Beyond the Binary

Ashton

When I was born, I had blue eyes. That much is certain. Blue is for boys isn’t it? But then again, it’s never that simple. The one who should've known, apparently didn’t. A mother knows. A mother has an instinct. Don’t know what happened to my mother. Perhaps she developed Ostrich Syndrome.

Apparently she had this mini heart attack and made the nurses check to see if I was blind. I wasn’t of course, but I do have a ‘special eye.’ As well as the other thing. The thing that’s missing. Or that extra thing that makes me what I am. One thing for certain. I was different.

It's just a lazy eye really, but mum dressed it up as she dresses everything up, but I like things real - raw. I don’t like to sugar coat stuff. It may taste nice when you roll it around in your mouth, but it just gives you cavities later on.

As I got older, my eye colour changed. No longer blue but hazel. Little flecks of green appeared - just dancing around the edges. Yep. Again. Another clue. Light brownish with flecks of green but still weird for someone like me. I have to wear these yellow tinted glasses, which makes the colour look even weirder.

It all started with that bloody video. I can say bloody. Even though she drops the f- bomb when she’s angry, or scared - I am not going to. Although I have reserved the right to say bloody as much as I like. Bloody! Bloody! Bloody!

It all started with that bloody video that was going to help make me into the next Quentin Tarantino. I called it, ‘Who’s Afraid of The Girl Next Door?’ Catchy title eh? Inspired by Miss Woolfe, (of course) and it’s along the same lines of the horror that’s circulating around school at the moment -‘Anyone for Baseball?’ It was my favourite film of the month. A very bloody horror that she didn’t like me watching, but, well… it was funny.

The mother would be screaming, her arms flailing all over the place - the acting was awful. And it was so obvious it was watered down tomato ketchup - a cheap budget film. No one could take it seriously. At least in my film, the girl next door wouldn’t be acting. I was trying something new - catching her in real moments and then hash them together to make my film. All very artistic and new. We like our labels too much - don’t you think? Wouldn’t it be an ideal world if we could just accept things for what they were without forcing them into a box. A pigeon box. Or is it a pigeon hole? Not very big is it? Restrictive. Says it all. Bit like the boy-blue jeans that the mother buys me. At least she’s tried to stop forcing me into frilly dresses. Still. Make-up is our next battle.

My favourite line in the film was when the mother ran to her husband’s battered corpse and screamed ‘Nooooooo!’ As if! If you found your husband bludgeoned to death with a baseball bat with the murderer just standing there, you’d run the hell out of there in case you were next. Never mind cuddling his bloody body! The directing was rubbish! The script was rubbish! But it was so rubbish it was kinda good, if you know what I mean. But I could do better. I would do better. And with my eyes, I had a unique way to view the world - like an artist. I am unique, neither here nor there. Like I said, I’m not into labels. My colour interpretation is different to others. I can change the concept of what film should be, and change is good isn't it? That’s what she said anyway.

She said she would send me to film school. She’s not sure about the one that’s nearest because it’s full of boys. Apparently the mother says boys might give me a hard time. Pfft! I’d be more worried about them. I’m just as strong as them and can easily smash their faces in! They say girls are worse, but in my experience, boys are physical, girls are mental and then there’s me - neither here nor there. Neither one nor the other. Some days I feel like one, and then others, I feel like the other. Mostly though, I am both. And none. A weird hybrid. What can I say? I’m just a genuine work of art (!)

I’m serious about my work and can’t have anyone messing things up. This is my medium, how I get heard. This is my voice. She thought I would mind working with a bunch of boys. I think she’s looking for any old excuse to keep me under the thumb. The dear old mother. Thinks she knows what’s best. Thinks she knows who or what I am. She hasn’t got a bloody clue.

Narrator

Ashton had everything - compared to some, and to others, it was relatively little. Perspective is everything. A detached house on Cedar Avenue, which backed onto a lush, green wood, is where they lived. They had enough money, Ashton was pretty handsome and clever, with loving mother and father, and went to a good school - lived in an affluent area and had high expectations of a career in the film business. But, like a lot of teenagers, the grass was greener. Ashton wanted more.

As an only child, loneliness was an issue. We established that the eyesight wasn’t perfect, in fact according to the parents, nothing was perfect. But Ashton was Ashton - that was it.

The richer kids at school were spending the summer in Egypt or going to the Maldives - whereas Ashton was either sitting at home watching television, or like last year, they’d take a short break to France. The parents only flew there so as to make it more of an adventure for Ashton - something to post on Instagram - pictures of the plane wings, pictures of outside the Eiffel Tower. It worked. Ashton bubbled with excitement at the sight of the plane and loved it even more when football was shown on the over screens.

This year, though, they were staying at home. The mother was working on something - she was always working on something in those days, and the dad was… well, he was just around.

Ali

The dad was never around. Isn’t that what these things always say? Well. He was. There was nothing wrong with the home life - as you can see. All pretty normal. Except for me. *insert evil laugh*.

I am the black sheep, the oil in the water, the fly in the ointment.

The Wolf in the Woods.

How did I get there? Oh *deep sigh* I don’t know. I guess I evolved, pretty much like original sin. One minute I wasn’t there, and then the next... poof! Here I am in all my flamboyant glory for all the world to see - and how stunningly beautiful I am! And now that I am here… I’m afraid to say that I ain’t going no-where. *smiles*

Ashton

It starts with a white-in. Thought it would be better than a black one - way to common, this had to be my best piece of work. A white-in that gets duller and duller until you see an eye, frantically spinning left and right, taking in the full scene, as quickly as it can as if it is searching for something. Peering through a rustic hole in a wooden fence. I had set up my camera to record my eye as I stared through the fence, blinking. It’s an eye. Out of context. Just an eye.

The grainy, jagged wood with a knot poked through, and my greeny-brown eye, looking through. I quite liked that shot. The green mossy fence brought out the green flecks on the edges of my eye. It was the only shot on the film that I liked. Green would be a bit of a theme. There nearby woods would prove the perfect backdrop. The rest? The rest is what caused the trouble. I wouldn’t mind, but that interloper wasn’t supposed to be there. I was filming the girl next door who I haven’t really spoken to, even though we have been neighbours for over two years. She was hanging up the washing. Boring, yes, I know, but I was planning on using the footage to develop a story. Plus, she looked kind of cute - what can I say? I notice these things, I’m a teenager. Anyway - the title was gonna be “Aliens invade earth and take over our bodies.” She was perfect for the protagonist’s role. Some mousy boring little girl that everyone ignores, but actually, look deep into her eyes and there’s something there. Not that I have spend ages looking into her eyes you understand! But, well. I have spent some time studying the subject to see if she was the right person for the job.

And behind that typically ‘acceptable’ facade, there was something there. I could see it. And I will try to bring it out for all to see. Not doing the world any kind of favour by hiding that shit.

But when I was watching it back in my bedroom, there was something else on there. Something else that had no bloody right to be there! No bloody right at all!

Narrator

It was a cool summer’s day and Ashton was filming. The hushing rush of the breeze in the nearby trees from the wood could be heard as Ashton tried to capture it on film. The idea was to give the scene a feeling of freedom. Much like how a high ceiling gives a small room the feeling of space.

The mum was in the study, working and the dad had gone shopping. The sun was too bright for Aston to tag along, besides there were more pressing things to do. The glare of the sun caused problems, which is why the tinted yellow glasses had to be worn - today of all days. As much as Ashton didn’t like to admit it, there was a vulnerability there. Although today, going against the rules, Ashton was out in the full glare of the flaming sun, filming.

Dad loved going Waitrose. When he wasn’t sitting in his special chair, with his feet up on his special wooden coffee table watching the cricket, he was at Waitrose - more than Ashton deemed as was normal. He’d browse all the isles, buy stuff he didn’t really need. Especially gadgets from the electric isle - which made the mum cross. But, ‘boys and their toys’ is what was said as an excuse for spending money useless things they didn’t need - pathetic.

Some of the stuff came in handy when Ashton was recording, or playing stuff back because he bought extra large speakers that you could plug into the television. Mini microphones that could be used when interviewing friends. Once, the dad bought a camera and a stand which came in very handy for Ashton. He also turned one of the bedrooms into a workroom so films could be created, developed, or as Ashton liked to say, ‘brought into being.’ For a thing wasn’t a thing until it was created. And when it was created, it wasn’t labelled or pigeon holed. It was allowed to exist - to be. And those that watched the films, either accepted them or not. Ashton didn’t really care if they understood. That was not important.

In their modest four bedroom home, Ashton was in the work room where the films were edited. That was when it was seen.

Ashton squinted. Something was there that shouldn’t be. A figure. It was stealing the focus with a completely unauthorised walk-on! Ashton’s brown hair stood on end, like antennae, while hazel eyes, glared at the glowing screen in anger.

There was Ashton’s eye, blinking while watching through the hole in the fence. Then it cut to what the eye was looking at: the girl. The camera spanned as it caught in shot the girl from next door hanging up white bedsheets.

Ashton’s eyes were hurting. Not being able to figure out if it was because it was too bright or just that fatigue was taking over, the eyes watered slightly - a shimmering, wobbling view wasn’t something that was workable. Going without the glasses wasn’t the best idea as it dulled the picture, or the perception of the picture, but needs must. Ashton preferred things raw - not altered. Viewing the world as it was was alway preferable to changing the perception of what was there. That wasn’t any good and always felt like lying to Ashton.

And it was when Ashton was contemplating all of this, that he was seen. Just briefly at first. A figure flitting in the background. Just behind the girl next door as - a dark figure in red. One moment he was there… and the next, he was gone. He vanished. Like some kind of Goddamned mirage. And Ashton was fuming. This needed a closer inspection. There was a larger TV in the bedroom. That was as good a zoom as he had.

Ali

Ohh! I gave juuust a little taste. :-)

Ashton

My heart kept racing as I played it again and again on the large television screen in my room. Just to check, y’know? Check if it was real. Maybe there was something wrong with my eyes, something more than usual that is. So I put on my yellow tinted glasses and watch it again. I squinted and shoved my face right up close to the screen. But it looked the same, just darker, and more yellow. I felt a chill and so rubbed my left hand with my right, smoothed down the nervous goosebumps.

The dark in my bedroom watched me. There’s a leather sofa, a large window with white wooden shutters on it. Closed of course so the bright sun didn’t hurt my eyes, but no matter how many times I played it back… it was still there. He was still there. Some kid in skinny black jeans and a black t-shirt. I tried playing it in black and white, which had an effect I liked. The stark white bed sheets billowed against the tinted skies as my neighbour pinned them onto the thin wire, and in a second, there's a flash of colour - even when I put it on black and white. I froze the frame - just to see, keep him from vanishing this time, and I saw him.

It was a him. I think it was a him, but that doesn’t really matter. My heart leapt to life as I zoomed in on the large television screen that was hooked onto my bedroom wall at the end of my bed. I couldn’t view this in my editing room - I needed more privacy. On the large screen, there was no mistaking him. He was bloody looking right at me! Blood red eyes, glaring at me… smirking! Where the bloody hell did he come from!? Sitting on the bottom of my bed, I trembled. Grabbing my chest, my breathingstuttered out in panicked bursts, but he just stayed there - frozen in time, staring right at me. And the weird thing is, I thought I knew him. I bloody well knew him!

Narrator

The change was subtle at first. A mother knows, doesn’t she? Did this mother know? Who can tell if their child is capable of such things? Did she see the signs or was she blind to them? Can this ever be her fault?

Well, the eyes are the windows to the soul. That’s what they say. And the eyes were off from day one. They were broken. Not quite right. Did that mean that the child wasn’t quite right in the head? Or maybe it was in the heart. Perhaps the two aren’t even connected. Like a doll that’s been made, nearly perfect… just a slight defect. Was it a defect or was it just difference treated as a defect? Becomes a self fulfilling prophecy don’t you think? Treat an individual in a way they shouldn’t be treated and, well. Aren’t you to blame if it doesn’t work out the way you want it to?

Perhaps the parents had nothing to do with it. Perhaps the child was just… very angry.

She knew then. She knew the child was born with more than just a twinkle in the eye. If she looked closely, she could see him - in all his red glory, smirking and laughing. Knowing. Or maybe at that stage, he was just green with envy. Just waiting on the edges for the right time. The child was born with him there. Riding on Ashton’s coat tails - like a parasite.

Ashton didn’t want any pill difficult to swallow sugared. But a bit of sugar always helps the medicine go down, doesn’t it? Was there any medicine for this kind of thing though? Anything to obliterate the parasite! Blast the blood-sucker off! Shock the brain to eradicate the monster within. Electroconvulsive therapy. Did that work for other disorders? Did ‘not claiming to be one gender or the other’ even count as a disorder? Or does the disorder lie with those forcing others to be what they are told they are? Perhaps the parents should’ve blasted first and ask questions later. Would they still get the blame if they got it wrong? Parents should know. Parents are always to blame.

There wasn’t even a firm diagnosis, so how could there be a firm cure? Did one difference in the head have anything to do with the other difference in the overall makeup? In fact, isn’t it all just guess work? One thing I do know, green is symbolic of jealousy. Or anger. Or is that red? Green, in this case, definitely leads to red.

Ali

The dad was around the next time I showed up. They were eating dinner like a good little family. *sick bucket!* The mother had made some spaghetti bolognese that Ashton pretended to like - fake meat in fake meat sauce. Mmmmm… It tasted… plastic - my favourite! It went down like a led balloon but Ash ( yes, we’re beyond first names terms) kept shovelling it down the throat like it was a gourmet dinner. That vile shit! I didn’t like it! So I puked it back up.

That was hilarious. All three sitting around the dinner table like a civilised little family and then I just throw it back up again, all over the shiny wooden table with its perfect little white napkins that were placed to one side. Ash ought to use it to dab the side of our mouth after spewing. And my personal favourite, all over the mirror opposite that table. That took some aiming. It was like something out of The Exorcist. I just sprayed that shit all over the mum and dad. Left the silverware clean though - I’m not a complete monster. Getting puke out of the forks… tricky. Even for the dishwasher.

The screaming and crying started, and after mum got over the shock (quicker than the dad) she rushed to our side after swearing under her breath - think that was the fear. The dad just sat there, staring like a f*ing idiot. Yes… I can drop the f-bomb even if Ash doesn’t.

They didn’t see me coming. I did though. In the mirror. The eyes went red, and the lazy one twitched. That’s how you know I’m coming. I wonder if Ash spotted that? I didn’t stay for long. Just enough to let my presence be known, and for Ash to understand, that really and truthfully, *sarcastic sigh*I prefer meat.

Ashton

I don’t know what happened. Mum put me to bed, said I was coming down with something. Dad said it was the heat. They were both lying about something - I knew they were.

My eye was sore. The lazy one felt tired and sore like grit had got in and I had just kept rubbing it - but I hadn’t. It blinked funny. And I looked - different. I felt a little different too.

The dining room stank after I had finished with it, and I heard mum and dad quietly rowing while they cleaned. My bedroom is just above the dining room and sounds pass through the floorboards easily. It looks out onto the garden at the back of the house as well. When I opened my white sash window, the smell of mums roses wafted up, as well as the sound of summer. I could hear the nearby trees from the wood, and smell yesterday’s rain in the undergrowth. It floated on the air and wrapped me in a protective blanket.

When I was younger, I used to just sit on the white window seat and look out the window at the treetops lining the back of the garden - the tip of the woods. I imagined beasts in those woods, heard the howling of wolves, imagined myself as Little Red Riding hood - cape and all. I’d be fighting epic battles where there was blood shed and captives in little wooden prisons. I imagined filming them all on my camera and becoming a famous film maker. But that was before. Before the mum forced me to wear those bloody glasses all the time - I don’t though.

I didn’t say anything to mum and dad, but he was there. That same boy that I saw in next door's garden in my film, was here…. I saw him… in the mirror! I know, I know, it sounds absolutely crazy, and for someone like me whose eyes aren’t exactly perfect, to see what I saw… Did I really see what I think I saw? I’m sure I did. He smirked at me… with my mouth! Looked at me, with my eyes. He is coming. I know he is, I can feel it. And it scares the hell out of me. Gone was all my anger, given way to fear.

I got up from my bed and walked towards my full length mirror next to the open window. The silver shimmered as I hovered and stared at myself, while me stared back. That was me, wasn’t it?

I rubbed my left hand as goosebumps suddenly appeared, and as I did, it was clear that my hand was not my hand! My right hand! it touched my left hand, and it felt like his hand holding mine! That bloody boy! A scream caught in my throat as I stared at my hand that was not my hand… I wanted to scream out loud but instead my pillow was grabbed from my window seat and brought to my mouth with that hand that was not my hand, and it stifled my sobs so no one could hear, and I watched me in the silver glass as I screamed into the flower pillow and he was laughing on the inside, as I was crying! He was laughing at me! I wanted to punch his bloody face in! But then my frown turned into a smile as he laughed at me with my mouth! He was using my face!

‘No!’ I screamed on the inside, but my mouth turned up and laughed harder and harder. My own face in the mirror was smiling and laughing while I screamed and cried on the inside, but the inside didn’t look the same as the outside as he continued to laugh and laugh with my mouth, and my eyes gave off tears, streams and streams of tears that I was unsure whether they were laughing tears or crying tears and I wanted it all to stop, all to stop as the mouth laughed and laughed and laughed … until.

I punched the smile right off his face and split it in two.

And he shattered into a million sharp jagged pieces.

And my hand was bleeding. But it was most definitely my hand.

Narrator

It was the screaming and the shattering of glass that made them bullet up the stairs to Ashton’s room. Slippered feet pounded the stair carpet, across the landing. The door was ajar. And they saw Ash, standing defiantly, fists balled and bloody and glass all over the floor. The mother instinctively rushed to Ashton’s side scanned the room for an intruder whilst clasping her child close, cradling the injured hand.

‘What the -?’ The father said as he looked at the mess. ‘Ash?’ Ashton’s breath was coming out shallow and raspy. The slender frame held in a strong fighters stance, knee-high white socks unyielding. Specks of blood spattered Ash’s face as shards of mirror cut little gashes on the forehead and cheeks - which were red and flushed. The green flecks in the eyes flashed dangerously.

Dad tentatively stepped over the shards of glass, stray pieced snapping under his shoes, scooped up his shoeless child and rushed downstairs, followed by the mother flapping and squawking at his sides.

‘Should we call an ambulance? Call the police? We ought to go to the hospital.’ Words flew out of the mother’s mouth without her really thinking. Her big brown eyes were wild with fear as her skinny legs began to run towards the mobile phone on the coffee table. They should call someone, anyone. Her shaking hands picked up the device but didn’t dial. The dad said nothing but placed his little child gently down into the warm, enveloping sofa, furrowed his monobrow and looked into those eyes he thought he knew so well - they were wild. And panicky. He’d seen this before.

'Darling… what’s happened?’ His loving broad brown hand smoothed down Ash’s frizzy hair that was scooped up on top of the head but had wires escaped from the hair band sticking up.

‘I saw him… I saw him,’ Ash whispered wide-eyed.

‘I knew it! Charles! There’s someone in the house!’ The mother had paced from the coffee table to her child and husband on the sofa, and now at the hint of an intruder, she paced back to the coffee table and the phone to call for the police but was frozen by the sharp flick of the dad’s hand.

‘Who?’

‘He was laughing at me! Laughing, with my mouth! Mine!’ The sobbing began again, but this time, it was just sobbing, no laughing. The dad cradled the child in his arms as he looked worryingly at the mother.

Ali

I waited. Until the land was low. The eye stopped twitching, the fake food stopped coming and things settled down - but I was still there. I was coming and Ash could feel it. Damn good of me really, giving notice. I could just take over, but that would be… ungentlemanly.

The weather was turning. It was sunny now, oh yes, but a cold wind was coming. A cold front.

I waited for a month. The perfect opportunity came up and I simply couldn’t refuse. It was one of them - a perfect storm you could say.

It was a Wednesday, after netball practice. The baseball was in the cupboard from last term. The mum was making the food and the dad… was around. The dad is always around. But that didn’t bother me.

I planned to paint the town red! Or more like, the hallway red. My favourite colour red - did you know?

Ashton

Don’t they say life imitates art? Well that’s complete shit. In the film, the murder that happens is so gruesome that it’s funny. He takes a baseball bat to the father’s head and smashes his skull in. The stupid mother comes in whilst he is in full-on frenzy and she bloody starts screaming, so he smashes her in the mouth to shut her up. It’s so pathetic it’s funny. Blood gets spurted all over the white walls of the lounge as a sickening thud can be heard - wood smashing in flesh and bone. A wet smack could be heard again and again, accompanied by a couple of screams, and then silence. Jackson Pollock would have been proud.

Narrator

When they moved into the neighbourhood, the house with the red door and the red roses reminded them of Little Red Riding Hood - that had to be a good sign. And then there was the beautiful woods at the back of the house - all lush, dark and green. It was like a fairytale.

They wanted what was best for their child: the most perfect schools, the best opportunities - the best, most perfect life. So when Ashton was born, their lives were complete. But then, when she looked into Ashton’s eyes and saw that they were blue, she suspected the worst. Blue eyes did not run in the family - neither her nor her husband’s. But here they were with this pale-skinned blue-eyed baby.

So they got the test. And although the child wasn’t blind, there was something wrong. The mother knew it from the beginning, she just got the diagnosis wrong. Ashton’s sight wasn’t perfect, and according to her, that wasn’t the only thing that wasn’t perfect. Ashton saw the world in primary colours of red, yellow and blue - that was it.

When Ash was 18 months old, frames with which to view the world were given - glasses. The yellow frames helped tint the real world and gave access - the glasses sugar coated the rough edges of the world that hurt the soft parts.

The left eye twitched at times; a red flash warned at the corner of the eye, but Ash thought nothing of it. The blue for boys soon was replaced for green. Pink was missing from the world Ashton could see. Red hinted at that quite clearly. Flaunted it even. But Ash knew. Ash knew that the eyes were symbolic. They were unlike any other eyes - bit like Ashton - there were no words to describe who or what it was, or what Ashton was. There was just feeling.

When Ashton was 5, the twitch was more prominent. It was exhausting and drained Ashton terribly, which contributed to debilitating headaches. They took Ash to the doctors, therapists - anyone that would listen. They even considered surgery because of the impact it was having on their lives. Ash was irritable, found it difficult to sleep and was also, at times,violent.

Ashton was mean to kids in the playground. The child bit, spat and kicked. It wasn’t until Ash took a kitchen knife from the home hidden in the rucksack and threatened a boy that had been bullying, that the parents pulled their child out of mainstream school and into the best grammar school they could afford.

Counselling was given. The therapist claimed that Ash would calm down once the twitch did, and eventually it did. And they all forgot.

Ashton had no incidents until 13 years old. One afternoon after netball practice. Tired - the eye had begun twitching. Thinking it was because the glasses hadn’t been worn, Ash rubbed the eye with the right hand - and felt it. Right there in the hallway, the heart flamed up in Ash’s chest before pounding heavily. The hazel eyes grew wide in fear as Ash stared at the right hand. It looked normal, but it wasn’t Ash’s. A wave of nausea hit as the feet stumbled underneath - Ash silently balked… and changed.

‘Ashton? Is that you?’ the voice came from the kitchen.

‘Yes mum!’ The words came effortlessly from the mouth, but Ash hadn’t said them! The legs moved calmly towards the cupboard under the stairs which housed the baseball bat from last term, while Ash screamed silently on the inside. The vision blurred. Green became fire-red. Ash passed a silver framed mirror in the hall, hung on the pristine white wall, and watched as eyes that were once belong to Ashton, were someone else’s. They looked defiantly at Ashton, that was not Ashton. And the mouth… it smiled with Ash’s smile! Ashton screamed to no avail. Internally trembling with rage, the stalking wolf took over the body with a glint of red. And it was just the beginning.

‘Hello love.’ The father was home. Of course. A low growl ripped in the back of the throat revealing sharpened canines as the mouth curled menacingly. The school bag was dropped in the corner and the baseball bat left leaning on the wall in preference for talons and teeth. Ash that was not Ash whistled ‘Who’s afraid of the big, bad wolf…’ Ash that was not Ash, couched on what was legs but now resembled haunches. Ash that was not Ash eyes blazed with a white hot fury. Pin pricked pupils whizzed and focused like a camera lense, on its prey, a blurred image through the glass doors, as it slowly stalked into the living room on all fours.

Dad looked up from his chair just in time to see the creature launch itself at him - a blur of black, red and fur. The growl turned into a snapping and snarling as flesh could be heard being ripped from bones. The dad’s blood-shot eyes bulged in sheer terror as his throat was held in powerful jaws that ripped it out of the neck before the dad truly understood what was happening. Ash that was not Ash, with blood dripping from its maw, watched satisfyingly as the light in the dad’s eyes was silently snuffed out.

Ali

I have arrived! Ta- dah! *jazz hands* And oh! What an entrance - even had a soundtrack. No red carpet for me though *boo* How rude! But I soon changed that. I changed everything.

I warned them that I was coming. The Boreal Wind was coming - change. *singsong* #All Change! Ah… it's inevitable really - unavoidable.

The dad wasn’t where he should have been, but I positioned him in the hallway after and used his blood to make the walls the right colour. Now they match the door. Who’d have thought the old man had so much blood in him? *smiles* Well, that couldn’t be helped really, but the mum? Well. She played her part superbly! Bravo bravo! I think she was better than the original.

Now, in the original she screamed, waved her hands, yada yada yada and then went to hug the dead husband, but this time… the mother froze. She looked at the killer with a confused look in her eye. No, I would go as far as to say a hurt look, I think. Analysis isn’t my forte. I suppose her mothering instincts must have taken over any fear or disgust she should have felt because she didn’t hug the corpse, or scream with her arms flailing in the air, but instead she walked over to me and gave me a little ol’ hug. Awwww. Well, that as unexpected I can tell you! *guffaws*

She didn’t stick to the script, but I did, as much as I could, because I am a professional. *Superior sniff.* Her skull sounded the same hitting the bat though - that wet squelchy sound. All it took was one hit and she was down - but not out. Her big brown teary eyes looked up. But instead of fear, like they were supposed to show, they showed hurt, and then love. She smiled. She actually smiled at me! Well. I couldn’t be having that, no we couldn’y! so I had to finish her off. And quickly because I could smell whatever she was cooking, burning. And it was meat. Ah! The grand ol’ woman was cooking my favourite!

So I caved her skull in, stepped over her body and dished up. The kitchen was smoking and I didn’t want the alarms going off so I opened the patio doors quickly to let it escape into the warm sky - a bit of air never hurt anyone. I breathed it in deeply, and sighed happily before retreating to the kitchen - the heart of the home. I couldn’t help but yell. ‘Anyone for Baseball?’ Haha! Hilarious.

The meat was well done, just how I like it. In the fridge was a bottle of barbeque sauce - that’ll do nicely. I took my plate and sauce and strolled into the front room. Cricket was on the television - always cricket. No, that would need to change. I sat in his (now my) chair put my feet up on his (now my) coffee table and surveyed my castle. I switched over immediately. Ripped a manly piece off my steak and shovelled it into my mouth.

A breeze blew in from the patio doors. There was a change afoot. But you know what they say, a change is as good as a rest and I’ve waited long enough! Sick to death of that bloody Ashton having what was mine from day dot. I’m a teeny bit ashamed to say that they could see my green envy. Just a tad at the corners. They tried to push me out - and that just made me see red. *smiles* That’s my favourite colour, red - did you know?

*Whistles* Who’s Afraid of The Big Bad Wolf?