt. Have you ever paused to ponder on how guilt is what lies behind everything that brought us here, to this room, to these bi-weekly consultations you now need to follow through?

He cackled a humourless laugh. Whatever guilt he may feel, it was more than justified. There was much he was to blame for, and he was not going to shy away from responsibility for the consequences of his actions. But the visions he had been plagued with were nothing to do with his guilt.

First thing: these aren’t dreams, but visions. I’m never asleep when they take place. It’s like I go into a trance and these are dumped into my brain. They’re not my memories, and they’re not my imagination either. And not a repercussion of my guilt. So I would be very much obliged if you were to explain why to you they’re the result of my remorse.

The woman closed her notebook and put the pen down, dark, rich brown eyes coming to meet his. Sit down, she said, voice gentle and safe, nevertheless, issuing an order he felt forced to obey. That’s better. Now, let’s take this back in time, shall we? I want you to listen and then think deeply about this, analyse it in your own time, maybe we’ll be able to reach a breakthrough.

Cai snorted but settled himself on the chair, prepared to listen to her.

Your mother died at childbirth. You grew up knowing this, and it is only natural that along your formative years, you have begun to blame yourself for her death...

That’s not true, he interrupted, despite her look of annoyance. My mother killed herself when I was not even two years old. She wasn’t well, not ever since my father left her.

That’s not what I have on your file, she grabbed the folder where Cai’s info was stashed neatly in page after page of typewritten data about his health, lifestyle, progeny.

When first hired, she had been given a folder containing all the background intelligence needed for her to treat him and whatever issues the boy might have. She had also briefly interviewed Cai’s grandfather, who had raised him from birth, and his uncle, who also doubled as manager for the band Cai played and sang in. Both had assured his mother having died at childbirth and his father having never been present. She did not know what to believe, now, but it didn’t help her do her work, if the boy was still being lied to, or if she was the one who had been kept in the dark.

There was always trouble, with these child prodigies, with the kids who for some reason or other, ended up in the public spotlight to feed the need their families had for fame and validation, however vicariously obtained. Caius Nilsson had been the front-man for a rock band since he was aged sixteen, and the band’s success had been immediate. She had searched them online, helped along by one of her sons, who didn’t much care for that type of music but knew who they were. In fact, she doubted there was a teenager around the UK who didn’t know who ‘Morning Rain’ were.

Ever since exploding in the charts, during the spring of 2010, the band maintained its continuous place at the top, where sales and exposure were concerned. Of course a large part of the band’s success came from the shameless exploration of Cai Nilsson’s good looks and bad attitude. All that, combined with the young age he was when catapulted into the limelight, made it a recipe for disaster.

No wonder the boy