Devils Within Page 2

  “There he is!”

  I peek out from under the coat at the mass of people by the iron fence out front. Cameras—digital and video—aim at me and fire. Microphones and voice recorders are pushed through the bars, as if a few extra inches will allow the reporters to catch something they couldn’t otherwise.

  The orderlies surround me and Traitor. Reporters surge against the fence, lions smelling blood.

  “Nathaniel! Nathaniel!”

  “Are you sure you’re ready to be released?”

  “Do you regret what you did?”

  Stanley leads the way down the chipped concrete steps to the narrow path around the building. The reporters try to follow, but tall, boxy hedges block their way. So they shout instead.

  “Nathaniel, are you still a member of the Nazi Socialist Party?”

  “Are you moving back to The Fort?”

  Traitor unclips a big, round ring from his belt. It’s dripping with more keys than one person could possibly need. We stalk to the back lot, toward a gray truck, older model. Dingy silver toolboxes line the sides. A rusty ladder rack clings to the bed walls. Faded bungee cords loop through the holes where ladders should be.

  “Nathaniel! Talk to us!”

  “Do you have any remorse at all for killing your father?”

  The question hits me like a rock. I stand, frozen, wanting to bolt back into the safety of the Psych Center, but unable to move.

  It’s a question I’ve been asked before. After my arrest. During my trial.

  Problem is, I still don’t know the answer.

  Gentle hands push me forward. Stanley helps me into the truck cab. “Pay them no mind, son. Take care of yourself, all right?”

  I can only nod.

  I slide onto the gray, sun-bleached seat. Empty burger wrappers and Skoal cans litter the cab. Stale chewing tobacco spit taints the air. As Traitor backs out of his spot, I crack the window and watch Stanley and the other orderlies until they round the corner and vanish from sight.

  The reporters are still hollering. They’ve pounced on other prey, attacking the orderlies with questions about my stay in the Psych Center.

  Except one. A tall lady with straight, blonde hair emerges from the hedges as we drive through the hidden back gate. She scribbles something on a notepad. I sink lower in the seat.

  Tearing my eyes from the lone reporter, I steal a look at Traitor. He obviously doesn’t want me, so why is he taking me in? Part of me wants to tell him to turn around, to give me back. The Psych Center can’t turn me out on the street, can they?

  I don’t have anywhere else to go. Foster families won’t touch me. Five were lined up before Ms. Erica found Traitor, and all five backed out. Once the freaking media got on their trails, they didn’t last long. That leaves a group home, which is definitely out of the question.

  I stayed in one once while the judge tried to locate him. It wasn’t as bad as The Fort, but close.

  I keep quiet and ride away with the only family I have left to a state I’ve never seen.

  The Farmer Gazette

  MURDERED!

  Community in Mourning After Death of Prominent Local Figure

  By Sam Lawson

  Staff Writer

  Jefferson Fuller, leader of a local political organization, was murdered at 1 a.m. on Dec. 3.

  Neighbors Jason Connor and Al Bolton said Fuller was involved in an altercation with his 14-year-old son.

  They witnessed the boy, Nathaniel Fuller, attacking his father. Before they could intervene, Nathaniel Fuller fled to the woods, followed by Jefferson, who told Connor and Bolton to stay behind and call the police. Several minutes later Connor and Bolton heard multiple gunshots.

  “At least four or five,” said Bolton. “Nathaniel always did have it in for his father.”

  Connor was noticeably shaken at the scene.

  “Me and Al found Jefferson’s body. Or what was left of it,” Connor said. “I’ve never seen such a thing in my life.”

  Sheriff Charles Michaels confirms the murder was the result of a domestic scuffle, but officials aren’t releasing any details at this time. Farmer city police located Nathaniel Fuller in a dumpster behind Home Grown Books.

  The police have neither confirmed nor denied Fuller’s involvement in the murder. However, Ella Pritchett of Pritchett’s Platters, a favorite restaurant of Jefferson’s, thinks Nathaniel is “guilty as sin.”

  “I was there when they found him,” said Pritchett. “That white T-shirt of his was covered in blood. You don’t get that much blood on you if you ain’t guilty.”

  Sheriff Michaels did state that while no arrests have been made, the full force of the County Sheriff’s Department is investigating this brutal murder.

  “Jefferson Fuller did a lot for Farmer,” said Michaels. “The whole area loved him. He was committed to his community, so his community is going to do everything it can to ensure his killer is brought to justice.”

  Continued B6.

  588

  Killing isn’t supposed to be easy.

  But it is.

  Squeezing a trigger is the easiest thing in the world. One firm press and BOOM, a life isn’t in this world anymore.

  It’s the after that’s hard to deal with. After you take the step that can never be taken back. After a single pull of the lever rips a person from his soul.

  Although, to be honest, I’m not sure he ever had a soul. If he did, it left a long time ago.

  It doesn’t matter that the person I murdered was the most miserable excuse for a human being ever to walk this earth, shy of Hitler. It’s knowing he didn’t have a chance to find some humanity, that I took it from him. It’s knowing he was the bad guy, but I’m the one who has to suffer for the rest of my life.

  Even remembering the things he did—to me, to Mom, to anyone who looked different or talked different or acted different—even then, I can’t escape the guilt. Every time I look at my hands, that cold pistol drags them down like an anchor in thick creek mud. When I see my reflection, his face stares back, the face of a murderer.

  Even if the jury said I’m not. Not according to the law. The law says self-defense doesn’t count as murder.

  But it does to me.

  Because—and this is the hardest part—it felt good. Killing him was a relief. Finally, after years of abuse, of hearing his voice crack mid-scream, of the snap of the belt, the slam of his fists, finally I had quiet.

  Not that it lasted long.

  Every day since—all 588 of them—his deep voice fills my head with hate-filled words. I don’t share his hate. I really don’t. But that doesn’t stop the thoughts from creeping into my mind.

  Maybe his words got to Mom, too, and no matter how far we ran, she couldn’t escape them. Maybe, regardless of what I do, I’m beyond hope.

  Traitor thinks so.

  He gave me the room on the second floor as far from the stairs as possible. I have to pass his room to leave the house. It’s like he thinks that if he gives me the chance I’ll sneak away to hurt someone else. Maybe he sees the darkness swirling inside me like ribbons of chocolate syrup in milk. Maybe he thinks I’m as damned as my father.

  Not that anyone could sneak anywhere in this house. There’s no carpet, only bare floorboards that groan like I’m hurting them when I take a step.

  I don’t think Traitor knows what to do with me. We drove for pretty much a solid day, all the way from West Kentucky to Northwest Alabama, stopping only for food and to buy me clothes at a thrift store.

  When we got to Traitor’s cabin last night, he fed me a fried bologna sandwich and chips and sent me to bed without saying more than ten words to me. Not that I got much sleep. I never really sleep anyway. Or maybe I’ve never really woken up. I live in that blurry space between awake and asleep. Every night, I just lie there, reliving that night. The woods, the gun, the wet slap of brain slop hitting bark. All of it.

  This morning, my second day outside the Psych Center, isn’t any different, exc
ept the dream—memory, flashback, whatever the hell it is—was more intense. Brighter. Colder.

  I stay in bed until I can’t stand it anymore. It’s still dark out. I pull on a pair of ripped jeans and pace the room, making myself feel the cool boards beneath my feet, the scratch of denim on my legs, the smooth plastic of my button. Real things. Not the woods, not the snow, not the gun.

  My lungs crave real air, too. Not the canned shit pouring through the vent in the floor. I flick the lock and shove open the window that overlooks the front yard. The windows at the Psych Center were sealed shut. So no one could jump, I guess. Or try to escape.

  I didn’t realize how much I missed fresh air.

  Misty morning fog creeps through the screen, curling its wispy fingers around the mesh like it wants to hold hands for a minute before it melts into droplets on the sill. I sit in the blue velvet armchair beside the window and peer at the trees around the house, tracing 588 in the damp dust on the window ledge.

  The scent of earth and pine needles creeps in with the fog. It’s something I haven’t smelled in a long time. More than just a smell. Memories. I take a deep breath and think of me and Kelsey lying in the woods, reading our secret books, the ones we wrapped in plastic bags and hid in the hole under the holly bush.

  The books were her idea. We were around nine and on a supply run in town. Kelsey dragged me in the bookstore when her mom wasn’t looking. She’d never seen that many books in one place. I had, thanks to Mom. Libraries are great places to spend a summer day when you have no air-conditioning. I still remembered the tall stacks and bright spines, but all Kelsey had was the handful of propaganda that passed for The Fort’s library.

  She’d raced from aisle to aisle, unable to stand still long enough to do more than read the titles. Not until we heard her mother calling. Then she grabbed one randomly and shoved it under her shirt while I stood there, terrified.

  We’d sprinted into the woods as soon as we got back to The Fort and read until the sun set and the words got lost in the shadows. That book would become her favorite. Bridge to Terabithia.

  I wonder what happened to our books. They’re the one thing I wish I had from The Fort. I guess I could start a new collection. There don’t seem to be any books here. At least not in my room. The whole place is like the window ledge, dirty and worn, as if it hasn’t been touched in years. Like it’s been here this whole time, waiting on me to come and claim it. I lean back in the chair and take a good look at what I’m stuck with for now.

  A thinning quilt covers a twin bed in the center of the room. It was enough to keep me warm last night, but I’m screwed when winter comes. There’s no headboard. Hell, I’m surprised there’s even a bed frame and not just a box spring and a mattress sitting directly on the floor. The mattress, itself, is hard as bone, but I’ve slept on worse. A nightstand wobbles to the left of the bed. At least the lamp and alarm clock are metal so they’re not liable to break when I knock them off—which I’m bound to do.

  The chair where I’m sitting is catty-corner to the window. The nap is smooth from what must be decades of wear, and shallow grooves etch the arms like someone interrupted a cat in the middle of sharpening its claws. A small wooden desk is jammed like an afterthought in the far corner in a nook between the closet and the wall.

  Across from the bed is a black, dinged-up dresser with one handle missing on the second drawer. I suppose I could put the few clothes Traitor bought me in there.

  I cross the room and yank open the drawers. They’re all empty except for a bar of lavender soap in the top one.

  Mom used to do that. She liked the way it made her clothes smell. Said it made her feel fancy, even in her ratty jeans and moth-eaten sweaters. This bar’s scent has all but abandoned it—only the slightest hint of lavender remains—but it’s still enough to make me see Mom, dark hair brushing the shoulders of her navy shirt, asking me if she looked pretty. I can’t answer, though, because her features are all blurred together by time and distance.

  I snatch the soap out of the drawer and toss it in the small wire trash can beside the desk. The breeze catches the lacy curtains that hang on either side of the window. They waft like ghosts. Dingy, yellowy ghosts. The color of dirty dishwater.

  A flash of memory hits. Me on the floor of our house at The Fort, sticky with blood. Curtains near my head, with half a red handprint at the bottom.

  I shiver and rub my hands down my pants legs, feeling the rough fabric. It takes less than a minute to yank the curtains down. I wad them up and smash them down in the trash can with the soap.

  The clang of metal on metal makes me jump. My eyes snap to the yard below, to a pop of red in the fog. Another truck is parked beside Traitor’s, also with a bed full of tools but no ladder rack. A slim figure in a tight tank top and baggy jeans bends over the tailgate and drags a bucket from among the various toolboxes.

  Even though the person’s hair is shorter than mine, there’s something distinctly feminine about the way the shape moves, the slight swing of the hips as she hauls the bucket from her truck to Traitor’s. It’s hard to see in the dim sunlight, but I’m certain it’s a her.

  She slams the tailgate shut and wipes her hands on her jeans, before crossing the yard and banging on the screen door. “Dell! Get a move on!” Her voice is deep for a girl.

  The toilet flushes down the hall and the floor creaks. “Gimme a minute,” Traitor yells.

  The front door opens followed by quick footsteps on the stairs. I crack open my bedroom door. The second floor is kind of a loft area that overlooks the living room. Traitor’s room is on one side, bathroom in the middle, then my room.

  The girl’s short, spiky hair doesn’t move as she bounds up the steps, two at a time. It’s black as motor oil except for a deep red streak down the center.

  She’s short and built like a boy, with narrow hips and slightly wider shoulders.

  Holy crap, she’s Oriental!

  I stare openly. I’ve never seen an Oriental in real life. Only on TV and in pictures in the history books Kelsey and I stole. I can’t take my eyes off her. She’s beautiful in the way the oleander growing along the highway is beautiful, in a dangerous sort of way. Pretty, but poisonous.

  She leans against the railing, precariously close to the edge.

  Years of brainwashing trigger and the sudden urge to shove her rushes over me like a tornado tearing across a cloudy spring sky. Only thin wood rails separate her from the living room floor below.

  His words flood through me. Angry words that I don’t even want to think, and could never actually say. But there they are, pooling in my brain. I stare at the Oriental girl in the hallway, fighting against my Indoctrinations, against the voice in my head commanding me to hurt her.

  Traitor comes out of the bathroom, tucking his blue T-shirt into his tan work pants. The thunk of his boots on the wood snaps me back. I press the heels of my hands to my eyes, searching for that prick of light in the darkness, trying to force his thoughts out of my head.

  “We’re not even late yet,” Traitor says.

  Find the light. Watch it blossom. Grow bigger. Closer. Come on, come on, come on.

  “Yet. We will be if you don’t hurry.” Her deep southern accent throws me for a minute. Shouldn’t she sound Oriental? What do real Orientals even sound like?

  “I had things to take care of,” Traitor says.

  “I bet,” she answers in her husky twang. “Things like sleep, right? Or were you—Dell, who is that?”

  I drop my hands from my eyes. My bedroom door inched open more than I meant it to. Without thinking, I slam the door and lean against it, breathing hard.

  “Nate, what the hell are you doing?” Traitor snaps.

  I don’t answer. What am I supposed to say? Trying not to kill your girlfriend? That’ll go over great. My ass will be on the street in a flash.

  “Nate!”

  I reach up to flick the lock, but there isn’t one. Just like in his house.

  Coming he
re was a mistake.

  I have to get out of here. The window?

  “Wait a minute,” the girl says. “Is that … is that Nathaniel Fuller?” Her voice is edged with steel. If that tone had hands, it would slice through the door and cut me to shreds.

  Traitor doesn’t respond.

  “Do you have a death wish?” she screams. At first, I’m not sure if it’s directed at me or at Traitor. “We talked about this. You let him in your house?”

  “I had to, Bev.”

  “Like hell you did.”

  “He’s Mae’s son. What was I supposed to do?”

  “Leave him to rot for all I care,” she growls. “Think about yourself. This isn’t good for you, Dell.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut, expecting the darkness. Her tone, Traitor’s shouting, my unwanted thoughts—they should be making me angry enough to tear the door off its hinges. But the darkness isn’t there. The light isn’t, either. All that’s behind my eyes, in my head, is a deep blue … sadness.

  She wants me dead. I’ve never even met her and she wants me dead.

  Not that I’m much different—seeing as how my first inclination was to kill her, too. But I didn’t want to do it. My reaction was instinct, hers is … judgment.

  I haven’t experienced judgment like this since my trial. Is this what it’s going to be like on the outside? Most people only know the sensationalized story the media showed. Since I’m a minor, the judge barred reporters from the courtroom, so they made up whatever they wanted. Whatever would sell papers and draw viewers.

  The only people talking were from The Fort and the town of Farmer, which was really just an extension of The Fort, seeing as how most of them—cops included—came to the rallies every Saturday night. The Fort trains its members on how to handle the media and how to paint themselves as victims, regardless of the situation. They claimed I was trying to overthrow him and take over leadership. No one got to hear my side. No one knows what really happened.

  Is everyone like Traitor’s girlfriend? Do they all hate me?

  Traitor’s boots echo on the bare boards as he crosses to my room. This is it. He’s going to throw the door open and beat me senseless. I’ll have to fight back. Let the beast out.