If you are still reading this, you are obviously still curious as to how this small child became a vicious monster. I shall continue. Charles ran far from home, sure that his mother did not want to see him again. He knew he had done wrong. But instead of owning up to it, he ran away, far away until he reached a small, dumpy city. There he begged on the streets, starving and with the cold nights endangering his health. He began to steal, and was thrown in jail several times, and, I'm afraid, he did drop the soap.

He always found a way to escape, however, and every time, the police where left baffled. He seemed to be a child Houdini. No one in the city knew where he had come from. No one knew who he was. But no one seemed to care, either. He did them no harm, save his theft.

Charles was hungry, however. Hungry for food, of course, but for love and protection as well. He was only a boy, remember, at most 10 years of age, and he still needed someone to help him along the way. Unfortunately, he ran into Eddie Caputo. The man needed money. Charles wanted a family. They met, and Eddie promised the boy the security of a home, so long as the boy helped him in his quest to strike gold. Charles became involved in dangerous trades, landing him back behind bars several times, with the old nightmares of abuse being re-lived again and again. However, he stayed, and proved a faithful alibi.

Until Caputo got tired of him. There are many ways to make money. Child trafficking is one of them. And one day, that is exactly what the man did. He sold Charles off to a Johnathan Elbis for a certain amount of money. Like a toy.

***

Johnny

Things people do for money. Things I did because I didn't think anything of it. That kid was something else. I still remember his eyes. I almost felt bad, taking him away from that Caputo guy, but business was business in my mind then. I ran a whore-house. I made money off of anyone that worked for me, and Charles was one of them.

I don't know who Caputo was really. I knew he and the kid were involved in drug dealing, but I never turned them in. I mean, I was in it bad too. But I guess Charles just wasn't selling enough of that dope, because one night, Caputo called me up. Told me he had something I'd pay big for. So I came, checked it-him-out. Took him. He begged Caputo to keep him. Said he'd do better. Said the guy promised to take care of him. What was I to do? The kid thought that bum was really gonna watch out for him. Life just ain't that way. It never is.

I felt bad for the kid. Really. He didn't seem to get how to survive. He thought that if he just asked nice enough, people would listen. All that gained him was more pain, and me more money. All the other prostitutes knew how it went. Either you liked it, and did your best, or you played off lame so no one would want you. He would ask me, when I would take him home. When he could go home. I would have to tell him, you're not going home kid. This is your home now. He would cry.

Then, I don't know. One day he snapped. Guess he got tired of being tossed around like some plaything. I can't blame him. In fact, if life was fair, I would've died that day. I should be dead. It's what I deserve, not saving that kid. Should have taken him to foster home or something. Foster kids got it bad too, but he'd have a better chance there than where I brought him.

Anyways, it all happened so fast. I was coming in, unlocking the door, when I saw it. It was a massacre. Like a meat factory, only worse. Do I have to describe it? The blood, the filth. Everywhere. And Charles walked out. Touched the dead faces almost tenderly. Like he'd just saved them. And he probably did. Then he frowned at me. "I'm going home now, Johnny," he said rather casually. "And you ain't gonna stop me this time." His small polite voice was gone. There was a roughness to it. Almost like he'd aged decades. Trauma does that to you, I guess. I thought I saw tears in his eyes, but I don't know. Then he kicked a stone. Some trap. He set it off on me. I remember being tossed across the room. I don't know what he did. He's an intelligent criminal mind.

I was still alive, but only barely. He thought I was dead, I guess, because he walked away. Or maybe he wanted me to live. With this guilt. Maybe he knew. The first customer walked in. Cussed. Charles cussed him out back, and then I heard a thud. That guy was dead. Just like I should be. If I ever saw that kid again, I'd apologize. Not that it'd matter. He'd probably say, "You're sorry NOW, Johnny. You're sorry now."

Yes, Charles. I'm sorry now. Too late, huh?

***

It was nearing winter by then. Charles had not been caught. The police had found Johnny, and asked him about the blood bath. He told them the boy's name, but nothing else. He was arrested and put in jail for running the prostitute business. Due to the trauma and psychological effect it had on his mind, however, he was set free earlier. He has never done anything in that area since. He now leads anti-human trafficking movements, and people listen to him, because he's been there, done that. He's learned.

Charles however, grew bitter, with ice on his heart like the ice hanging from the roof of John Simonsen's house. The man had lived alone for awhile now. He lived in the poorer area of the suburbs. Out in the projects, they'd call it. Gangs and hoodlum attacks all the time. He was used to it. He was not used to hearing sound under his porch at eleven o' clock in the evening, however. Charles had found his way to his house. He was still a lost child, but now, he had a purpose. Even if he was going the wrong way, he had made up his mind.

He was done with being used. Now he was going to use.

***

John

It was late. I was getting comfy next to the little fireplace. I loved winter. It meant this snuggling with a good book, Christmastime, family. I don't have a family anymore, I lost mine long ago, but the neighbors here were kind. They took me in. They were my family. Even if some of them were a little naughty with the law. The poor kids. I'd take them all in if I could. I was just starting to get into my book when I heard it. I thought it was an animal at first, like an opossum or a raccoon. I'm glad I didn't shoot him. Even now, as I know what he is, and what he's done. I'm glad I didn't shoot him.

Charles Lee Ray. Lord, he was such a sad thing. I don't know how I could've helped him. He was lost to the world, I think. Molded wrong. He was quiet, but real jumpy. I had to call his name real soft so he wouldn't turn on me. One time it was with a knife, inches from my face. He apologized, but I knew something was wrong. He never talked about it, but I heard him cry at night. Sometimes for his mother. I don't know how old he was. He sounded old, but he looked young, and sometimes, the other way around.

He loved magic. Magic tricks were my thing. He saw me doing some card tricks one day with the kids. He was fascinated. I think it was the first time I ever saw him smile. He laughed. He wanted to know how I did it. He had a farm boy accent, I remember that because of the way he asked me, "Golly, how'd you do that, Mister John?" I don't think he says things like that anymore. I began to show him. I gave him books on it. He read them like crazy. That kid was so smart. He learned so fast. Soon he was teaching me. I would ask him, "Hey, Charles, how'd you do that?"

But one day, he asked me something strange. "Can magic do anything?" I didn't know what to say. "If you want it to, I guess," I remembered saying. He wanted to know. Good and bad things? I told him about voodoo. About possession, and how strange people did strange things. My worst mistake. "But we don't get into that stuff, Charles," I said. He didn't listen to that part. He was determined. He thought he could take over the world. I guess pay them back for what they did too him. I wish I'd known. I would've told him, revenge doesn't change. It makes things worse. I tried to push him against it, but there are public libraries. The internet. Television. He learned what he wanted, and when he did, he left without a trace. There was a news break about a group of kids, some of my gang-orphans, who were killed. The police couldn't make out how it happened. But there was writing on the wall. In blood. His name. I knew.

The next time I saw him, he was different. But he looked disoriented. I don't know what it was, but through his mask of stone, I saw pain. Something had happened to him, but I didn't know what. It struck him hard when I told him I loved him. He spat I was the second dumb-a word to make that mistake, but I saw it hurt. He went through the old books in my shelf, as I lay there, after he had made me a voodoo victim, while I lay there, bleeding. He found out. He was taken back at what needed to be done. "I have to go BACK?" he asked aloud. "To get out of this plastic shell, I have to go back to him? No..." He looked near tears. "I can't go back. I can't go back to him." I don't know who he was talking about. I don't know where he is now. Wandering, I suppose. Lost.

Lost.