It was the night of my 5th birthday. The rain soaked my cholthes: a wool sweater two sizes too large weighed down my shoulders like an anchor while my fuzzy socks sloshed in the puddles inside my shoes. Existing was misery, as nothing I wore trapped heat once the freezing rain filled it. None the less, I wrapped it tighter around me in an attempt to find comfort and shivered.

“It’s going to be fine,” my father grunted, placing a hand on my back to hurry me down the trail.

“Everything will be fine,” my mother assured me, trudging along in front of me.

They kept saying everything would be fine… but parents lie… parents lie! Parents lie!

* The middle aged man with long unkept hair that was talking slams his hands on the wooden table in front of him: a loud thud echoes through the court room as the crowd collectively jumps. Chains rattle as the man wails and pulls on the restraints. Three guards and a nurse in blue scrubs creep up behind the man before the table breaks with a resounding crack! Two guards jump on the man as he whirls around; despite the shackles on his wrists, the man manages to land a few punches to the larger, rounder guard’s face. Blood splatters from the guards nose as the other two manage to pin him to the ground, screaming for the nurse. Inching forward with trebling hands, the nurse sticks a syringe into the man’s stomach through his bright orange shirt. Breaking free again, the man kicks one of the other guards before running across the room and collapsing on the ground. Cameras and phones snap pictures as murmurs spread throughout the crowd that stare wide-eyed at the scene unfolding before them. Finally, the judge bangs his gavel once sharply on the desk and sighs, “We will adjourn until tomorrow morning, when the defendant will continue his story.” As whispers intensify in the crowd, they stand up to leave. Moving as one solid mass, they exit the court room, watching as a team of EMTs place the man on a stretcher and check his vitals. As the crowd shuffles towards the door, a large burly man approaches a tall thin man with a small notepad. “What do you think, Joe,” the burly man asks. “Going hard for the insanity plea?” After scribbling a bit in his notepad, Joe responds, “Maybe, Charlie, but I don’t think that was an act.” “You think he will get off with insanity? After killing 38 people?” “No—I don’t think that. I’m just saying that we haven’t heard the entire story yet. He might actually be insane, but the Orpan Maker was too calculated to be this manic… it just doesn’t add up.” “Exactly, there is no way a man as meticulous as that could be insane: he is trying to get a lighter sentence.” “Perhaps… I want to hear the rest of this story before I post that though.” “Always so cautious!” Charlie chuckles. “This time I think you are going to fall behind. Let’s not forget, this is the biggest case in the last few decades…” “How could anyone forget!” Joe scoffs. “I’d rather get an accurate story late than a bad one first: that’s the difference between us, Charlie.” “Fair, fair… I’ll see you tomorrow then?” “I doubt any journalist in the country will miss this one… the podcasters will be here too.” Charlie chuckles and waves a hand. “You are right as always, my friend,” he admits as he turns to leave. “See you tomorrow, Charlie,” Joe calls after him, scanning his notes again. *

They brought me to the cabin and left me alone in the rain. It was my first time at the cabin. The first time I met him.

When he came back to the cabin, he found me shviering in the rain. Two beady red eyes glared at me from the darkness. All I could see where those eyes as he brought me into the cabin—a one room hut with nothing but a small fire, two cots and mud floor.

It was barely warmer than the rain, but the tin roof kept the blankets dry. He stripped me of my wet sweater and socks, hanging them above the fire to dry, as he shoved me into the smaller cot. Not word was spoken—ever—and that night the silence was heavy as I shivered on that cot.

Exhaustion won in the end, and I drifted into a restless sleep. However, those glowing red eyes never stopped watching me, even in my dreams. Everything I did, everything I dreamed, he was there. He saw all of my dreams with those aweful red eyes.

The next morning the rain had stopped, and I woke up when the sun heated the cabin like a furnace. Outside it wasn’t cooler. Beating down like a hammer, the sunlight baked my bare shoulders and back. He was there.

A small white rabbit in a cage that seemed too small sat on his lap. There was a small fire burning next to the stump they rested on. The fire was too hot for the already blistering day, but he still had on his mask with those red eyes and a trench coat.

At first, I thought the rabbit was there for me. We were both sitting in the sunlight—baking in cages—yet shivering despite the heat. When he gave the rabbit to me, it was soft, plump, still… I named him fluffy because he was the only soft thing at the cabin.

Fluffy seemed to calm down when I took him from the cage. I held Fluffy against my heart; that’s when he dropped a hatchet and left. We both stopped shaking when he left: no one was there with us. It was like we were free. It was like I could protect fluffy.

However, no one was there to feed us. My stomach ached. There was no food in the cabin, no food since before the long walk through the woods: there was just me and Fluffy. Eventually, I knew what I had to do…

I couldn’t in the morning—or that evening—but by the time the sun was waning the pain was too much. Fluffy had settled down on the log: he didn’t even run when I picked up the hatchet. He was my friend. He was food.

I… I killed him… killed him! Killed him!

***

The Orphan Maker cries hysterically, pulling on his chains and howling like a wild animal. Everyone in the courtroom leans back; their eyes widen as the guards close in with batons ready. Flailing, kicking, screaming, the man who was talking falls to the floor and thrashes about until a slender woman rushes to him.

She is able to get him to sit still, but not before the heavy restraints cut into his wrists and blood smears across his prison clothes. “He needs a break,” the woman barks. “This is too much for him.”

“I agree let’s recess for lunch before assessing the Defendant’s… mental state,” the judge orders.

Pictures snap as the woman instructs the guards to remove the chain from the table and escort the prisoner out. Approaching with tripidation, a small but built guard removes the chains from the table, and shackles the crying man’s hands behind his back. They push through a crowd of guards at the ready out a back entrence as the crowd collectively lets out a breath.

People begin to mutter back and forth as they crowd around or stroll out of the courtroom for lunch. Joe is quiet as he finishes a few hand written notes. He notices Charlie talking to a few of their colleagues, but avoids eye contact.

Pulling out his phone, Joe pulls up the internet and sees Charlie’s headline plastered across his homepage. “Orphan Maker fakes insanity to avoid consequences,” the title reads. Shaking his head, Joe sighs.

“We will see…” he utters to no one in particular as he packs up his leather messenger bag.