Fresh Flesh by Todd Russell Page A
Authors: Todd Russell
Tags: Fiction, thriller, Suspense, Horror, supernatural, Novel, island, psychological thriller, ocean, Nightmare, Forbidden, evil, scary, shipwrecked, debut novel, ocean beach, banished, romance at sea
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another butterfly.
This would be the only living creature he'd
grant this promise.
* * *
Back to 1993 on the island and Seth Everson
kept calling his name.
"Dammit, I heard you the first time," Kyle
replied and then yelled for his friend, Bobby.
Bobby was never that far from Kyle Roberts.
"Yes?"
"Go investigate what Seth keeps saying he
saw. You know him and his crazy eyes. You'd think we were in the
desert."
Bobby made a move toward the direction of the
butterfly and Kyle raised his knife. "No. The other way."
After Bobby exited, Kyle closed his eyes and
voyaged back to his childhood.
"Butterflies," he whispered.
"Butterflies."
* * *
1960 .
As Kyle grew older and with butterflies off
limits he began to collect dozens of other insects. He became
consumed with studying the different types at the public and school
libraries. How to properly mount, store and preserve each specimen.
His fascination with the hobby grew.
He started to enjoy the killing part best.
His experience with the butterfly was a lesson in how not to kill
what you loved but he had no emotion for other insects and bugs. He
would even kill butterflies in other stages as caterpillars. Ok to
kill as long as they hadn't morphed into a butterfly. Once they had
made that transformation they wouldn't be harmed.
He stuck the specimens alive and watched them
cringe until they went still. He found a curious urge developing
inside him watching the creatures dying impaled.
It seemed somehow analogous to his own life
to date. He was impaled in each foster home, forced to stay where
the state dictated he stay, forced to do what they ordered done.
They watched him cringe at first and then be still when he got used
to the new home.
The only freedom he had was when he collected
and mounted specimens. When he chose what creatures to become part
of his collection he became the state.
He never knew his biological mother or father
and it wasn't until Angela took him in at foster home number four
that he found any kind of parental-like figure in his life. The
first few years with Angela were great except for one thing:
Charles.
Charles was Angela's tough, ruddy husband.
Charles took an early disliking to Kyle and would punish him more
than their other children. If Kyle forgot to do a chore or was slow
in getting one done, Charles would be there with his large,
dirty-nail mechanic hands.
Kyle was never abused physically or sexually.
That kind of abuse left questions that the state would demand
answers. Charles was too slippery to leave that kind of trail.
Charles dealt his abuse psychologically.
If Charles knew Kyle enjoyed something,
sooner or later, he would take it away. Favorite books, music,
radio programs all became acceptable punishment lessons from
Charles. Kyle might have learned something positive if Charles gave
the items back but that rarely happened.
It's almost like Charles enjoyed taking the
items away with little promise of return. Whatever Kyle loved,
stayed out of reach. Like the girls he thought he might like at
school.
And the butterfly's safety that Kyle had
violated.
* * *
1963 .
The worst ever incident happened the
Thanksgiving after Kyle's sixteenth birthday. By then Kyle had
become the oldest foster child and Charles had been riding him even
worse.
It was the same year that guy Oswald shot
President Kennedy from the book depository. That's all anybody
wanted to talk about: The President was shot, The President was
shot. Kyle was out collecting the day it happened and heard about
it on every radio and from his foster family at home. He was more
interested in Thanksgiving than who shot the President of the
United States.
The timing was ironic though because it was
the first time Kyle thought about killing another human being. It
was a fleeting, odd thought. He pondered why somebody would kill
another person. No, I wouldn't do that. Kyle shook the
thought off again. The thought soon crept into his nightmares.
But
This would be the only living creature he'd
grant this promise.
* * *
Back to 1993 on the island and Seth Everson
kept calling his name.
"Dammit, I heard you the first time," Kyle
replied and then yelled for his friend, Bobby.
Bobby was never that far from Kyle Roberts.
"Yes?"
"Go investigate what Seth keeps saying he
saw. You know him and his crazy eyes. You'd think we were in the
desert."
Bobby made a move toward the direction of the
butterfly and Kyle raised his knife. "No. The other way."
After Bobby exited, Kyle closed his eyes and
voyaged back to his childhood.
"Butterflies," he whispered.
"Butterflies."
* * *
1960 .
As Kyle grew older and with butterflies off
limits he began to collect dozens of other insects. He became
consumed with studying the different types at the public and school
libraries. How to properly mount, store and preserve each specimen.
His fascination with the hobby grew.
He started to enjoy the killing part best.
His experience with the butterfly was a lesson in how not to kill
what you loved but he had no emotion for other insects and bugs. He
would even kill butterflies in other stages as caterpillars. Ok to
kill as long as they hadn't morphed into a butterfly. Once they had
made that transformation they wouldn't be harmed.
He stuck the specimens alive and watched them
cringe until they went still. He found a curious urge developing
inside him watching the creatures dying impaled.
It seemed somehow analogous to his own life
to date. He was impaled in each foster home, forced to stay where
the state dictated he stay, forced to do what they ordered done.
They watched him cringe at first and then be still when he got used
to the new home.
The only freedom he had was when he collected
and mounted specimens. When he chose what creatures to become part
of his collection he became the state.
He never knew his biological mother or father
and it wasn't until Angela took him in at foster home number four
that he found any kind of parental-like figure in his life. The
first few years with Angela were great except for one thing:
Charles.
Charles was Angela's tough, ruddy husband.
Charles took an early disliking to Kyle and would punish him more
than their other children. If Kyle forgot to do a chore or was slow
in getting one done, Charles would be there with his large,
dirty-nail mechanic hands.
Kyle was never abused physically or sexually.
That kind of abuse left questions that the state would demand
answers. Charles was too slippery to leave that kind of trail.
Charles dealt his abuse psychologically.
If Charles knew Kyle enjoyed something,
sooner or later, he would take it away. Favorite books, music,
radio programs all became acceptable punishment lessons from
Charles. Kyle might have learned something positive if Charles gave
the items back but that rarely happened.
It's almost like Charles enjoyed taking the
items away with little promise of return. Whatever Kyle loved,
stayed out of reach. Like the girls he thought he might like at
school.
And the butterfly's safety that Kyle had
violated.
* * *
1963 .
The worst ever incident happened the
Thanksgiving after Kyle's sixteenth birthday. By then Kyle had
become the oldest foster child and Charles had been riding him even
worse.
It was the same year that guy Oswald shot
President Kennedy from the book depository. That's all anybody
wanted to talk about: The President was shot, The President was
shot. Kyle was out collecting the day it happened and heard about
it on every radio and from his foster family at home. He was more
interested in Thanksgiving than who shot the President of the
United States.
The timing was ironic though because it was
the first time Kyle thought about killing another human being. It
was a fleeting, odd thought. He pondered why somebody would kill
another person. No, I wouldn't do that. Kyle shook the
thought off again. The thought soon crept into his nightmares.
But
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