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When I next awoke I was lying comfortably on a bed. Wires criss-crossed about my body, connected to me with sticky pads. On the ceiling above me were dim lights. My mind remained foggy as I sat up, and as I did the room spun, thinking for a bit that it had merely just been a bad dream. The dots about the wires not quite connecting in my head just yet. I went to rub my eyes to try and wake myself up a bit more. I stopped when I felt cold metal on one side of my face. Shakily, I pulled my hands away from my face and to my shock, where my left arm was meant to be was a now fully metal replacement. I began really shaking then. Remembering feeling most of the stabbing in my left shoulder and my right leg, I threw the covers off and screamed. My right leg, to about half way up my thigh, was now also made of metal. I looked back and forth between the two. They seemed to be surgically attached to me. And to my surprise, moved as if they were my original limbs. I could freely move all of my fingers and joints as if they were all meant to be there. To add on to everything. I could also feel everything in both limbs. But this also meant that everything had really happened. I was alone. There was nobody left but me. Tears fell down my face and I once again felt the heat begin to surround my body. I could hear loud footsteps coming rapidly towards the room I was in. They didn’t sound like regular footsteps. Each step clanged as if it were metal on metal. The heat surged further and the lights above me exploded, glass raining around me. Once again for a mere moment I found myself in an endless void of white; before again falling. Though, this time, onto grass.

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I had fallen into a young couple’s lawn. Upon hearing the commotion the wife came outside. I looked up to her, tears continuing to fall down my face, and asked for help with as much voice as I could muster. It ended up being nearly audible. After a few moments of processing what she was seeing she ran forward, scooped me up, and brought me inside, and laid me carefully onto their couch. I think she assumed my shaking meant I was cold, despite the late summer heat, and despite my tolerance of temperatures. She tossed a blanket over me. She pulled over a stool and put her hand gently on my shoulder; pulling it back quickly from the shock of metal before slowly returning it. An attempt at comfort and compassion.

“Hello dear,” She hummed. Her voice was instantly calming, though It didn’t stop my shaking, “What’s your name?” I didn’t answer. I wanted to, but I couldn’t seem to force myself to speak any more, so I simply looked up at her. She put a gentle smile on her face before continuing. “Where are your parents?” Such an innocent question. She was just trying to help. But it broke me. I began sobbing almost as soon as the question left her mouth.

She moved quickly in grabbing a tissue to try and help. As she went to try and put the tissue near one of my eyes to dab away some of the tears, she inadvertently brushed away the hair from my forehead and touched one of the scars that now sat behind. The moment her hand made contact with the scar the room appeared to melt away. It turned from a cozy sitting room into the banquet room of the castle which was once my home, and just a few feet away was a visage of me and Sunni at the table, eating cake. I clamped my hands to the sides of my head and closed my eyes. Trying to block out any sounds and sights of that night, though some still managed to find their way through to me. By the time it was over I was well into a full panic attack; curled into myself, sobbing and choking on air, a considerable feat given that I don’t breathe. She stood silently to the side for several moments, her hands over her mouth and tears staining both cheeks, eyes wide. I was still hiccupping and crying when she hugged me. She held me tight against her chest, my head just beneath her chin. One of her hands rested on the back of my head, the other on my upper back. She lifted me up and put me in her lap as she sat on the couch, the hug remained firm but it felt protective.

“Shhhh…” She ran her fingers through my hair, “You’re safe now.” She took a deep breath in, “You’re safe now” was repeated, a mere whisper.

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I spent several months living with this couple. Their names were Atticus and Virginia Miller. Atticus for the first few months was… adverse to me living in their house. He seemed to think of me more like his wife’s odd pet than a child, though he wasn’t unkind or cruel at all. I had my own room and bed, I ate at the table, now set for 3 each night. I found a love for cooking there. I spent several afternoons watching Virginia in the kitchen before she invited me to “help”. Of course, all I did for the most part was turn the oven on or stir the vegetables, but I loved it. It felt accomplishing to help in even the littlest ways, and each time I did Virginia would make sure to tell Atticus of the fact. After he had first eaten and complimented it of course.

I spent my very first and last Christmas with them, in 1937. I didn’t quite understand the narrative or stories behind it, but naturally the thought of receiving gifts on a day that was not my birthday had me captivated and hopeful. On the morning of I waited on the living room floor staring impatiently at the colorfully wrapped boxes beneath the tree. The whole house smelled of pine and cinnamon. I suppose the Millers were expecting me to tear into the boxes as soon as my eyes opened because they came in confused.

“Whatcha doing there, Ray?” Virginia inquired.

“Waiting,” I smiled back at her, practically bouncing against the floor.

She knelt beside me, resting her hand on my head. “Waiting for what?”

“Waiting for you! I’ve never done this before,” I turned back to the tree.

“Well, you can go ahead now, since we’re all here.” She smiled at me.

“What do I do?” I questioned, turning to look at her. At that she chuckled softly, picked up one of the presents, and placed it in my hands.

“Like on birthdays. You tear them open.”

“Oh, okay!” I began quickly, but carefully unwrapping them. I was admittedly worried about dirtying the floors since I saw Virginia cleaning them so long every day. It went that way for each present under the tree. I got several books, some new clothes, and a few wooden toys. Atticus and Virginia each gave the other a small present they had picked out as well.

After all the presents were open Atticus and I picked up the wrapping papers and placed them in the fireplace while Virginia worked on lunch. I picked out one of the books I had received and sat on the couch to begin reading. It’s been so many years since then, but I believe the book was called “White Tail Creek” or something. I read all through the day, barely putting it down for a couple minutes to quickly eat my lunch before picking it right back up again. I had finished every book before the first week of the new year was over.

The following spring, the Millers hired a private investigator. They’d come to the conclusion that they wanted to officially adopt me, and as the upstanding citizens they were, they wanted to go about it the legal way and hopefully get justice for my family in the process. Unfortunately that is the opposite of how everything went.

The investigator was incredible at his job and kind as well. As a then 7 year old I had no idea where exactly the castle in the woods was, but he somehow managed to find it. He went out with a camera, markers, and a notepad and documented everything there in great detail. He spoke at great lengths with both Virginia and Atticus about the scene and how he was confident that he thought they’d win the case for custody and that I would get the justice he said I deserved.

The day of the court case arrived early that fall in September of 1938. A full year after I had awoken. It was closed to the public given the circumstances, so the only people in the room at the time were the Judge and Jury, the Millers who sat on either side of me, both sets of lawyers, our private investigator, and the group of men who had killed everyone I love. Despite the investigator’s confidence in his work, unbeknownst to all of us, the entire trial was doomed to fail before it even began for two key reasons. Firstly, the small town that the Millers lived in and where this trial was taking place was incredibly religious. Every politician and person of power was religious and essentially ruled the town with an iron thumb under those ideals. Secondly, and I found this out many years later, the judge was directly related to one of the men who had attacked my family. So, since he was the only judge in town, an unbiased trial was never an option.

The jury members all looked at me curiously as our lawyer began his opening. I don’t remember what he said in the slightest. I couldn’t focus or concentrate with all the staring, and uncomfortable hospital gown they had me wear. It had snap buttons down the full length of either side. Our lawyer said that my scarring was considered evidence and would need to be viewed, as well as my prosthetics.

Atticus had placed himself on my left, as a way to block my view of the men on trial. He had become protective of me in the past few months. Unfortunately he was not a very bulky man and so I could still easily see a few. And the one man I wished I couldn’t see was in plain view. The huge man with the terrifying smile. The man who had hurt me directly. And he stared at me from his seat. His eyes seemed to bore holes through me. I looked over to him for a moment and he flashed that smile at me again, at which point I began to shake. Virginia put her arm around my shoulder and pulled me to lean into her and Atticus did the same to her, forming what felt for a moment like a little fortress to me. It didn’t last long.

It was shortly thereafter that the mens’ lawyer began his opening. I once again couldn’t focus on his words but I remember him pointing at me and speaking seemingly angrily. His tone and volume was definitely raised. I felt Virginia’s grip become firmer as held onto me even tighter. I looked up and saw faces of anger and worry on both her and Atticus’ faces. She took my good hand in her free one and gently rubbed her thumb over my knuckles. The repetitive feeling was calming and I chose to focus on that instead.

When the other lawyer was done the Investigator stood up and walked forward with our lawyer. They presented the photographic evidence they had. Most of them I could look at because they didn’t show much in black and white from my standpoint. That was until they got to a photo of Cecelia. Her body was badly decomposed at that point but it was definitely her. Her curly hair was hard to mistake and her body was in the same position she had fallen in after being stabbed. The judge noticed that my expression had changed to that of dread and stopped them mid sentence.

“Who was that woman?” He asked me directly. I couldn’t answer. At that point all I could do was cry.

“Well she was-” The investigator started, before being cut off.

“I didn’t ask you. I asked it.” The judge emphasized the last word. At which Atticus sat up straight.

“He is obviously unable to answer and is in clear distress.” He retorted.

“And he’s a child,” Virginia added on, “You cannot expect that of him.”

“Well, it’s not a human child, is it? This is my court room, I may ask what I wish to whomever I please.” The judge leaned forward and raised his eyebrows.

“Your Honor,” A jury member spoke up. The Judge regarded him for a moment before sighing and turning to the investigator and lawyer.

“Fine. Who exactly was this woman?”

It was the investigator who answered, “Her name was Cecelia Flot, and she was hired as the boy and his twin sister’s nanny.”

“A black woman hired as a ‘royal’ nanny? Interesting,” The judge commented to himself. A few of the jury members gave him a sideways glare as he continued, looking back to me, “Who killed her? Point.” He demanded. I shakily took my prosthetic hand and pointed at the large man who continued to stare at me, unmoving. It was here I got a glimpse of one of the other men in the group and noticed the striking similarities between him and the judge. “And what’s the proof of this?”

Once again the investigator answered, “His scars contain a visual record of the events. We watched that man do it.” The man’s face soured into a scowl at this. It was almost scarier than the smile.

“Let me see it, then.” The judge waved his hand in the air, and the lawyer motioned for me to come forward. He put a chair in the middle of the room which he had me sit on. My crying had stopped at that point, though my face was still flushed and tear stains were visible. The investigator handed me a pair of large headphones to cancel noise and gently unbuttoned the left shoulder of my gown while I put them on. I saw a couple members of the jury visibly gasp or cover their mouths at the sight of the scarring. The lawyer knelt in front of me and made eye contact. He gave a thumbs up with his eyebrows raised as a way to ask if I was ready. I nodded silently and the investigator laid his hand directly onto my scar. Given the mental state I was in, the results were instant. Within moments the entire courtroom had faded into that banquet hall of the castle. I covered my eyes and hoped the headphones would work. Thankfully they did.

When it was over the investigator re-buttoned the gown and tapped my shoulder to get my attention. I looked back at him and took the headphones off. He then unbuttoned some of the lower right side and pinned it to the fabric above with a safety pen, having me stand to show the scarring on my thigh. Almost every jury member’s mouth hung open in shock, the others looked enraged. The gown was re-fastened and I was prompted to return to my seat, which I was more than willing to comply with.

It was then the defense's turn to speak. I was only half listening so the highlights I got were ‘defending’ something, and ‘thought they’d be dangerous’. Our lawyer called the self designated leader of that group to the front. Through this I began shaking again. Not enough for Virginia or Atticus to notice so nothing changed. I took my good hand in my prosthetic and began scratching. On one of my metal fingers there was a tiny snag that had become sharp from something I can’t remember. Neither of the Millers had noticed it but the pain helped keep me grounded. Within a few minutes there was a decent sized cut on the side of my right ring finger. Overall, I’m actually glad that I did this. The court record was immediately ‘sealed’ by the judge which, in this case, I believe means he burned everything. So that cut on my finger now contains a physical, undeniable record of everything that happened within that room.

“How did you come to learn of this group of beings?” he asked. That caught my attention for sure. I had no idea where the men had come from that day, and up until that point I had no idea that humans even existed.

“There was one that ended up on my farm several months prior. Teenaged if I remember correctly. It had a red body like that one’s blue,” he pointed at me, “My boy found it and brought it to the house. As soon as we saw it we knew it was a sign of the devil.”

I knew then who he was talking about. One of the guard’s daughters had gone missing. Her name was Evailia. I remembered the search parties going out to look but when they returned with a piece of her clothing it was assumed she was dead and a funeral was held. The man continued.

“When we found them in the front room my boy was showing it some of his rock collection. He’d collected several large and small rocks from a trip we’d taken out to Arizona to look at those trees that turned to stone. ‘Petrified wood’ or something? We overheard the thing telling my son that holding the smaller ones made it feel dizzy, which gave me an idea to trap it.” He paused to take a breath, “I lured it down into the cellar outside, promising a place to sleep. I took several of the rocks with me. When I got it down there, I took the largest of the rocks and hit it over the head, which did well to knock it out. I tied it’s hands behind it’s back and strapped the rocks to it. I gathered my men. Cousins, farm hands and neighbors and once it woke up we began interrogating it.”

“What do you mean by ‘interrogate’?” Our lawyer questioned.

“You know exactly what I mean by ‘interrogate’,” The man retorted, “It wasn’t hard to get answers out of it: where it came from, what it claimed to be. It cooperated as needed. Probably thinking we’d let it go, but we didn’t. We made it draw a map retracing it’s steps to wear it came from on a map in red marker. And after that we sent it back to hell with a 12-gauge.” At that Virginia gasped and covered her mouth. The man continued, “We planned for months and when we were done taking care of the lot of them, we burned that cursed piece of paper. And that’s it.”

“Well,” The judge stood up from his seat, “I have made my decision, there is no need for jury deliberation. I find Matthew Collins guilty for the murder of Cecelia Flot. 3 months prison time, and a $50 fine. I find the rest of this group innocent of all charges under rule of preemptive protection of the human race.” He slammed his gavel down twice. Almost every mouth hung open in stunned silence. The leader of the group was grinning smugly.

“Your Honor,” Our lawyer broke the tension, “The adoption of Raymond to the Millers?”

“It is not a human child. They cannot simply adopt it. And it will grow up to be violent to humans, as the others of it’s kind would have been. It will be locked up for the safety of our kind.” He raised his gavel to slam again.

“Your Honor!” Two jury members stood up at the same time. One of them continued, “He obviously reacts like a human child and has just experienced something horrific. He should get some form of counseling at the very least.”

At this the judge thought for a minute. The silence in those moments was palpable. “Very well,” He said finally, and the jury member who spoke up sighed in relief. “He will be admitted to Saint Neumann’s Asylum, effective immediately.” And the gavel was slammed down a third time.

Part 3