Hatchetfield.

When Johnny Comes Marching Home Again

John MacNamara was fifteen, cold, wet, lost, aching in places one should never ache, clad in only his thin athletic shorts and his official Virginity Rocks t-shirt. No tennis shoes, they've been lost long ago. Despite being heavily smeared with mud and his blood, the color stood out mocking him. Reminding him of what his parents thought of him. What his parents believed camp could cure him of.

They were wrong, they was nothing to cure.

It was unseasonably cold in the Witchwood given that it was the middle of the summer. Not only that, it was heavily snowing. There was a heavy blanket of snow on the ground and the trees gave almost human like grounds of distress under their unexpected burdens. And from the fluffy clouds more snow spiraled down to join the rapidly growing drifts. This was not a day for snow.

To be more accurate it was July 21, 2004. The summer solstice, the longest day of the year. In the town of Hatchetfield, Michigan the Honey Festival was celebrating its final day. The sacrifice would be taken to the altar in to be devoured as they were every year. Nibblenephim would take on the form of flesh and teeth to feast. To devour and rip and tear. It was an late honey festival, but it couldn't be helped.

In Clivesdale, the Cherry Festival was picking its blossom bride or some shit, but it was Clivesdale, so fuck their faces. Nobody gives a shit about them and neither should you. Already the limo carrying this year's queen was driving its way through the single winding path. It took no heed of the tragedy unfolding ten feet to the right of the road.

A tragedy was unfolding and they drove straight on past one tired, bare foot teenager, his footsteps a bloody trail leading off into the distance. He looked up, his tears had frozen strand of hair to his face. His nose was still streaming blood from where it had been struck and one of his eyes was swollen half shut. The button on his shorts was missing causing a slight gap at the top. His mouth gapped in the way only the panicked can and a fine film of frothy spit cling to his torn lips.

To the onlooker, John was a terrified tragic figure. A china doll, shattered into a million pieces, lost in a drawer and put back together by a well meaning person whose lost half of the pieces and has generally no idea of what the human form should look like. He's had this sharp androgynous beauty to him along with an almost animalistic fury to him. Like he's two steps from lunging forward and ripping out someone's throat.

The shirt was the quite possibly the worst shade of all the shirts on that table. Rose fucking pink. He remembered the argument the Jerries had. For once Girl Jeri with an I had stood up it seemed to the bullying Boy Jerry with a Y. And then... and then...

No don't think of that... poor sweet innocent Jeri. Stuck in her self made prison. He had known her for a short time and she was already more of a mother than his own flesh and blood mother. And now she was hurt and was all his fucking fault.

It shouldn't have come to this. Why was he here? Why was he even alive? He didn't know. The events didn't even make sense. It was impossible. He should have been dead a million times over. And yet.

And yet.

And yet...

"Oh little witch!" The sing song voice echoes through the branches of the living trees. It's the kind of voice that dances on your grave and brings his friends. "Oh little witch come out and play. It doesn't have to be so hard. You come out or I'm going to gouge one of those pretty blue eyes out of that pretty little face of yours."

The man says it in a way that says he's going to do it and he's going to make sure it hurts. Of course he will. It still hurts there where the man forced his fingers with his untrimmed fingers up. Did he think John wasn't going to knee him there? Did he think John wanted to be a brood mare when John didn't even want to be a girl to begin with?