FOURTEENMichael pulled the door inwards as the mother’s body pressed against him from behind, her heat on his skin. He grabbed her doughy face and forced her away with what remained of his strength. She flailed and an image crackled through his head: priests on late-night Evangelical commercials throwing the blessed to church floors. He dove outside, the contrast like a changed channel. Where there should be ground, there was a low step, just loose-packed bricks. One toppled under his heel. He slammed the earth. Instant pain. Rolled onto his back and saw static, saw lightning.Jangling chains and panting.Michael arched his head and took in the upside-down countryside. Between himself and the trees, which formed a fence at the back of the yard, there was a clothesline. Saturated sheets hung over its wires, flapping like wet skins.A heaving blur ran straight at his face.He was twelve and in his school uniform again, knees shaking. His face tattooed by the shadows of Mr. Maclachl

TWELVE:JackJack was the smallest kid in class. He hated being short, hated being so narrow shouldered. Everyone else was broad and tall. Some boys even had hair on their upper lips.Though the runt of the pack, he emerged popular but never the ringleader he wanted to be. Time resigned him to their jokes about his size, and on some level, he hated himself for letting them get away with it.Jack accepted that he wasn’t extraordinary, or noticeable. In class, he raised his hand even if he didn’t know the answer just so his teacher—whom he loved and often dreamed about–would look in his direction. She never did. He had no great aspirations and came from average blue-collar stock. Jack appeared destined to be forgotten, and worst of all, he knew it.One recess, he slipped into the boy’s restroom. In the farthest stall, he sat on the toilet seat and opened his backpack, dug through notebooks and lunch wrappers to fish out a pen. Nervous, he scribbled words against the back of the door

TENJack sprinted through two places at once.One was the dense Australian bush with its brambles and knots. The second was the room in which he’d killed the driver’s father. He could see, clearer than the dwindling day itself, the ugly carpet lining the living room floor and the old man beneath him as he bent down to bite off his lips. They came off with such ease.A scream. Coppery blood in his mouth.Euphoric victory.It was surprising how long it took to kill him. The human body was programmed to fight; a self-defeating trait, considering that in the end it was destined to give up the ghost. Given this, Jack found enjoyment in assisting someone fulfill his destiny.The father had rolled around, grabbing where his lips should have been. Jack laughed. Damn funny! Power over another was a special kind of freedom.A ceramic lamp in the shape of two swans kissing on a table near the television set. He picked it up, sneered at its tackiness, yanked the cord from the wall. Jack sla

EIGHTBack in that second reality, in the living room with the ugly carpet, Jack beheld the thin, white scars running the lengths of the two first fingers of his right hand. Surely all sons must hate their fathers for trying to make them stronger men. It was only natural to resent the teacher, the person who dealt cards no child wanted. But time passed and perspective drew things together. It made sense to him now. He didn’t hate his father as he assumed he did—he respected the bastard. These scars were his old man’s testament, and no doubt, they hadn’t been etched with ease.Those scars could never be undone. The carver and the carved had been united.Forever.The scissors from the kitchen weren’t cold anymore. If anything, they burned with their own inner warmth.He knelt beside another father—that of the driver who had brought him to this house—and wondered where to stick him. The stomach didn’t seem vital enough. The chest plate would be difficult to puncture. The heart? No, t

SIXMichael splashed through running water and followed a fast-flowing stream to a narrow cliff face on his right. He couldn’t tell how steep the drop was. Past the bluff, the valley writhed under the storm’s onslaught.His shoes slipped on mossy rocks. Behind him, The Beast jumped through the trees.“I’m going to get you for that, you shit! I swear to God—”Michael watched it twist its ankle on a loose boulder. The stumble gave Michael enough time to spirit into the thicket. Branches snagged his shirt, wrapped around his arms.The Beast walked towards the trees, limping. Drool strung from its chin, its face a mask of blood and shit-smelling mud. “Don’t you move, Charles,” it whispered. “Got a lesson to teach you. You ain’t going to like it.”The trees were its webs, and instead of fangs, the spider bore scissors. It crept closer and closer. It was as though The Beast wanted this to be drawn out, as if he was enjoying the thrill of the hunt.“You’re just too easy,” it told Micha