He doesnât know whatâs happening. Itâs all been so much. Papa⌠Papa is dead. He knows it, but it doesn't make sense. Papa canât be dead. He canât be. He had promised to teach James how to ride horseback when he got bigger. They were supposed to read together tomorrow. They were supposed toâ But it doesn't matter what they were supposed to do, because Papa is dead. And Thomas isâÂ
He doesn't know. He doesnât know what happened to Thomas, but he wasnât moving. He was dead, too. And he was covered in blood, and so was James, and the blood smelled like so many different people, and Dog had been bloody but not dead, and Mama- His breath hitched as his chest constricted painfully, a different but similar ache to the one that set in between his knuckles, up his arms to his elbows.Â
Mama made him leave. Mama was afraid of him. Mama thought he was a monster - and maybe she was right. Maybe he was. He felt like one. Thatâs why heâs found this hiding spot; to protect people from himself, so he doesnât hurt someone again (Had he hurt someone? Had he hurt Thomas? He didnât know, he didnât know, he didnât know).Â
He wasnât sure what had happened to Rose. They were supposed to be together, sheâd promised to stay with him (monster or no), but theyâd gotten separated and he had no idea where she was or which way to go, and if he found her, would he hurt her too? He didn't want to, butâ But she was safe if he was away. They all were. He could just stay here in this⌠This hollowed out tree. It was cold and dark and there were things crawling about that he could hear well enough it was as though they were in his ears, but at least he was alone.Â
Except he wasn't. Because there are footsteps.Â
James tenses, scooting back until the rotted wood presses into his skin through the fabric of his bloodsoaked night shirt. He doesnât know those footsteps. His eyes are wide as he shrinks down, heart in his throat - if he gets small enough, maybe he wonât be spotted? If he holds still enough, maybe he wonât be hurt.Â
The face he sees in the dark isnât familiar, but he recognizes it anyway, as if it belonged to a ghost that had haunted him in a past life. James stares with wide, owlish eyes, and manages a single, stammered word.
âH-hello.â
(Surprise, John! You found your baby brother!)
The years have only made him grow into his 'beastly' traits.
The claws don't hurt or bleed as much as they used to when they come out, his eyes have adjusted to the darkness of the woods and it takes but a moment for them to get used to changes in light or lack thereof, and his nose has led him to findings he wouldn't have even gotten close to if he didn't have such a sharp sense of smell.
And this time around, he smells blood.
Not just any blood. Blood that smells familiar. It pulls at him like an invisible fishing line, with him as the fish on the hook. It has him moving before he can stop himself and think about how this could easily be a trap. Either his family having found out about his survival and setting out to get rid of their shame once and for all, or the townsfolk growing tired of his harmless yet strange presence. It could be something demonic imitating the scent for all he knows, and yet-
John recognizes the tree as soon as his gaze lands on it.
He's been here before, many years ago. The scent of blood and fear oozing out of the hollow tree used to be his. When he was small and scared and just finding out he was the type of abomination the church warns people about.
And here's another boy, smaller than John remembers himself being, scared, with big eyes that leave him feeling a strange mix of joy and heartbreak that has him gripping the side of the trunk for SOMETHING to hold onto. Because this is his brother. His sweet, innocent baby brother who he has not seen in so long, too long. And look at James now, he can speak and he can walk and something happened for him to be all the way out here and covered in blood, reeling of fear and shame. It's an all too familiar scene.
"Hello," John breathes out. "You're in my tree."
He ends up on his knees besides the hollow tree, has to look away from the boy âhis brother, his little brotherâ to be able to compose himself and use his brain.
It takes him a minute to find his voice again. "I don't fit in there anymore." he finally speaks. "Haven't in a long time. Is there still moss and beetles in there?"
