“I’m not scared,” the girl replied passionately. “And I’m not scared of you!”
The girl wasn’t aware she was speaking to a monster. His primal instincts and desire battled within him. He walked towards her, leaning on the fencing. Wires separating them. He could’ve pulled her head clean off. “Is that right?”
Hunger caught him strongly like a quench for water as he peered down into her innocent face. They stared at one another, he couldn’t understand the inkling. It was passionate and emotional. The instinct controlled the second his lips touched hers. Her shaky skin tasted like milk and flowers. He breathed her in, his dirty fingers touching her long mane of blonde hair. He pulled her closer, drinking in the moment.
“Why did you do that?” she whispered, recoiling from his kiss.
The boy didn’t respond, he wanted to stare at her. He began to smile. He couldn’t remember the last time he needed the urge to smile, he had nothing in his life to be happy about.
“What’s on your hands?”
His body stiffened, anger quelling inside. He needed her out of the way. A thought told him to crawl up the metal fencing, break her neck and keep moving but it wouldn’t be a decent fight. She’d snap like a cracker under his fingers. Instead, the boy bared his teeth and hissed like a slithering serpent.
The girl stepped back in a jolt and her face contorted into the perfect definition of fear. He watched her scream and retreat back into the warm cabin. Throughout their little conversation, he noticed she kept diverting to his hands. No wonder she'd paid so much attention. They were covered in blood and for once, it wasn’t his own.
Grace Payne was awoken by a throbbing migraine. She didn't know if it was the side effects of the humidity or the rose wine she’d had with dinner. Whatever the source, she was regretting it. The sensation of the ice-cold water was almost pleasurable when it hit her tongue. Her head span a few times after she slugged it down. Grace came out of the bathroom; she saw the barrel chest of her husband rise and fall. She used to call him Bear when they first got together, his size and strength were one of the first things she was attracted to. She still used the nickname occasionally, especially when she enjoyed teasing him. The pain had travelled into her left eyelid and was making up camp in her jaw. She knew she had to get support. If the pain got any worse, she'd be stooped over the toilet chucking her guts, the unfortunate price when her jaw went into overdrive grinding during sleep.
Grace made her way to the kitchen, fishing out her painkillers and swallowed them in one gulp. The wind from outside was spinning the leaves around her patio. Sometimes they’d tap the glass, startling her but this time it wasn't. Instead, a dirty young boy sat in front of the patio door staring in at her.
“Ted! Ted!” she squealed.
The boy came up to the door, his vivid blue eyes burning into hers. His hand shook as he pressed it to the panel. His fingers were caked in blood.
Grace and Ted stood over the boy when he relayed his story. He was speaking far too quickly, so much he was stammering and stumbling over himself. He was crouched in the foetal position on the couch, recounting his words, his eyes darting frantically. His rucksack was lying next to him. Grace zoned in and out as the boy talked about scientists, tests and military operations, she’d completely forgotten about the pain in her head.
This poor guy is obviously delusional or… he’s just escaped from God knows what, Grace thought.
The child was grimy, he seemed exhausted and his hands were bloody. Where had he come from? She didn’t believe the military story; he must’ve run from an abusive family or perhaps a foster care facility. She’d read plenty of horror stories to know that care in the community wasn’t always kind, children had been neglected and tortured in those places.
“Is this yours?” Ted asked, his shotgun clutched in his other hand, pointing the barrel at his stained skin.
“No, no,” the boy whispered, panting under his breath. “Not, not mine. I had to get out, they kept hurting me.”
“Who kept hurting you?”
“People in white coats. Those are the ones I know by name. There were others. With masks and guns guarding. I had to run, or they’d keep me there.” The boy glanced to the gun in Ted’s hand. “Your firearm isn’t loaded.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because I know how to shoot one and I know when a shotgun has bullets in it.”
The boy began to reel off different types of guns he’d ‘trained’ with. Grace noted how he spoke like a drill sergeant with academic knowledge rolling off his tongue. It was as if he’d memorised a text book a thousand times over. At this point, Grace was scared. A child creeping around in her back yard, spouting stories with bloody hands and knowledge of licenced and seemingly unclassified armoury was not a good sign. They needed to act quickly.
“What can we do for you, son?” Ted asked, wearily. “Call the police? What about your parents?”
The boy’s head twitched. “No, no calls. No police.”
“Where’s your parents in all of this?” Grace asked. “Why shouldn’t we call the police? Have you done something?”
“I…don’t have any parents. I haven’t done anything wrong.”
Ted sat in front of the boy, his large frame blocking the moonlight from outside. “Son, you can’t have that stuff on your hands from nothing. Just tell us what happened.”
The boy shrunk in fear, his mouth drooping sadly. “I killed a deer. They made me. I just wanted them to stop.”
Stop what? His words got her heart pumping. The boy had trudged on about being drowned, slapped, electrocuted and stabbed. Grace knew children made things up for attention, especially the fucked-up ones. Poor thing, an ugly duckling nobody wanted. She didn’t want the boy sitting on her couch, his clothes were covered in foliage. She understood Ted’s hesitation, but they couldn’t leave him outside with a wave of their hands. He wasn’t a squirrel or a bird. He was a child, maybe eight or nine years old, he was tall for a kid, Grace couldn’t be sure with age nowadays.
She offered him her hand. “Come with me, dear. We can get you cleaned up and you’ll start feeling much better.”
The boy stared at her open palm, hesitating.
Grace smiled gently. “I won’t hurt you. I promise.”
His gaze darkened. “That’s what they said and they lied.”
Grace knelt down on the carpet so she was on the same level as him. Children weren’t keen on being spoken to from an imposing height, it made them feel cornered. “Well, we aren’t those people.” She noticed the dark ring like bruises under his eyes. “What’s your name?”
The boy didn’t respond.
“My name’s Grace and this is my husband, Ted. You know, I used to call him Bear when we first met.”
“Because he’s as big as a bear?”
Grace grinned, hoping she wouldn’t frighten him. “Yes, precisely. Do you have any nicknames?”
“No.”
“What can I call you? It’s important we call you something. It can be anything you wish.”
“Isaac,” he said, turning his head back so they were facing each other. His vivid blue eyes peering. “You can call me Isaac.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Isaac. How old are you?”
Isaac shrugged, shaking his head fearfully. “I don’t know.”
“You’ve never had parties with your friends? Not even on your birthday?”
“I don’t have any friends. I used to get a present when I was extremely good.”
Her heart sunk even further. “I’m sorry to hear that, Isaac. Every child should have a party on their birthday.” The boy looked down at his hands. “I must say, you have lovely eyes. They remind me of a precious jewel.”
A shimmer of a smile grew and died on his mouth. “Thank you. Do you have any children?”
Grace shook her head. “No, but Ted and I always wanted them. Never had any luck.”
Isaac’s face opened with life as if he was recalling
something. “That was what the father said when the marshals asked him if he had any children. We wanted to have some but we weren't blessed with any.”
“You know The Lumberjack story?” Ted asked, leaning closer. “I know it too. Heard it from my Pops. It’s a rare tale.”
Isaac nodded. “I do. Peter told me. I used to pray he’d come and protect me.” His eyes pooled up with sadness. “But maybe the lumberjack only protects families, children with moms and dads.”
“Come with me Isaac,” Grace said gently. “We’ll get you cleaned up.”
The boy took her hand with no thought, his movement automatic. His skin felt gritty and hard, it reminded her of her dad’s when he’d come home from the shop, covered in soot and oil from working on cars all day. His grip’s strong for a kid. She noticed that he glanced apprehensively at his rucksack.
Grace escorted Isaac upstairs noticing how he was peering around the corners, checking the doors. It was odd seeing a child acting so grown up, as if he was a little safety inspector. She could picture him with a yellow builder’s crash hat and clipboard tucked to his chest. She showed him to the bathroom and handed him a towel.
After the water was switched on, she rushed downstairs finding Ted placing his shotgun back on the mantel piece. “I believe him, Ted.”
Her husband frowned. “He’s not our responsibility, Gee. The kid’s clearly gone through the pits. We need to hand him over to the police.”
“He said we can’t. I think he’s been abused.”
“Isn’t that what an abused child would say? Grace, he’s been brainwashed by his parents not to contact the authorities because he’ll go into care and they’ll get arrested. It’s a scare tactic.”
“He said he doesn’t have parents.”
“He’s probably lying.”
Grace sighed again, rubbing her temples in frustration. “He might be, I don’t know. But he’s ran from something awful. Look at him. The kid’s hands are covered in blood!”
“I saw, baby. I know you want to help him. I do too.”
“Come on, Ted.”
“You believe the part about the men in white coats?”
“No, I don’t,” Grace sighed. “He’s clearly traumatised. When children experience abuse, they create characters to comfort themselves, to escape hell. You haven’t seen his arms. They’re covered in scars and cuts.”
“Precisely why we need to call the police,” Ted said. “He seemed protective of his bag, I’ll have a look in it.”
“Please don’t,” Isaac whispered. “Don’t tell the police.”
The young boy was wrapped in a large towel, his skin wet from the water spray, he looked more vulnerable without the dirt and blood.
“Do you feel better now?” Grace asked.
“Yes, I do. There’s a reason I don’t want you to call the police. I can show you.”
With a nod from his question, Isaac showed them. Grace felt sick when she witnessed it, her migraine burned fires in her jaw and she grew wobbly. She had to hold onto Ted for comfort.
“I’m sorry if I’ve frightened you both. Do you want to see what’s in my bag?”
They nodded again.
Isaac pulled out a VHS tape and slotted it into the cassette player. They all watched, Ted and Grace were stuck in quiet horror. After the tape was finished, Ted switched off the television. “What do you need from us?”
“I need to disappear,” Isaac said strongly.
Chapter Fifteen
Summer 1996
Becoming Cameron Storms wasn’t as stressful as Isaac had initially thought. Girl clothes were surprisingly easy to move in, bras were irritating, but he coped after years of practice and patience. It was just the camouflage he needed. He learned how to walk like a girl, to talk like one, raising his voice so it chimed instead of burned. It was like being reborn.
Grace supported him with the transition, taking him to the clothes store, picking outfits she thought suited Cameron the best. Calling her Mom and Ted Dad became quite easy. He thought he’d have to punch through a cemented wall in his mind to get past it, trust was completely unfamiliar to him. He’d completely lost his faith in human nature; he didn’t know why he chose Grace and Ted. It was an instinct. He observed them from afar, when he’d hid in the trees, he liked how caring Grace was, when she brought a cup of steaming tea to Ted who’d been working hard all day in the yard. He enjoyed the little gestures Ted gave out, kissing her hand, mouthing his thanks and how much he loved her.
His new parents were gentle, polite and understanding of his problems. They treated him like a normal kid and he loved them for it. They took him to the mall, the arcade, the movies, let him gorge himself on popcorn. In his previous life, he lived on an existence of meat, vegetables and water. He wasn’t allowed to have fattening sugary foods and drinks. A repetitive gruel of a routine he enjoyed breaking. There were times when he questioned his new family - their unlimited generosity, their willing compassion to take care of a nuclear bomb in human form. Isaac still had nightmares, waking up in a sweat, petrified that the men and women in white coats would catch him, having to go on the run again through forests and persuading another family crazy enough to take a fucked-up child into their hearts.
When it was his birthday, his mom and dad threw him a party and for the first time, he had friends attending, playing games, eating cake, watching him open his presents.
As Isaac moved into high school, he fell in love with video games like Spyro and Crash Bandicoot and the power of rock music. He obsessed over bands such as Nirvana, Metallica, The Red Hot Chilli Peppers and so many others. His dad bought him an acoustic guitar one year and offered to pay for lessons. Isaac declined, indulging in the solitary relaxation of his bedroom, letting his voice roll deep and free as he strummed.
He decided to mould his appearance on the songwriter and musician, Joan Jett. She was the front woman of The Blackhearts and one of the vital components of The Runaways. Joan owned virtually everything she did and she produced some kick ass tunes. He figured Cameron was a tomboy, the punk style had been really big in the eighties with great movies like The Breakfast Club - so he tailored his look to their standards.
Puberty was a major blow. He noticed he was staring at girls more often and he’d forget himself, especially at school. Then he started dreaming about what they smelt and tasted like, waking up with a sticky white puddle between his legs. He jerked off, masturbating seemed to help ease the tension, disarming his passions. He learned the sock technique from Christopher and Travis, Cameron pretended to peep elsewhere and smoke when they chatted about their erotic escapades. Isaac was making secret notes. He’d hide the soiled socks deep in his laundry basket covered by other clothes hoping his mom wouldn’t find out. So far, she hadn’t, unless she was keeping a respectable face. Moms and dads did that for their children.
He experienced kissing a girl for the first time at a party, well it wasn’t his first kiss, he didn’t count the one outside the cabin. That was before his new life started. They were having a sleepover in Travis’s basement when they played truth or dare, spinning an empty bottle when it landed on a friend of a friend. She was cute with sugar spun hair and she wore cherry lip gloss.
Then it was dealing with the erections. How do you conceal a hard on when you’re wearing female clothing? How do you not stare in the changing rooms when everyone is getting undressed when you’re meant to be a part of the crowd?
Girls jeans were so tiny and tight with nowhere to put anything. He had to carry everything in a rucksack sometimes. His mom came up with the idea and bought him some baggy pants.
“I’ve seen some of the kids wearing these in the skate park,” Grace had pondered. “Thought you might like them seeing as you said your other pants are getting tight. Plenty of girls wear them too, so you’ll be fine.” Isaac didn’t tell her the honest truth, the same as any adolescent he didn’t want his mom to know he was becoming sexually active.
Isaac realised if he clo
cked a girl, Cameron clocked the girl too and then he heard the rumours going around about Cam’s hotness for girl-on-girl action. He denied it. Not there was anything wrong, if it was twenty years prior, he’d be in serious trouble. There were some gay students in his year, he’d seen the shit they received on a daily basis. Isaac didn’t want attention, he needed to swim under the radar. Was being gay really a reason to hate someone? Did people not have their own problems to focus on?
When Isaac turned seventeen, he got his first tattoo, using the money from his savings. He planned to get more. He didn’t tell his parents or his friends he was doing it. He designed it himself and presented it to the artist.
“From self-harm?” the guy asked, observing his scarred arm.
Isaac nodded. Well, Cameron nodded. He was getting used to telling so many lies by now.
“Sorry about that, honey. I can see why you want these covered.”
He wanted to smile when the artist gave his arm a prod with the tattoo gun and he didn’t wince. It was even funnier when he hardly bled.
Another plus about living in Cameron’s skin was that Isaac was able to unleash some of his urges. When he’d been participating in hours of cardio every day since he could remember, the discipline didn’t slide overnight. His mom educated him about the wonders of yoga so Isaac kept himself conventionally healthy, he wasn’t the type just to sit. If he was, it’d be playing Resident Evil or typing on his computer, he loved coding. He participated in school sports, maybe the occasional run but he cut the exercise right down. He'd revel in the challenges guys and girls hurled at him. Not that he’d hit a girl, Cameron gave them a shove if they got in his way but the guys, he didn't hold back. Especially when one piece of shit tried to grope Cameron’s chest at a party and Isaac nearly broke his jaw. Cameron’s strength became the talk of the town rather than her genital preference in girls.
His dad took him to the park and they’d practice shooting. They’d hunt, Isaac wasn’t a fan but he did it because it made his dad happy. He remembered the startled look on Ted’s expression when he walked out of the clearing, clutching a deer’s head in his hand. Ted asked what he’d done, Isaac shrugged, casually explaining how he pulled at the neck until the flesh broke apart, he didn’t need to use a knife. He remembered Ted rushing to a bush, hurling his guts up. Isaac felt instantly terrible for it, he didn’t mean to frighten him.
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