Page 6 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

"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.

Water, my body reminds me with a violent cramp. You need water.

But I can't move. Not yet.

For just this moment, I pretend I'm still me. That the presents under the tree with my name on them aren't just for who I used to be, and Mom doesn't scream and cry at night because she thinks I died and came back as something else.

Footsteps.

In the hall.

My whole body goes rigid, every muscle locking up. The cat protests with a small mrrp as my hands stop petting her.

Those aren't James's heavy boots. That's Mom's shuffling walk, the way she walks when she's had too much wine while watching Dad's old videos on the TV.

She comes around the corner and freezes.

The wine glass in her hand tilts, dark red splashing onto the cream carpet like blood. No sound comes out of her gasping mouth. Just a terrified wheeze, her eyes locked on my face.

Then the screaming starts.

I try to stand but my legs are still weak. Try to sign something, anything, landing on the one I remember most from school.

Thumb extended, index and little finger straight up, middle and ring finger pressed against my palm.

I love you.

But Mom's eyes are wild, darting around the room. They land on the wooden block full of knives in the kitchen.

She runs for it and I run too, trying to stop her. But she gets there first, yanking out the biggest knife, the one she uses for carving turkey at Thanksgiving.

"Stay back!" She waves the knife at me. "I know what you are! You're not him! You're not my baby!"

I hold my hands up, trying to look less scary.

It isn't possible. I have a nightmare face.

But I try.

She's crying now, huge, gulping sobs that shake her whole body. "He had the most beautiful smile. Just like his father. And you—you demon—you took that away from me!"

She lunges.

I dodge back, going for the window by the Christmas tree before I can even process what's happening. I smash through it with my bare fist, clearing the glass, ignoring the stinging cuts opening up on my arms.

She grabs my hair.

"Give him back!" she screams, her voice echoing outside. The knife slashes my back, my arms, my shoulders. "Give me back my son!"

I twist, snarling in pain, grabbing her wrist to stop her.

Her bones creak and twist.