Devils Within

by S. F. Henson

  I throw the ball and block her out. Geez, how would they react if they knew I’ve already been found? The reporter’s crumpled business card is in my pocket beside Ms. Erica’s. I thought about telling them—and came really close to calling Ms. Erica about her—but it never seemed like the right time. Besides, they probably won’t believe me. Not too long ago, the social worker, herself, said no one could possibly know where I am.

  I slip my hand in my pocket and run my finger along the thick edges of both cards. Traitor and the social worker pepper me with more questions. I close my eyes, breathe deeply, and look for the light, trying to block the frigid gusts of anger swelling from their storm of panic.

  Boots clomp on the wooden floor. Voices shriek. Light. I need the light. Traitor’s jeans brush against mine. Breathe. The social worker’s heels follow. I spot the light. It’s faint, but it’s there. A distant lighthouse at the edge of a black ocean.

  She’s trying to calm Traitor down, but he won’t stop yelling. Waves swell, pushing the light further out of reach. The social worker raises her voice to match Traitor’s. The light slips away, sand between my fingers, and all that exists is the penetrating darkness within me.

  “Enough!” My bellow vibrates my throat and chest, startling even me.

  I open my eyes. Traitor and the social worker stand in front of me, slack-jawed.

  “Enough,” I say. Calmly this time. The stress ball falls from my hand to the floor. Or what’s left of it. Seems I tore it in two. “You want me to be normal, to rejoin society, to make friends, start over. But how can I do that if my life is built on lies?”

  The social worker blinks. Traitor crosses his arms. I’ve been thinking about this a lot since Brandon opened up to me. He seemed so much lighter afterward. More like his real self. Things with his other friends went back to normal, too. He still hasn’t told them what was going on with Henry, but he said he didn’t need to since he’d gotten the weight off his chest.

  My secrets are iron ships compared to Brandon’s, but if it worked for him, maybe it could work for me, too. If I can clear my conscience somehow, maybe that’ll be enough.

  Maybe with a clean conscience, I can start over.

  If they’d only let me.

  The social worker sits beside me. I scoot away.

  “Opening up about your past is too dangerous, Nate. You could put both your uncle and you in jeopardy.” Her hand juts out like she wants to pat me, or something, but I stand and move out of range. “Think about it. Carefully. You’ll realize we’re right.”

  “There’s nothing to think about,” Traitor says. “He’s not going to say a damn word. Don’t you mess this up, boy.”

  I meet his eyes and the darkness swirls and swirls and swirls, blocking him and the social worker and the entire cabin. It’s been 640 days since I hurt someone, but I’m so freaking close right now that I can practically smell the rusty tang of blood. And I don’t care. I’m sick of other people controlling my life. Where I go and what I do and who I like and don’t like and what I say and don’t say.

  My fist rises.

  I clutch my button the way a drowning person clings to a life preserver.

  I can’t do this.

  The real me is going to come pouring out one way or another, by my actions or by my words.

  I have to take control now. Before it’s too late.

  I brush past Traitor, bumping my shoulder into his, and retreat to my bedroom. I lean against the closed door, my button in one closed fist and the business cards from my pocket in the other.

  The thick card stock bites my palm. The possibilities within the cards slice me open. I unclench my fist and smooth the cards’ creases, running my fingers over the raised print. Ms. Erica’s soothing voice breezes through my memory and I’m back in Dr. Sterling’s office. “It’s okay, Nate. Write it out. Whatever you can manage right now. We’re not going anywhere.” And they didn’t. Not after they read those first pages. Not after the next set, or the next. They were always there.

  Because they had to be. It was their job.

  I stare at the letters on the business cards until they blur and my eyes ache. When I blink, I finally see everything clearly.

  I tear open my backpack and flip to a clean notebook page, uncap a pen, and write.

  Ink flows like blood from a freshly cut vein. My soul bleeds onto the paper. Bleeds and bleeds and bleeds until there’s nothing left. Not a single word.

  Only when I’m empty do I see how to fill myself again, how to start being a whole person for once.

  643

  The pages are hot pokers in my pocket. The words sear my skin with every step. I was too paranoid to leave them at Traitor’s. Afraid he’d do a random room search and find them stuffed in my pillowcase or between the mattress and box spring. Besides, that’s not where they go. These pages don’t belong tucked away somewhere like the beast. They belong in someone’s hand.

  Traitor is obviously out. He’d have me locked up before he got through the first page. The new social worker, too. There’s only one person I can think of who might be willing to keep an open mind.

  Which is why I’m pacing outside the school counselor’s office. The final bell rings. My resolve leaks away with the fading sound. All day, I tried to talk myself into doing this, and all day I backed out. This is my last chance. My best chance. The school will be empty. No one to interrupt, no principal for the counselor to run to if my words freak him out.

  The door opens and I will my jelly spine to become steel. A tall brown girl in a volleyball uniform comes out.

  “Just keep working on that spike, Camila,” the counselor says from behind her.

  The girl smiles. “Thanks for your help, Mr. Paulsen. That scout is coming to the game tonight because of you.”

  He waves her off. “It’s my job. Now go warm up and kill those Cats!” He turns to go back in his office and notices me for the first time. “Oh, Nate. I didn’t see you there. You need something?”

  I hesitate. The halls are filling up with students pouring out of their last classes. I can join the current and let them sweep me out to the asphalt sea. But that won’t stop the paper in my pocket from burning through me. The counselor said he was on my team. It’s time to find out if he meant it. “I, uh, I was wondering if we could talk?”

  The counselor checks his watch. “School is over. Sure you don’t want to get out of here? I’m free in the morning.”

  I swallow hard. The temptation to run is stronger than ever. “No. It needs to be now.”

  He opens his door wider. “Then let’s talk.”

  The cot from my first day is gone, so instead I sink into the one chair in front of his desk. Although “sink” isn’t the right word. The stiff fabric doesn’t give much, like the chair doesn’t want anyone to get too comfortable and stay too long. The counselor plops down in his wheeled chair and scoots up to the desk.

  “So, what can I help you with?”

  Where do I start? I’ve never had to have this conversation. Everyone else has already known something about me going in. Do I tell him my real name first, or where I’m from? My tongue swells at the thought. Fills my entire mouth.

  No. I can’t tell him anything. The words are glued to my soul. To say them would rip me apart worse than the stress ball.

  I could give him what I wrote. The letter to no one.

  My hand goes to my pocket. My fingers rub the edges of the folded pages. It would be so easy to pull them out. Lay them on the desk. No different from turning in homework. One quick motion and that would be it.

  That would be it.

  The gravity of it hits me. Presses my hand tight against my leg. We learned about g-force last week in science, and I suddenly get it. A million Gs are bearing down on me right now. My body feels like it’s about to collapse in on itself.

  “Nate?”

  “I’m sorry.” My voice sounds like it’s light-years away. “I …” I can’t tell you, I want to say.

&nb
sp; The counselor stands. “Are you okay? Are you having another episode?”

  He seems genuinely concerned, I’ll give him that. But he’s used to helping volleyball players who need scholarships, not weirdos like me who are haunted by their pasts. He can’t read my words. They would break him as much as my fists could. Not to mention that he might tell someone else and my cover would be blown.

  No, telling one person, in Lewiston, won’t work. Especially not if it’s Nate Clemons doing the telling. This has to come from Nathaniel Fuller. And if it’s going to make a difference, then it needs to go wider. Not to the people here who know me as a juvenile delinquent. To the people who got the wrong story in the first place. Telling one person isn’t going to matter. It didn’t with Dr. Sterling and Ms. Erica. That was just using a Band-Aid to treat cancer.

  I have to dig the cancer out. Lay my insides bare. It has to hurt. In the right way. The counselor is all wrong.

  “Can I use the phone?” I manage around my hundred-pound tongue.

  The counselor’s eyebrows furrow. “Do you need help? Medical help? Medicine?”

  I shake my head. “I need to go home.”

  “Are you sure? I can help you.”

  “Just the phone.” I start to stand but the counselor springs to his feet.

  “You probably shouldn’t move.” He fumbles in his pocket. “Here, use my cell.”

  My hands shake as I take the phone from him. An invisible vise squeezes my chest.

  I’ve memorized the number by now. My fingers dial it automatically.

  “Hello?”

  “It’s Nate,” I say. “I’m ready.”

  652

  “I’m glad you called.” The reporter sips her coffee, then flashes her hundred-watt smile at me.

  She may be glad, but I’m not so sure. All my inner strength spilled out with the words I scrawled last week. And the resolve I’d had after dialing the reporter’s number has gradually seeped away in the days since.

  Dim afternoon light filters through the old, yellowed newspaper covering the windows of the abandoned diner where we’d arranged to meet, casting shadows over the reporter. I hadn’t thought about that during the hours I’d spent arranging and rearranging the dusty table and broken chairs, searching for the spot I felt safest. I settled on the middle of the room, with the table at a slight angle so I can see both doors but also have the freedom to bolt if necessary.

  Now I’m questioning if I should’ve chosen the other side, so my face would be the unreadable one.

  “What made you change your mind?” she asks.

  I swirl my fingers through the dust, wiping away 652 before she can read it. “I thought about what you said, and you’re right. The story isn’t balanced, and I’m not either.” Shit. That didn’t come out right. “Not that I’m unbalanced, but …”

  Her forehead crinkles. I’m losing her. This is why I don’t talk about these things. I take a deep breath.

  “It’s like a seesaw and all this shit against me is piled on one side.” I tilt my hand to show her. “And I’m all alone on the other.”

  The reporter places her hand over mine and flattens it. Her hand is warm from her coffee cup, and not entirely unpleasant, not like the social worker’s. “I know exactly what you mean,” she says softly.

  I slide away from her and pick at a seam on the table where the particleboard split. “I think telling my side will even things out.”

  “I’m glad you chose to give your story to me.” Even though she’s shadowy, I hear the smile in her voice. I hate the satisfaction this is giving her.

  I narrow my eyes, hoping she can see me clearly. “Don’t get it twisted. You weren’t my first choice. But you already know some of my past.”

  “And that makes it easier,” she says.

  “You’re also the only one who’s shown any interest in me.”

  “So, you trust me?”

  “No. But your readers do. I read the articles you gave me, and looked up some others. People read what you write, and they believe you. I can’t get that on my own. I could post my story online, but who would see it, and why would they think it’s true? That’s why I called. To give you this.” I remove the crumpled pages from my pocket and smooth them out on the table.

  “What is that?” The reporter leans in, but I pull the papers back.

  “My story. It’s yours, but first I have a few conditions.”

  She rocks back and folds her arms. “If you don’t trust me, what makes you think I’ll follow your conditions?”

  “Because if you don’t, I’ll go to one of your competitors and deny the whole thing.”

  She sighs. “Okay, so what are your terms?”

  “One, you can’t advertise this until the story prints. I find out you’ve even thought about telling folks you met with me, and I swear I’ll make you regret it.”

  She presses her lips together, but I can’t see her expression. I hope she’s scared. I can’t—won’t—actually hurt her, but I want her to think I might.

  “Two, you can’t reveal my location. Not even generally. And no pictures.”

  “I have to use a picture.”

  “No.”

  “But—”

  I stand. I’m telling my story. Nathaniel Fuller’s. Nate Clemons has to stay out of it if I want to stay safe. People in Lewiston can’t know who I really am if I’m going to have any sort of life here. If she prints a picture, then she might as well print my zip code or call The Fort and tell them where to find me.

  “This is my way to clear my name—and my conscience—not get myself killed.”

  “Fine,” she says. “No pictures.”

  Uneasiness stirs in my gut, but I can’t tell if it’s because my past is about to come out to this stranger, and then the world, or if she’s hiding something.

  The truth is a blister on my soul. It’s going to burst if I don’t get it out soon. Besides, she’s a reporter—of course she’s hiding something. No reporter is going to show all their cards—they never do—but I don’t see another option. If I want to tell my side, she’s all I’ve got. I sit back down. “Final rule. This is my story. My words. Not yours, not theirs. Mine. Print it exactly as it’s written here.”

  I could’ve emailed it to her, but I don’t trust email. Too many things can go wrong. This way I put it directly in her hands.

  She cocks her head to the side. “It’s your story, but it is my article. My readers will expect my authorial voice in the piece. You said yourself, they trust me. I can’t just print random pages without context.”

  My eyes narrow. “Direct quotes from me, or you get nothing.”

  Her hand jabs toward me so suddenly I think she’s about to slap me. “Deal.”

  Shaking her hand feels like bargaining with the Devil, except I’ve dealt with the Devil before; his blood runs through my veins.

  Everything will be fine, though. As long as she upholds her end of the deal.

  The reporter removes her navy blazer and hangs it on the back of the tattered camp chair I’d dragged into the diner. She pulls a notepad and pen out of her bag. “Okay, Nathaniel—”

  “Nate.”

  She smiles. Not the super bright one, but still forced. “Nate, let me see the letter.”

  I take a deep breath. The pages look like a serial killer wrote them. Lines are jotted then crossed out and rewritten so that it flows logically, from the beginning up to that night.

  I push the papers toward her, but I only release them once she tugs. She rifles through the pages. “There’s a lot here.”

  “I have a lot tell.”

  “Then why don’t you tell me?”

  Goose bumps break out down my arms. I fold them over my chest and hope she didn’t see. “Because I already wrote it all.” The uneasiness shifts into full-on nerves. I did my part. I wrote it down and delivered it. Now it’s up to her to print the painful words that have been tattooed inside me for so long. I sling my backpack over my shoulder and start for t
he door.

  “You’re not going to stay while I read them? I thought this was an interview.”

  “This is me giving you a story. My story. Do you want it or not?”

  She jumps up and darts in front of me. “Of course I want it, but you can’t just dump it in my lap and walk away. Why don’t you stay while I read it? To make sure I understand everything. Isn’t that what you want?”

  I don’t get why she can’t just print the whole damn thing in the paper or put it on the Internet and let that be that. Nerves rake their jagged fingers down my stomach at the thought of watching her read my words. I never had to watch Dr. Sterling or Ms. Erica. They always read after I left, then talked to me about it during the next session.

  “Some of this handwriting is awfully cramped,” she says. “There are parts I can’t quite figure out. You don’t want me to make assumptions, do you? They’re your words, not mine. That’s what you said.”

  I drop my bag to the dusty floor. “Fine.” But I switch sides of the table. I want to be in the shadows now, so she can’t look me in the eye when she discovers my real past.

  The reporter sits in my old seat and unfolds the pages. “He broke my leg when I was four,” she says aloud.

  I wince, grateful she can’t see my face. “To yourself.” The words in that letter taste like battery acid in my mouth. I can’t imagine what they’ll sound like coming out of hers. Worse than nails on a chalkboard.

  She smiles gently. “Of course.” Then she drops her eyes to the letter again. I read upside down, so I’ll know which part she’s at.

  That’s the first time I remember him touching me, but I don’t recall the whole thing. Everything is spotty, like a radio station that’s just out of range. Mom said I blacked out. She filled in the gaps later when we were running. She said I’d left the dog in while we attended a gathering and it peed on his bed. He whipped off his belt and beat me. Each crack of the leather was fire. I remember how it split my back open the way a seam bursts in clothes that are too small. The blood got on my hands. It could’ve been spilled paint, if I’d been allowed to paint. I tried to get away and crawled through it.