Notes: Either my computer has a virus (again), or ff.net is really messing up (again). I'd thank you guys for the reviews, but I'm not getting them and they're not showing up, so… Yeah. On a side note, I was just wondering if anyone else is having this problem with this site. In the misc/musicals section (and possibly others), when I try to view the "All" ratings, instead of listing the stories from newest to oldest, it's showing them from oldest to newest (and I have it set on "update date"). Could someone please e-mail me at Victoriacat14@aol.com about this? I just want to know if there's a problem with my computer, or it's ff.net again.

"Surprise!"

"AH!" Monty gives a tiny shriek from Joanne's arms, clinging tightly to the woman's neck. I'm guessing it was Maureen's bright idea to throw a surprise party for a six year old.

"It's ok, baby," Maureen soothes, stepping forward to comfort her son. "It's a birthday party! For you!"

Instantly, Monty brightens, and he struggles to be freed from Joanne, who laughs and places her adopted child on the ground. He rushes towards the table of presents, tearing into the first package he sees; It's from Collins, I can tell from the bright yellow wrapping, the same he used on our Christmas gifts the year before.

The wrapping falls to the floor as everybody laughs and coos at the six-year-old's antics. A coloring book.

My chest tightens as a part of me longs to rush forward and claim the book for myself, but I, for once, am able to resist, have won the fight for control.

For now.

Two hours later, Monty has finished opening his gifts, cake has been eaten, the traditional birthday song sung. Guests are just starting to leave, return to their own homes and lives, and Monty has settled down in front of the television watching Mr. Rogers and coloring in his new book.

Maureen, Joanne, Mark, and Collins are still seated at the kitchen table, gathered around a worn photo album, and sharing old memories, reminiscing on years past.

Me, I'm torn between joining the adults at the table in a vain attempt to appear "normal", and settling myself down in front of the TV with Monty to help him color.

Inside my head, a fierce battle over control takes place, and this time I do not win.

Shudder, switch. Fred.

Innocent smile tugging at my lips, I walk over to Monty and plop down beside him, reaching for a crayon.

"Whatcha coloring?"

The boy looks up, surprise written across his childlike features. But who is he to deny a new friend, a new playmate?

"Care Bears," he answers, grinning and shuffling closer to me so that we're sharing the book.

"Ooh, pretty! Can I help?"

"Sure!"

For the next fifteen minutes, Monty and I scribble away together, filling the pages with bright colors, rainbows, and shapes. But Fred soon grows bored of this activity and reaches for a blank piece of paper on which he can draw his own creation.

My hand moves quickly across the paper, but I don't know what I'm drawing. The shapes blur before my eyes, the words of phrases written in a child's hand smushed together.

Sometime later, I'm not sure how long, I hear somebody calling my name, but the hand does not stop moving as I scribble furiously, feeling the child within me, the one doing the drawing, growing angrier and angrier by the second.

//'What is he doing?' 'Stop it!' 'Hey, leave him alone, he's just a kid! He's just drawing!' 'But Mark is calling us! Snap out of it!'//

Suddenly I hear a loud gasp from behind me, and the piece of paper is ripped out of my hands.

Shudder, switch. Back to reality.

Dazed, I glance around the room, wondering why I am no longer sitting at the table with the others. Finally my gaze rests on the figure in front of me, Collins, who has a hand pressed to his mouth, staring intently at something I assume Monty must have drawn. Curious, I take a step forward and peer over the paper to see what's on the other side.

Curiosity, of course, killed the cat.

Collins stares at me, horrified. I gulp.

On the paper, sketched in child's sloppy handwriting, is a portrait of a young child kneeling in front of an old man who sits in an erotic position, hand on the back of the child's head, forcing him to come closer, closer… Streaming down his cheeks are crimson tears, and the caption at the top reads, "Sad Fred Someone save Us!"

It's the image from my dreams.

So much for childhood innocence.

"What's going on?" A voice tears through my thoughts and I look up to see Mark walking into the room, followed by Maureen and Joanne.

Collins is still shell-shocked, Monty is coloring without a care in the world, and I stand, frozen in place, unable to run, unable to hide, unable to do a damn thing.

"Holy shit!"

Maureen. She's looking over Collins' shoulder, along with Mark and Joanne, to see what has got him so horrified.

//Shit. Shit shit shit shit.//

"Did… Did Monty do that?" Joanne asks nervously, tears forming in her large brown eyes, imagining what must have happened to her son to cause him to draw such a picture.

"No." Collins breaks out of his reverie, folding the paper in half, obviously unable to look at the horrific scene any longer.

"Then…"

"Roger did."