by S. F. Henson
Her face brightens. “You like?”
“Oh, yeah. You found my one weakness. I go wild for Snickers.” It’s hard not to smirk. Traitor shoots me a warning scowl.
“I found them at an early Halloween sale. I could bring more next time.”
Good Lord, she’s trying so hard. I pick up a candy bar and shove the whole thing in my mouth. Okay, so maybe an offering of candy wasn’t a terrible idea.
“How’s school?” she asks.
A nervous current runs through me. She talked to my teachers. She knows I spent all day yesterday looking at keys. Traitor knows I took them.
That’s ridiculous. No way she knows. I play it cool and shrug. She pushes the pile of candy closer.
“Fine,” I say.
“Your uncle tells me you and your friend have been hanging out a lot.”
“Yep.”
“That’s good! Sounds like you’re making real progress.”
I eat another Snickers. I mean, if it’s right in front of me, I might as well. The social worker smooths her skirt. Geez, even the first time she came wasn’t this awkward. The tension from that damn argument smothers us like a house full of smoke. My chewing is obnoxiously loud with no one talking, but I’ll be damned if I encourage this woman.
“You should get a dog,” I say to Traitor.
He shoots me a hard look. “Too much work.”
“I’d take care of it.” I’d said it just to say something, but now that I think about it, I could handle a dog. Something big and floppy that’s all ears and skin. Like a bloodhound. The only dog I ever had was the stray when I was a kid, back before we ran. He was gone by the time I returned to The Fort.
Traitor frowns. “I don’t give you enough to do?”
“Look at how much y’all sound like a family,” the social worker says brightly.
We both glare at her. She pops a Snickers in her mouth and this time her chewing is obnoxious.
After a few minutes, I can’t take it anymore. “I’m just saying, you seem like a dog guy.”
“We’re not getting a dog!” Traitor snatches a candy bar off the table and stomps into the kitchen.
The social worker scribbles on her tablet. “Well, I think everything is going just great. I told you not telling your friend about your past was a good idea. See how great you are?”
She and I have different definitions of great. Although things really aren’t so bad, when you get right down to it.
“Great progress,” she says. “Just great.”
Is that the only word this woman knows? I’d buy her a damn thesaurus if it wouldn’t be a waste of money. Or if I had money.
She packs up her stuff, except for the candy. “I’ll see you in a couple weeks, then.”
Traitor reappears once the front door closes. We watch her haul her crap to her ugly Ford sedan. “I can’t stand that woman.”
“Me, neither.”
“I liked that other one better,” he says.
“Ms. Erica?”
“Yeah. She seemed nice. Reminded me of … never mind.”
We make brief eye contact, then turn away before this becomes some bonding moment. Questions gurgle up my throat. I clamp my mouth shut before any come spilling out. Who was he about to say? Mom?
I can see some similarities. They were both kind, they listened, they gave me a chance. I want to know more. Traitor knew Mom longer. Were there other traits of Mom’s he saw in Ms. Erica?
If I asked, would he tell me? What if I came out and asked about the trunk?
I glance at him out of the corner of my eye. He looks so much like Mom. The resemblance stops there, though.
He won’t answer my questions. And he’ll just be pissed if he finds out I was in his room.
I choke my questions down and leave him to sweep the remaining Snickers into a bowl. I go upstairs to my chair by the window, running my fingers along Ms. Erica’s battered card, thinking about her and Mom. A knife of longing stabs me in the chest.
Skunky’s cell phone is open and in my hand. I punch Ms. Erica’s number in before I can stop myself. I haven’t made a call yet. The first one should be her.
It rings once. Twice. Three times. This is probably her office number and it’s Friday afternoon. She’s not going to—
“Hello?”
Her voice is so soft and familiar it catches me off guard. A sudden pang of homesickness rolls through me. That one word warms me like a bonfire—hot with comfort and cold with loneliness. I should tell her about the reporter, and the crappy social worker, and everything that has happened in the months since we last spoke. I should tell her to take me back to the Psych Center. Back home.
“Hello?” she repeats, more firmly. “Hell—”
“Hi. Um … It’s Nate. Fuller.”
There’s a pause on the other end. Did the call drop? Did she hang up? A surge of fear rises like bile in my throat.
“Nate?” Her voice is higher. “Is something wrong?” She sounds almost nervous.
“No! I’m okay. That’s why I’m calling, actually.” I don’t realize it until it’s out of my mouth. “I’m not doing terrible,” I say. Not a complete lie. “I made a friend, and it doesn’t totally suck here.”
I can’t tell her the truth. A few months ago, I was certain she would’ve come to get me, would’ve made everything better. Now, I’m not so sure. Am I remembering her wrong, or has our relationship changed that much?
She hesitates. “That’s amazing, Nate.”
Amazing. Not great. Ms. Erica knows more than a single word.
“But you can’t call like this,” she says.
My mouth hangs open. “You said I could call if I needed anything.”
“I know, but I’m not your social worker anymore. You’re supposed to go to someone else now. Have you talked to her about how you’re doing?”
“She’s horrible.”
“How so?”
This isn’t right. The flow of conversation is off. Is there a lag with the phones, or are we different? Either way, I don’t like it. I also don’t know how to phrase all the problems with the social worker. The biggest one being, she isn’t Ms. Erica.
“Has she acted inappropriately?” Ms. Erica asks.
“No, nothing like that. She just … doesn’t care enough. Not like you.”
“Nate.” Ms. Erica sighs into the receiver. “I wish I could do something. Really. But I’m not even supposed to be talking to you. You should contact the office there and let them know if it’s not working.”
“But that’s not—”
“I’m sorry, Nate.”
To her credit, she sounds genuine.
“I just wanted to let you know I’m okay,” I say.
She pauses. “I’m really happy for you.”
“Yeah.”
“I have to go. Keep it up, okay?”
“Okay.”
She hangs up, taking her warmth with her, leaving me cold and hollow. I shouldn’t have called. It makes me miss her and the way we used to talk. And the Psych Center. What kind of person misses a mental hospital?
But I do. The security and the schedule and the ease. I thought I was moving past this, but a piece of me is still back in Kentucky. And I’m afraid it always will be.
655
Boots stomp me awake. Rhythmic. Practiced. Goose stepping. In a few minutes, he’ll jerk me out of bed and demand to know why I’m not out there. Then he’ll whip me until I want to die, and force me to march even though I can barely stand.
I’m terrified to open my eyes, but I have to be ready. It’s worse when I’m caught off guard. I crack my eyelids and see the rough wooden walls of my room in Traitor’s cabin. Not The Fort. The only things goose stepping outside are the geese migrating south for the winter. I slump against my wafer of a pillow and check the time on my cell phone. Five thirty in the morning. There’s a chance I can get a little more sleep before Traitor wakes me up for chores.
But the thump of boots doesn’t stop
. It vibrates the floor, almost like it is real, like—
My bedroom door flies open. I rocket out of bed, ready for a fight. Traitor’s on me in an instant, slamming something into my chest.
“What the hell did you do?”
The beast shakes itself awake. I shove Traitor off. “What’s your problem?”
“This is my problem.” He shakes a crumpled newspaper. “You’re my problem. I explicitly told you to keep your trap shut, and you immediately defied me. Do you have a death wish?”
I rip the paper away from him, tearing it, but not enough to block the headline: NEO-NAZI COMES CLEAN.
The words weigh a thousand pounds. My knees can’t handle the extra load. They buckle and I collapse onto the bed. Under the headline is a name I know all too well. Shaw Holt. She still wrote the article.
No.
No, no, no! How could she do this? After she read all the shit that he put me through. After she looked me in the eye and acted like she understood. After I told her not to write it. I told her what could happen if she did. She promised.
That lying, manipulative bitch.
My eyes skate down the page taking in snippets of what she wrote, including a picture of my back and shots of the letter.
She stole some of the pages. The worst ones. My story about getting my red laces.
It’s out there for everyone to see. In my words. Which is what I thought I wanted, but seeing them here, set apart, it’s so much worse. Especially this part on its own. Without context.
“How could you be so monumentally stupid?” Traitor barks. “Does your brain not work? What were you thinking?”
I ignore him and read the article. Each word pisses me off more and more. She always intended to write it. She always meant to twist my words to fit the story she wanted to tell. Same as all reporters.
“Hey!” Traitor shouts. He flings his arm in front of me, stopping my fist in midair. There’s an indentation in the wall where I’ve apparently been punching it. The skin across my knuckles has torn open and blood drips around my fingers. “You don’t get to take this out on my house,” Traitor snaps.
The beast roars, begging to be unleashed. I need to get into the woods, need to destroy something before the beast bursts through me.
“When?” Traitor demands.
“When what?”
“When did you talk to a reporter?”
I wipe my bleeding knuckles on my boxers. “Wednesday.”
“When you were supposed to be with Brandon?”
I nod.
Traitor swipes his ball cap off and settles it on his head again. “You lied to me. You’re on house arrest.”
I glare at him. “What does that mean?”
“You can’t leave your room. You’re …”—his mouth screws to one side—“grounded. Yeah. No Brandon and no whatever the hell it is you do in the woods. You eat, do your work, and sleep. That’s it.”
My hand throbs. Each pulse of pain is Morse code from the beast, begging to be set free. Brandon is how I get through my days. The woods are how I make it through the nights. What am I supposed to do without them? How do I go back to the way I was now that I’ve tasted the air on the other side?
“Grounded? Seriously? For shit I did in the past?”
“No, for directly disobeying me. You know good and damn well I told you not to talk to anyone.” His angry face looks so much like Mom’s that I have to look away. “I’m going to town to do damage control.”
“Like what, hijack the paper trucks?”
“If that’s what it takes.” He brandishes the torn newspaper. “This can’t get out. And it sure as hell can’t get back to me.”
“How is anyone going to know? It doesn’t say ‘Nate Clemons’ anywhere.”
Traitor holds up the front page. “It has your damn picture!”
“The back of my head, and barely that.” It’s a crappy shot with a camera phone as I’m walking away, toward the sun. Just a shadow. “You’ll make things worse. Raise a fuss and everyone will know something’s up. Then they will look closer.”
Traitor crumples the paper. “Don’t leave the house.”
“What about school? Are you going to keep me from that, too?”
“School? You’ll be lucky if your ass isn’t in jail for assault by this afternoon. Hell, I may send you there myself.”
My hands ball into fists. I won’t go back there. I’ll run first.
He slams the door and clomps downstairs.
I stare at the door, unsure of what to do. He can’t force me to stay, but it will only make things worse if I leave. The need to destroy something rages within me, but my hand is killing me. So instead of breaking anything, I fix it. A half-empty bottle of rubbing alcohol sits in the bathroom cabinet. I pour it over my knuckles, appreciating the burn before mopping it up and wrapping my hand in gauze.
Could I really go back to jail? The cops would have to connect “Nate Clemons” to “Nathaniel Fuller.” Even if they make the connection, I don’t know what they can do about it. Can they really indict me for anything I admitted in my letter? Can they even prove I wrote the damn thing or met with the reporter in the first place? If the Internet worked in this Godforsaken cabin, I could look up the statute of limitations on assault and battery.
I piece together the torn newspaper and read it again, and then again. Each time stings worse than the rubbing alcohol.
Does what I did even qualify as assault? Or would it be attempted murder?
There are no fall guys to save me this time, no insanity plea, no self-defense claim. Nothing to protect me.
Just like the kid I helped attack.
THE BIRMINGHAM POST
NEO-NAZI COMES CLEAN!
By Shaw Holt
News First Network Senior Correspondent
Death is too good for some people. Nathaniel Fuller is one of them. Although he was found not guilty by reason of self-defense in the murder of his father almost two years ago, Fuller is far from innocent.
I had the privilege of a one-on-one exclusive interview with Fuller. During the interview, Fuller was nervous, erratic, and threatening. He claimed he wanted to clear his name; however, he refused to speak a word regarding his past.
The best he could do was write a letter confessing to his crimes—several pages of which are included with this article so everyone can see—in his own handwriting—how dangerous he truly is.
Fuller is a monster, and it’s something I have personally known for years.
Almost four years ago, a then 13-year-old Fuller brutally attacked my nephew, Samuel Hirsch, outside a synagogue in Louisville, Kentucky. Hirsch, who did nothing to antagonize Fuller or his skinhead posse, suffered multiple head contusions, broken ribs, a punctured lung, and underwent three plastic surgeries to reshape his face.
Fuller did not face charges for the assault. I spent two years attempting to bring Fuller to justice for the attack, only to learn someone had already confessed—someone not meeting Hirsch’s description of the perpetrator.
During our recent interview, Fuller admitted his Neo-Nazi organization, known as The Fort, had several “fall guys” on its payroll.
“The fall guys are pretty well respected for putting the cause above their own needs,” Fuller said. “They recruit in there [prison]. Jail is what they’re good at.”
Jail is not what Nathaniel Fuller is good at, however. Of the many incidents he is accused of having participated in, he only served time for one: his father’s murder. The same father who wouldn’t permit Fuller to pay for his own crimes. In Fuller’s own words: “He never would’ve allowed that. Besides, prison is a nightmare.”
Fuller would know. He spent a little over a month in the West Kentucky Penitentiary before his attorney petitioned for removal to a psychiatric facility due to Fuller’s extreme mental anguish.
Why would a teenager have such extreme mental anguish? Here it is in his own words. This excerpt comes from a letter given directly to me by Fuller.
656
That damn kid.
That’s the wrong reaction, I know it, but all I can think about is that damn kid.
Of all the faces for him to latch onto, it had to be mine. I had to be the one to get caught in his fearful stare. Not the Connor brothers, who did all the damage. Me, who never wanted to be there in the first place.
Of all the people to be related to a freaking reporter.
When I close my eyes, all I see are those black pools of his dilated pupils staring back and that dirty footprint marring his bright hat. A yarmulke, according to the article. I’m glad Traitor’s Internet is about as good as a hole in a bucket, because I have this desire to see that kid again, to see if what the article said about his face is true. To see how the Connor brothers—how we—ruined his life.
Not that I can touch a computer. Or anything really.
Traitor’s rant has continued all weekend. Every time he sees me, he lays into me again, screaming and hollering until his words aren’t words anymore, just a series of sounds. That must be how animals hear humans: grunts and shrieks.
He was too late to stop the papers. He’s spent the weekend on the phone with Dr. Sterling and my attorney in Kentucky, trying to figure out what to do about the article.
And what to do about me.
Even though the reporter has made appearances on all the twenty-four-hour news channels, who have dug their Nathaniel Fuller and neo-nazi montages out of the archives for the occasion, she hasn’t disclosed anything more than what she said in the article. Not the name I’m using or my location or when she interviewed me. She may hate me, but at least it doesn’t seem like she wants me dead. Yet, anyway. Part of me thinks it would be better if she’d put it out there already. Each interview and article drops the pendulum lower and lower. It’s like she’s waiting until the right moment to level that final swing and chop my head off.
So far, no one has put it all together. Traitor and my attorney seem to think I’m safe. The news channels will talk about it for a couple days, then forget about me when the next big scandal hits. Dr. Sterling thinks it’s best for me to carry on like normal and wait for it all to blow over.