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When I was little, barely a toddler, my first foster family—the Thornes—thought it was cute. Nine was the opposite of a bogeyman, someone who came to protect me instead of scaring the shit out of me. He told me stories, but he made a mistake in trusting that I would keep them to myself. Five-year-olds don’t know how to keep secrets. And the Thornes didn’t know what to do with a child who preferred the company of shadows.
I moved in with the Baxters next. He was… he was careful. When he found me—and he always found me—Nine made sure to come late at night, long after my new foster parents were asleep. I was so happy to see him again that I was willing to promise him anything. I kept him a secret for two years while he spent countless nights telling me about his home—about Faerie—and the race of people who lived there.
The Blessed Ones and the Cursed Ones. Despite the names, he warned me that neither of the fae were good—or to be trusted. And, most important of all, I should never, ever give one of them permission to touch me.
I was a kid. I didn’t know better. Nine was my whole world. He told me how the fae could use
glamour, one of their special magic tricks, and make it so they looked like a regular human. How was I supposed to know a real person from the bogeymen he put in my head?
I didn’t.
I had my first full-blown panic attack in first grade when the gym teacher grabbed my arm and I wasn’t expecting it. Shit hit the fan back then. In the end, the teacher was suspended, the Baxters couldn’t handle my new condition, and they put me back in the system.
So then I got shipped off to the Morrisons.
They were a married couple of fiction writers. A little bit hippie-dippy, they both encouraged my imagination and even understood my pre-teen need for space.
Well, in the beginning they did.
I trusted them. I hoped they would be able to protect me from the fae during the day the same way that Nine did at night. Yeah, no. Not really. When I admitted there was a Shadow Man who visited me while they slept, telling me stories of Faerie and the fae, my foster parents thought I was a creative just like them.
When they found me hiding under my bed, looking for comfort in the shadows there, all because I swore that the neighbor’s dog had eyes of fire and I was terrified it might be a fae in disguise, they started to get a little worried.
When I screamed bloody murder one night after Mr. Morrison tried to tuck me in, they decided I might just have too vivid of an imagination for them.
Nine followed me to the Wilsons, too. I was about twelve then. Older. More wary. I started to ask him questions—mostly about why he kept visiting me, but I tried to learn more about my mom, too—and never really got any answers from him. My hero worship was starting to wear off at that point. I remember telling him that he should leave me alone if he wasn’t going to give me the answers that might help me protect myself. We had arguments—okay, I argued with him—but Nine wouldn’t budge. All he would say was that it was his job to protect me.
He promised me that my keeping him a secret would help with that. He reminded me again that, if I told anyone about him, he might not be able to come back. And I was mad, so, so mad at him, but he was my lifeline. I didn’t really want him to go. So I kept my mouth shut.
That is, I kept my mouth shut until the Wilsons heard me talking to myself the nights that Nine visited me. They knew my story, knew that I had some issues, and they were just waiting for something like this to happen. They threatened me with therapy if I didn’t explain myself.
So I did. They sent me to therapy anyway. When the first doctor mentioned the dreaded “s” word—schizophrenia—the Wilsons sent me away so fast, I never even got to pack my room up.
Dicks.
It worked out for me, though. For a little while, at least. Because up next? The Everetts.
They were experienced foster parents. They’d already adopted a girl they had fostered—Madelaine—and Mrs. Everett was an ER nurse. The Everetts thought they might be the home I’d been looking for my entire life. My history didn’t frighten them. They swore they would get me any help I needed. I believed them.
And that’s why I purposely didn’t tell them about Nine when he eventually found me in Acorn Falls.
I was a contrary teenager with abandonment issues. I know that’s no excuse, and I probably should have confided in them the first time I heard Nine whisper my name from the shadows. But he’d been there for so long, my loyalty was to the Shadow Man before anyone else.
He warned me again that my silence was imperative. As I grew older, I was only becoming more and more vulnerable. For some reason, the fae were still hunting me; in answer to my incessant questions, he said I’d know why in time, just not yet.
Still, it was important for me to remember the power of the touch. If any of them got their hands on me, they’d charm me and possess me and that would be the end of my life as I know it.
Turns out, Nine wasn’t wrong.
Not even a little.
I don’t spend much time with the other patients. At first, it was because the doctors thought I would hurt them. Now? They’re more concerned that I’ll hurt myself.
I do get to spend breakfast with the others in my age group, and I have to participate in most of the group therapies: community group, which I hate, and recreational therapy, which is usually the best part of the day.
Today we’re watching an old movie. It’s in black & white and it has something to do with someone’s missing bird. There’s this hardass detective and some two-faced lady that even I can tell is bad news. I didn’t think I would like it, even though Amy insists it’s a classic, but it’s pretty good.
It was actually getting kind of interesting when Amy angles the remote at the television, pausing the movie.
