Xion Island Carrier: Chapter 4

I am filled with hatred. It’s my fire that burns inferno pretty.

The Bernsteins gave me everything I wanted. I had a new room. It was as big as the dorm for eight kids at the home, with a play area sectioned off. ‘And a workstation—for homework and such,’ they said. The toys were still boxed. The walls were soft blue, with a hand-painted mural and a chart with a toothy giraffe to mark my growing cycle. What did it matter how tall I was? A knife was the same length in any hand.

There was a bookshelf filled with storybooks, colourful, neat, and positioned meticulously according to height. They bought me real clothes, ones that fit and didn’t itch like the hand-me-downs I was used to. And they fed me well. That was all I cared about. I was only there for the food. Not that I had a choice; everything was decided for me. But I had warm meals three times a day. They were tasty, too, not the lumpy mashed potatoes at the home.

They didn’t just give me things. They lavished attention on me all the time. I was the centre of their world, the thing they’d waited for, hoping for years until they won me like a raffle prize. I didn’t know what they saw in me, but I could tell they were trying.

They hovered, watching me eat. That one thing seemed to confirm they were getting it right. And they watched me doing things. It was annoying, and sometimes, I played up just for the crack. They’d check that I was comfortable, and didn’t bother when my things got broken. Susan fussed over my hair, combing it every morning until I held back from biting her, and James helped me with my homework in the evenings. It was an endless ritual until I was big enough to kill them. His voice was patient as he explained the math problems and grammar rules I could have taught him. And he beamed, proudly, as though he’d done the sodding equation.

I was sent to a good school, the kind with playgrounds and tidy classrooms, where the teachers smiled and took an interest in my education. I behaved, and then stimmed like a prick the second I was out of sight.

After we left England and moved to the States, they paid for me to join the baseball team, bought me new sneakers, and came to watch my games, clapping like middle-class morons from the sidelines. Would they clap if I wrapped the bat around Jonnie Billet’s head? I hated baseball, but it was expected, so I did it—and made sure I fit.

I learned to smile when they praised me and nodded when they asked if I was happy. I’d hug them without snapping their necks when they held their arms out. I hated them touching me. I knew the routines and expectations, and I slipped into my role of the perfect son. I was the wooden boy they’d dreamed about.

They called me our blessing. I heard them say it in church on Sunday morning. They said it to impress. ‘We couldn’t have children of our own, but we were so blessed with Travis.’ Susan would say it like a mantra, her voice filled with pride. ‘He’s such a good boy and so well-behaved. They chose well for us.’

I overheard their whispered conversations when they thought I was asleep. They’d say how lucky they were to have me. Then James would add, ‘But he’s not right, Susan. You know it as well as I do.’ Susan always got emotional. ‘Don’t say that. He’s our son.’ And James would shut up in defeat. With her voice cracking under the strain of me, Susan would thank James for ‘Not giving up on our boy.’ He’d stayed by her side through the failed attempts, the miscarriages, and the endless rounds of disappointment. I didn’t know what that meant, but I was bright enough to get the gist.

 And James would reassure her in his steady way, telling her that it worked out right in the end because they had me. But on occasions, when I spied through the keyhole of his shed, I saw the look on his face. The one that she didn’t. His love wasn’t unconditional.

Knowing they wanted me should have been comforting. They went through so much. But I stayed separate from their kindness. And I held on to the emptiness I was born with, my hollow feeling of being unwanted.

They saw it and tried to fill my bowl. They showered me with love and material bribes, all the things parents are supposed to give their children. They told me how smart I was and talked about my potential. And they paid for tutors, private lessons, and extracurriculars—anything that gave me the edge to help me succeed. They grabbed any smokescreen they could latch onto to cover the darkness of my nature.

I took it all, every bit of it, like a throstle, with my head back and my beak open wide. I forged the child they wanted me to be. I was a credit to them, a well-mannered boy who said please and thank you. I maintained excellent grades, played the piano, and took karate lessons—because nothing says balanced kid like teaching the disturbed ones how to kill with a single blow. I was the poster child for my perfect mask. I played Travis. But, a hard knot of resentment spoke to me.

They called me ‘our sweet boy,’ and the knot grew. I wasn’t their first choice. They’d wanted a baby but got a six-year-old boy—with issues. I was their last resort, and, with no options left, they took me on.

They were caretakers. They provided what I needed to survive. James and Susan were useful, but they weren’t mine. I had no connection to them. They were just there, like the stuffed bear on my shelf—but more practical.

We moved to the United States when I was eight because I burned the house down. ‘Bye-bye, Beauty. Nice knowing you, mutt.’  Susan wiped her eyes and said we needed a fresh start. My father’s job transfer reinvented us. The air was warmer, the streets wider, and everything worked brighter than in England. I adapted faster than they expected. My English accent charmed people, and I used it to get what I wanted. I was the new kid and milked it, figuring out how to use my brains.

I was popular at school. My peers flocked to me, and I studied them. I practised being Travis at home, mimicking their ways until I blended into them. I made friends and captained sports teams. I dated, ugh. Boys were horrendous, and girls were worse. I wanted to cut the throats of every one of them as I thrust into them over the hood of my brand-new car. I was the guy everyone trusted, the dependable one, the smart one. Travis Bernstein, the dude who had your back. And when I looked in the mirror, I saw what everyone else did. But it was a layer of polish over an ugly shell.

People were tools to be used. Every girl I dated was another way to perfect my act. They looked at me doe-eyed, and I’d give them what they wanted in return for their adoration. People liked what they saw. They liked Travis Bernstein. They’d have hated me if I’d escaped.

It didn’t always work, though. Sometimes, the tattered edges of Travis would fray—and there I’d be. It happened most at night after I’d played my part all day and kept the ticks in. They had to come out. I’d re-run memories. One was the trigger, a turning point that took root in my mind like a splinter that couldn’t be pricked out with a needle.

I was eleven and looking for trouble in my parents’ room. Bored, I rummaged through drawers I shouldn’t have touched to pass the time. I found my adoption papers at the bottom of a drawer.

I wasn’t surprised. I’d always known about my adoption, but seeing my life written down—cold, clinical, a detailed process and the rejection of me in stark terms—it hit me differently. I felt a rage like I’d never experienced. I could raise my arms and blow the house apart with just my will. I could turn the ocean back with a breath. I was a vengeful god among boys.

There was a letter from the home, stamped with dates and signatures. It told my story as though I was a commodity: an unwanted child, handed over to strangers. I saw my birth mother’s age printed. Fourteen. A child, like the girls I took for my gratification.

She wanted to keep me. But her family—my family—said she had to give me up. Better for everyone. My father had no spine. He was a boy who didn’t want to shoulder any responsibility. He turned his back on me before I drew my first breath.

A familiar anger rose inside me, hot and consuming. My pulse thundered in harsh beats in my ears, and my temples pounded with the fury I’d held onto and nurtured all my life. There’s nothing more dangerous than somebody broken who knows how to hide it.

I shoved the papers back in the drawer and left the room. Energy empowered me, and I didn’t know what to do with it. It was deeper and darker than anger. A feeling akin to starvation. I craved control. I promised to erase the people who had chosen their comfort over my existence.

My rage was fuelled. It gave me a purpose for living that I’d never had before. I clung to it whenever the emptiness got in.

I kept up my act, the charming young man my parents were proud of. But I built something cold. I had my raison d’être.

Throughout my teenage years, teachers praised me, boys wanted to be like me, and girls came to me. Why wouldn’t they? I was gifted with exceptional looks. Not just good-looking, but extraordinary in the true sense of the word. I had perfect facial symmetry. I grew up handsome, smart, athletic, the kind of guy who knew the right thing to say. But I was calculating, every move was orchestrated.

When nobody else was around, I’d release the darkness. Sometimes, I’d hurt small animals—birds, squirrels, even pets wandering the neighbourhood. I’d feel a sick thrill as I watched their life fade. I held my power over them. It scratched an itch, satisfying needs that went beyond words.

I fooled everyone and played the long game until I could track the ones I wanted. Even in the mirror, I was the Travis everyone saw. But I could see the void that nothing satisfied.

I’d achieve what needed to be done. I’d take them all. And the last one would be—him.

Xion Island Carrier is book 6 in the DCI Nash series. They're all on KU. Hush Hush Honeysuckle is Book One, and this is the Amazon link.

https://books2read.com/u/4EB0zg(link is external)