Mercy for None

By Brian Hannaford

Brian Hannaford's life has been a long road with twists and turns, dark stormy days, dangers, and an eventual rise above it all. This is a true-life tale unlike any other about how the Maker made Himself known to Brian. This book proves the worth of children to a world that devalues them. It is a story of suffering and deliverance, angels, demons, God, and His love. The main character of this story was born with an amazing array of talents and was able to draw pictures before he could walk. His vast talents became known over the years and eventually led to the discovery of a lifetime. In that discovery, this child invented a terrible catalyst that just happened to rival even the elite. Then the inevitable - forced to decide between his need for revenge or having mercy for a world that was cruel to him. Knowledge is power, but imagination is everything.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jan 9, 2023
• ISBN: 9781667883366

Book preview

Mercy for None

The year I arrived in this world was 1964 in Tulsa, Oklahoma. It was a cheerful sunny day, The Beatles were touring America, and the first Mustangs were inviting motorists to the open highways. Aside from the recent assassination of President John F. Kennedy, everything seemed to be normal enough for most people.

But some things are not as they appear. Some are born into this world into great families, and they inherently take it for granted. There are also good families that have a few faults. Families can also be bad, and dysfunctional, struggling to get by.

Then there are families that aren’t really families. They’re just a group of people who suffer many terrible things under the same roof. So frightened by the oppressor that they often never tell a soul about the hellish things that they are forced to endure. This was to be my home, but in name only, and I would always look and hope for a way out.

This book’s value will not be in merely conveying my life’s story but in shedding light on the taboo topic of severe child abuse. It is quite intentionally ignored by Hollywood, the press, and philanthropists. It continues to grow worse throughout the world, and I suppose everyone is okay with that; I am not.

I am called a survivor, although I do not feel entirely worthy of that after what happens later in this book. But I try to send back help, for all those children who suffer in silence, just for the convenience of this world. I hope to raise awareness and incite legislation to change the plight of the helpless. Maybe even make a movie to see this through.

This story is true, and real life is indeed stranger than fiction. If it fails to convince you of the truth, then it really doesn’t matter. If someone refuses to believe the truth, then that person victimizes himself or herself. It doesn’t change a thing. The truth remains the truth either way. That is the beauty of it.

My story has absolutely NO embellishment; it simply doesn’t need any. I hear people say that nothing of any consequence ever happened in their lives. I have to admit it: I feel envy, deep-seated envy. If there is one thing my life has been, interesting would be the word. But in all the wrong ways. I offer you a look into my most unusual and stormy life and how I survived it.

In those days, we children awoke every morning and lived every day with no hopes, no dreams. Nothing to look forward to, but the constant fear of the next attack of physical violence. Never knowing how bad it would be this time, or if we would survive at all. Every day was a complete misery; we were always anxious. We could never relax. We had to learn how to figure out someone quickly in order to survive.

Our dad’s mood swings were something to watch out for, seemingly at peace or in a complete rage, with nothing in between. Anything would set him off. We thought that every kid was beaten as badly as we were, and that it was just something a kid had to survive, until we finally made a friend, years later, who revealed the truth.

Apples, Oranges, and One Cracked Melon

The sun rose into that chilly morning sky, and the Tulsa streets came to life once more. It was the winter of 1965, and I was oblivious to all the activity around me, except being with my grandmother. I was less than a year old and was being babysat for a while.

It was just the usual kind of day with all the usual routines, such as, grocery shopping for the day. I was naturally going along for the adventure. New sights, sounds, and smells of the Safeway Store wafted across the isles for me to experience.

Still an infant, I reached for my fair share of nearby items at the store, being perched in the shopping cart seat. There were also bright colors to tempt me, fresh fruits, sounds everywhere. It was all new to me. The discount and promotional signs, including one for cracked melons, fascinated me.

After many rounds through the store, we were ready, at last, to leave the store. It may have been snowing, the wind blowing strongly, a stuck wheel, or maybe, Grandma was late for something—I do not know. But just then it happened, and very suddenly…

The shopping cart I was in tipped over, and one of the first things to hit the concrete was my soft head. My grandmother was a bit shocked and stunned by what had just happened. The horror of the moment was setting in, especially because her grandson looked to be dead. There was no sign of life, and as she tried to lift my little head, she felt blood on her finger.

Grandma was a woman of strong faith and character. She had always been a devout Christian. No matter what the obstacles were, she overcame them. But now she was torn from within and out of control, with tears streaming from her eyes. Panic overcame her as she began to pray a desperate plea for help. People outside were beginning to notice the spectacle before them.

God, the father, must have been listening as she prayed her heart out to him because the baby she was holding, began to move in her arms once more. In utter amazement, she looked at me, and I was alive again. Grandma thanked God more than once, I am sure, and I did not cry, which was very odd. There was still a large bruise to the head, but no crying. She was still concerned about that.

Never was a person more thankful than my grandmother, who was able to save her grandson this way. This was a memory that would be imprinted in her mind for the rest of her life. By the next day, the bruise was fading away. She was afraid to take me to the hospital, and afraid she would not be trusted to keep her grandchildren anymore. It was kept a secret for the next eighteen years.

Every time it was brought up, after I learned about it later on, she was beset with guilt and described it simply as horrible. She said it was like a living nightmare that was too real to dismiss. She did not know this, but that injury plagued me for a lifetime. I was only able to mentally perform at my best, sometimes, not always. But when such times arrived, I was able to shine.

My mother said that I began to draw pictures on the floor before I could get up and walk. It seemed I was a born artist, and it was the first sign of many talents to come, like science, electronics, languages, poetry, songwriting, woodworking, mechanics, and so much more.

My older brother, Ray, was goofy and unfocused. He was a base sort of fellow. He lacked oxygen at birth and was essentially developmentally restricted. I never looked up to him. My older sister, Teresa, was fair-skinned, slender, and pretty smart. I was the middle kid, but believe me, I never looked for attention. We got more than we wanted already. I was inquisitive and mischievous, looking for action, and easily bored.

My younger brother, Lee, was reserved and quiet and enjoyed country music. He was truly an introvert. The youngest, John, seemed to be similar to myself but did not take things apart to learn from them. However, he was intellectually on my level and was attuned to the spiritual world. It was said that telling the future ran in our family, at least on my mom’s side.

Now as for my first memory, my dad was a big guy, about six feet two inches tall, large-boned, with black hair, and weighed about 250 pounds. He kind of lumbered around as he walked.

I was seventeen months old, and we were at a local park. It was cool outside, but not too cold.

Nonetheless, I was wearing a brown coat with lines like plaid on it. The trees were bare of leaves, and the sun was shining down. He had the sun behind him, so he was mostly a silhouette.

There was an ever-so-slight touch of a breeze, moving the crisp, dry air outside. I remember feeling a complete sense of soundness within my limbs, all the way down to my fingertips. Sort of a tingling sensation, a sound mind in a sound body kind of thing and all my little parts working perfectly. I didn’t know whether or not that was a good thing or not, but it felt good.

My dad, for some reason, had brought with him a football that day. I was scarcely larger