Pucking Feral, Part Two (Ghostverse #2)

Wraith

Ten Years Old

"This one, Dad?"

I don't like calling James that.

And I wish Mom didn't want me to. But she says James might be happy if I do. I want him to like me. He doesn't now, but maybe someday.

"That's the one."

His voice is different today. Today it's almost... nice?

He's usually angry.

I grab the wrench. I'm clumsy and my hands are too big. My hockey coach says I might be seven feet tall when I'm done growing. I'm definitely going to be an alpha.

Mom always tears up when people say that.

Dad was a tall alpha, too. Really tall.

I wish he could see me play hockey.

Maybe if I do really good today, James will come to my game on Saturday. Mom says he might, if I ask nice enough, and if I'm good all week.

"Here!" I say loudly. I can't help it. I'm excited. James asked me to help. Not one of his work friends, not even the neighbor.

Me.

James sticks a cigarette in his mouth, takes the wrench, and moves a few cans over to the side of the car where we're working.

"Don't touch that one," he says, jerking his head toward it. I can't read the worn out label on the large dark brown bottle, but I know a skull and crossbones warning symbol when I see one. "I know you're fuckin' clumsy. That one right there? That'll melt your face off."

He says it like it's exciting.

I give it plenty of space.

"I won't," I promise him. "What do we need it for?"

He pauses, looking at me funny, his cigarette bobbing in his teeth.

"It's a surprise, kid," he drawls, turning.

"Okay!"

"You're getting big," he continues, busying himself with the tools and not looking at me. "Every day you look more like..."

He stops, but I know what he means.

More like Dad.

I don't remember him much. But Mom tells me stories about him all the time. How strong he was, how brave, how he could lift her up with one arm and spin her around until she laughed so hard she couldn't breathe.

He was a hero, she says. He died fighting bad guys.

"Can you slide under there and check the oil pan?" James points under the car. "You're skinny enough to fit. Go in legs first, on your back."

I don't know if I will. I'm already as big as James. But I'll do anything if it means he wants me around. Maybe if I do a good job, he'll teach me more stuff. Maybe we can work on cars together every weekend.

The concrete is cold through the back of my t-shirt as I shimmy under the car. There's barely enough room, but I make it work. Oil has dripped here, making dark spots on the cardboard James laid down. It stinks like metal and rubber and it makes my nose itch.

"See anything wrong with it?" James calls out.

I look at the oil pan, trying to remember what he said to check for. There's some rust maybe? Or is that normal? I want to give him the right answer so badly I'm nervous.

"I think there's a little rust on one side?" I call back.

"Good eye. Come on out and we'll take care of it."

Good eye?

He said I did good!

I push myself out quick as I can, already thinking about what he'll teach me next. Maybe how to change the oil? Or rotate the tires?

I'm strong. I could help him every weekend, if he wants me to.

I smile so big it hurts as I look up at James from the garage floor, swiping at the motor oil on my face with the back of my hand.

He has one of those big brown bottles by the neck, just like he holds a beer bottle, staring down at me with flat eyes.

My skin prickles.

Sometimes he hits me when his eyes look like that.

"Will that help with the rust?" I ask, confused. "I thought you said not to touch—"

The world explodes into white.

I don't understand what's happening, can't process what just splashed across my face, why it hurts so bad, I didn't think anything could hurt so bad, why the world has turned into fire fire FIRE—

My hands fly up, clawing, and I'm screaming but the screams are all wrong because the burning is in my mouth now, my throat, my chest—

"Hello? 911? This is James Marsh. There's been a terrible accident. My stepson… he was helping me in the garage and knocked over industrial cleaner. Oh god, his face… please hurry!"

I try to scream "MOM," even "DAD," but my throat doesn't work anymore. Everything spins, the garage ceiling with its single bulb swinging back and forth like we're on a boat.

Then…

White ceiling tiles.

Machines that won't stop beeping.

Mom screaming somewhere far away. "That's not my son! What happened to my baby? WHAT IS THAT THING?!"

Time skips like a broken record.

Light.

Dark.

Light.

Dark.

In and out.

My teeth feel wrong.

Too sharp.

They say it's so I can eat.

I would rather starve. Won't eat anyway. Want to be left alone.

More ceiling tiles. Months of them. A doctor explains healing, therapy, acceptance.

Mom never comes to visit.

And then nothing.

Then the coldest dark yet.

Concrete under my torn cheek. Dark everywhere except a sliver of light under the door at the top of the stairs.

The basement.

Our basement.

I used to be scared to come down here.

Now I've been down here so long I stopped counting.

The hospital bandages fell off ages ago.

Sometimes I hear Mom walking above me, pacing. Sometimes she pours water and squishes raw meat under the door.

She thinks it's what I eat now.

At least it stopped making me sick.

My stomach cramps with hunger.

She hasn't remembered me in a long time.

But the door at the top of the stairs is locked. It's always locked. She won't let me out. Neither will James.

I understand.

I'm a monster now.

Monsters belong in basements.

But my throat hurts. It's so dry it feels like swallowing glass every time I try to make a sound. It's been three days without any water. Maybe four. The pipes don't have enough to lick off.

It's hard to tell when everything's dark except that sliver of light under the door that goes off when I think it's night. I try to stay near the light, but I'm too tall to sleep on the stairs and I don't feel good.

Maybe I'm going feral.

I have bad thoughts.

Bad thoughts of attacking and biting.

Bad thoughts of eating the rats, and I like the rats.

Maybe I always was a monster. Maybe James knew, and that was why he poured that bottle on my face.

I'm scared.

If I go feral, I might hurt Mom.

She's walking around up there right now.

Pacing.

Always pacing, and mumbling to herself.

James hasn't been home in weeks. Haven't heard his heavy boots or heard him yelling or smelled his cigarettes through the door crack.

It's just her up there.

James caught me picking the lock once.

He kicked me so hard, I flew backward down the stairs. Then he hit me with a wooden board until I stopped trying to fight back.

I think he would kill me if I tried again, maybe.

But if Mom's alone…

The footsteps stop right above me.

She's in the kitchen. I hear the tap running.

Water.

My whole body lurches toward the sound. Muscles I haven't used in days scream as I drag myself to the bottom of the stairs. The concrete is colder and damper here, but I barely feel it anymore.

I try to call out to her.

But all that comes out is snarls.

Monster sounds.

The footsteps freeze, then move away fast.

Wait…

Please…

I try again. Try to make normal sounds. But all I can do is growl and roar and make these horrible demon noises that prove I'm exactly what she thinks I am now.

She's right, too.

I saw my face once, in the hospital, and I don't remember what I look like. My mind blocked it out. But I screamed and snarled until they gave me a shot and I woke up weeks later with a plastic tube down my throat and tape all over me.

My hands scramble against the concrete. Looking for something. Anything.

A nail. A piece of wood. Something I can use to scratch words into the floor. Into the wall. Into my own skin, if that's what it takes.

It's me.

I'm still here.

I miss you.

Please.

But there's nothing. James cleared everything out after the lock-picking incident, while I hid in the corner with my arms wrapped around my head and shook.

He even took the single blanket I had.

The water upstairs shuts off.

She's leaving again.

If I don't have water, I will die.

Sometimes I want to die.

But I'm scared dying will hurt.

And who's going to protect Mom from James if I die? Sometimes he hits her, too. I've heard him, and no matter how much I roar and snarl from down here, he doesn't stop.

I grab the cold copper doorknob and drag myself up. Brace my shoulder against the door and push, testing.

It's locked, but maybe I'm big enough now to break it.

I've been down here for a long time, I think. Long enough my teacher came looking for me, and I heard her talking to Mom. Heard Mom tell her I don't come out anymore because of how I look, and how I might not come back to school ever again.

It doesn't take much to break the door.

I have gotten stronger.

Much stronger.

There's muscle over the bone, now. A lot of it. Too much.

The light coming in through the hallway windows is too bright and it burns my eyes, makes me growl, makes me feel like a wild animal that wants to go back in the cave.

But when I can see again, it's snowing.

There's a Christmas tree by the crackling fireplace in the living room. It's warm. So warm.

And there's a cat on the back of a new sofa.

Is it Christmas?

When did we get a cat?

I've always wanted a cat. But James hates animals.

Maybe I've been in the basement for longer than I thought. It was barely summer when I lost my face.

Or maybe I'm dreaming.

The cat stretches when she sees me. Fur white as the snow outside, with big marble eyes. She yawns, showing a tiny pink tongue and sharp teeth that are nothing compared to mine.

I reach out to her.

She sniffs my hand and rubs her cheek on it, scars and all. A purr starts up, a rumbling motor sound that vibrates through her whole body and into my messed up hand.

She's purring.

She doesn't care what I look like.

To her, all humans are probably ugly anyway.

I sink onto the carpet in front of the warm fireplace, and the cat immediately climbs into my lap.

"What's your name?" I try to whisper.

It comes out as a rumbling snarl.

I can't talk anymore.

She doesn't seem to mind.