To see it all fall apart
And there were things you couldn't hear
'Cause you were listenin' with your heart
But you can't say I didn't warn you
Now there's no one else to blame
There's no one quite as blind
As a victim of the game
--from Victim of the Game by Garth Brooks
I was two weeks shy of 15 when Hell broke loose.
Three years had gone by, slowly but surely. Isaac eventually calmed down and cozied into our little family -- and believe me, I was very relieved when I no longer had to get up before the sun. He had a few random nightmares, sure, but what kid doesn't? Isaac grew into a shy little boy, sweet when he wanted to be and loud when he wanted to be. He didn't like talking with too many people; when we went into public, he couldn't be persuaded to let go of my hand. I swear, that kid had the death grip on me every time we went to Wal-Mart. I didn't mind, though, hell no. Everything that would've bugged normal people seemed to thrill me to pieces. I guess I was as much of an oddball as Isaac.
I shivered, despite my heavy black coat.
"You wanna go for a walk, sweetheart? Or do you just want to go home?" Isaac shifted a little in his boots. His dark-haired head swiveled; he glanced this way first, then that. I didn't understand what he was looking at -- our neighborhood wasn't exactly fascinating. After Isaac turned three, the economy turned on us. Aunt Melinda lost her job at the department store, and it hit us hard. We had to move out from our cozy little home in the suburbs -- and ended up in a trailer park. I was always a little wary about that. I wanted Isaac to grow up in a nice home, but until Aunt Melinda got a better job, I couldn't do anything about it. The trailer park would have to do.
"I would like to," Isaac said slowly, contemplating, "go home." I ruffled his hair gently and took his hand.
"All right. Your choice." I paused, then glanced down at him. "Can I see a smile, then?" Isaac glanced up, his forehead wrinkling a little.
"Maybe," he said in his I'll-Make-A-Deal voice. "Can I have a piggyback ride if I do?" I grinned good-naturedly and nodded.
"Surely." Isaac offered one of his rare, shy smiles. When he wanted to, he could really use those pearly whites. I covered my mouth to hide another grin. He just looked so cute. Isaac didn't seem to care how cute he looked; he kept the smile, but tugged on my coat.
"Can I have a piggyback ride now?" I laughed quietly and lowered to a squat.
"I keep my promises, little man. Hop up." He scrambled quickly onto my back and threw his arms around my neck. I managed a glance over my shoulder and couldn't help but grin again. "You all set?"
"All set," he echoed cheerfully, and gave my sides a kick. "Giddy-up!" I bounded off towards our trailer, Isaac yelping happily with every bounce.
These were the moments I loved the most, the ones where Isaac wasn't afraid or angry or upset. When he was just a happy little four-year-old having fun. ...but I'm getting ahead of myself.
We galloped into the trailer.
"Ride 'em, cowboy!" I hooted, and Isaac giggled.
"What are you two doing?" called Aunt Melinda from the kitchen.
"Riding the rodeo," Isaac responded promptly. I laughed and gave him a couple more bounces before dropping him off in a chair.
"You play with your toys, honey. I'm gonna help Aunt Melly with lunch, okay?" The little boy wiggled down to the ground and crawled towards his trucks. Trucks were his favorite, I noticed.
"Yes, Mary Mary," he said pleasantly. I cocked a wary eyebrow at him.
"Have you been listening to your aunt again?" I shook my finger at him in mock discipline. "You know I don't like being called 'Mary Mary Quite Contrary'." Isaac smiled innocently.
"But that's not what I said." He picked up one of his trucks and began moving it back and forth with great care. "I just said 'Mary Mary.' That's better to say anyway." Heading towards the kitchen, I glanced over my shoulder at him.
"Why?" Dark eyes looked up at me and blinked.
"Because you're not contrary." I paused, my hand on the doorframe.
"You know what contrary means?" I asked slowly, a bit surprised. Isaac nodded.
"Mm hm. And don't worry, Mary," he assured me. "You're not 'quite contrary' at all." Still a little startled, I smiled nonetheless.
"Thank you, Isaac," I said unsurely. I strengthened my smile and inched into the kitchen. "Spaghetti-Os okay for lunch?" He nodded, obviously very busy with his trucks. Turning away, I glanced at Aunt Melinda. "Can you hand me a can of Chef Boyardee, please?"
"Sure." She produced a can of Spaghetti-Os and turned from her baking. That was something that bothered me. Aunt Melinda couldn't find time to get a better job and get us out of that hell hole, but she had plenty of time to bake. And my God, did that woman bake. Cookies, cakes, pies, cobblers... and I didn't even like sweets all that much. Isaac was another story.
"Thanks," I said, a little drily. I slid the can into the canopener and pressed a button; the machine whirred noisily. "Whatcha makin', Melly?"
"Peach cobbler," she replied cheerfully. Aunt Melinda turned back to the pan and kneaded the dough. "Mare, could you do something for me this afternoon?" The canopener clicked. I pulled the can down and groped in the cabinets for a bowl.
"Depends on what." I poured the Spaghetti-Os into the bowl and stirred quickly. I had done this so many times that it was almost a mechanical reaction.
"Well, I was going through our things, and we've got a lot of stuff we don't need..." The tone of her voice gave her away. Whenever Aunt Melinda had another money-making or money-saving idea, she spoke slowly and unsurely. I rolled my eyes.
"Yard sale?" I said dully. She nodded guiltily.
"Yes. Isaac's baby things, he doesn't need most of them anymore -- like his bottles and crib and things -- and we could make some money off of them at a yard sale! Mrs. Smith's got a granddaughter, I'm sure she could use any of what we have!" I pressed the buttons on our makeshift microwave (it was an old broken-down thing we'd found on bulky-pickup day) and raised my eyebrows.
"Like, for instance, the blue tee-shirt that says 'I'm a big boy now'?" Aunt Melinda winced a little. I couldn't help it; she was the adult, she should've been out finding a better job instead of planning yard sales and baking peach cobblers. I leaned against the counter as the microwave whirred dully. "Have you looked at the classifieds lately?"
"Well... no," she admitted, and I shook my head in disgust.
"You have to find a job that pays more than minimum wage," I snapped. Aunt Melinda busied herself with her peach cobbler. "I don't want Isaac growing up in this godforsaken place, Melinda!" Isaac looked up from the living room, dark eyes wide. He only watched for a moment before returning to his trucks.
"Then why don't you go find a job?" Her voice was quiet and held a trace of bitterness. "Then you'd see how hard it is." The microwave beeped. I whirled and yanked the bowl out, stirring quickly to contain my anger. It didn't work well.
"Well, I would, Aunt Melinda," I began hotly, "except there has to be someone competent around here to take care of Isaac." The words were harsh, and it showed in Aunt Melinda's face. I calmed down a little and blew on the hot Spaghetti-Os. "Besides," I said, voice softening. "I was supposed to get my working permit last summer. I couldn't because Isaac broke his leg, remember?"
"Oh." She began pouring in the peaches. I shook my head in disgust, partly at myself and partly at Aunt Melinda.
"Anyway. What did you want me to do?" She spoke quietly while I poured some orange juice into a cup for Isaac.
"I have some flyers made up. I'd like you to run them out to the Morgans, Mrs. Smith, and the VFW Club." She scooped out the rest of the peaches busily. "Put the rest in the park's office."
"Sure thing," I said softly, and took Isaac's lunch to the table. Setting it down, I ambled back to the living room. "Hey, Isaac," I began, then stopped. The little boy was sitting cross-legged on the floor with a bunch of his toys surrounding him -- balls, trucks, and rag dolls, mostly. Those were his favorites. I leaned against the doorframe, smiling. Isaac was running the trucks back and forth and making cute little 'put-put' noises. I was about to murmur "how cute" -- or something to that effect -- when I noticed something. He was running the trucks over the dolls. Quite deliberately. I inched closer, frowning a little. I had always taught him that it wasn't nice to play like that. Dropping to a knee beside Isaac, I watched him for a few more moments before clearing my throat to make myself known. His little game was unnerving.
"Hi, Mary Mary," he said pleasantly. I forced a calm smile.
"Hi." Isaac ran over another doll. I swallowed, a little painfully. "Isaac, honey," I said softly, smoothing his hair. "Time for lunch, sweetheart. Put the toys away."
"But I'm not done," he said simply, and ran his truck over the face of a red-haired doll. Growing nervous, I put my hand on his arm.
"You can finish playing after lunch. Come on, your Spaghetti-Os are getting cold." He jerked away a little. This was getting very eerie. I did not like it when Isaac didn't want to be touched -- he hadn't been like that since he was a year old -- and I did not like it when he didn't listen, which was a rare thing.
"I'll eat when I'm done," Isaac said bluntly. Sighing with what I hoped sounded like ordinary impatience, I reached for his truck and took hold of it.
"I promise, you can play with them after lunch. Your lunch is going to be stone cold before you get there." I started to pull it away. Isaac made a loud sound of protest and -- before I knew what was happening -- clamped his teeth down on my hand. I shrieked in pain and surprise.
"OW! Isaac!" I pulled away violently and he let go. Something in those dark eyes, however, told me he could've held on much longer than that. Something told me that the first time was just a warning.
"What's wrong?" called Aunt Melinda from the kitchen. Clutching my injured fingers, I watched Isaac with wary eyes.
"Nothing," I murmured, and stood. "Isaac's going to eat when he's done playing." I turned towards the kitchen, but couldn't resist a glance over my shoulder. Isaac was looking at me, absently moving his recovered truck slowly over a doll.
"Told you, Mary Mary," he said calmly. The tone of his voice was just cold enough to sting, and it sounded much too knowing for a four-year-old. I shivered, hid my hands in the folds of my shirt, and went into the kitchen.
