Blaine Scott

It was sometime around dawn when Omosupe went into Blaine's room and crawled into bed beside his peacefully sleeping son. He held his son and closed his eyes. Off in the distance he could hear Wallace getting up. Omosupe tightened his grip on Blaine *I should be worried. Somebody could find out. Wallace could find out. What've I gotten myself into?*

A few minutes had passed when Omosupe reluctantly got up and padded back to his bedroom. Wallace was in the bathroom. Omosupe got into his bed and realized he must have been more exhausted than he'd thought. When he awoke, the shadows thrown by the sunlight streaming through the bedroom window indicated that the morning was far advanced. He was alone, and the rumpled sheets beside him were cold, holding no lingering body heat. He got up, wincing at the dull, burning ache in his back and shoulders. Omosupe had never really done back breaking work and last night... The mess on the floor, the numerous rags soggy with blood... Omosupe forced himself to stop that train of thought.

*A hot bath--that's what I need,* he thought as he shuffled from the bedroom. *A good, long soak with Epsom salts.* The house had two bathrooms, the master one having a deep, comfortable tub, and the smaller having a shower.

He was pretty sure where he'd find Blaine--the television was droning quietly in the living room. Still, he checked. Blaine was dressed, (Omosupe made sure Blaine understood that he'd have to wear pads in his underwear from now until the change was over) sitting in his usual place on the floor. An open box of cereal was cradled in the space between his crossed legs, and his hand moved, slowly but steadily, ferrying tiny golden squares to his mouth. Omosupe frowned, ready to scold him gently, ready to tell him that pre-sweetened cereal, straight out of the box, was a snack, and not breakfast. Then he noticed the nearly empty glass of milk sitting beside the boy's knee, and he smiled. *Milk and cereal--breakfast. Huh, my baby isn't stupid.*

Satisfied that Blaine was fed, and would be safely occupied for a while longer, he went for his bath. He soaked for almost an hour, letting the steamy, medicated water slowly soothe his aches. At last, freshly dressed and feeling much more human, he got his own breakfast and joined his son in the living room. Omosupe took his usual position on the couch behind Blaine, sipping a cup of coffee. After a moment, he leaned forward and affectionately ruffled his son's hair. "Good morning. Are you watching cartoons?" Most teenagers Blaine's age had given up watching Saturday morning cartoons, preferring to spend the time congregating with their friends at malls or fast food hangouts, generally being a nuisance, or getting into trouble. Not his Blaine.


There was no response, but that didn't trouble Omosupe. He continued to drink his coffee and nibble toast while he watched the cartoon investigator and his group of mystery solvers racing about, trying to debunk the ghoul of the weekend. He shook his head, glancing at Blaine. Wallace liked to claim that Blaine was oblivious to everything, but Omosupe knew that his son had as many likes and dislikes as any other teenager--he just didn't express them as vehemently--Blaine liked anything scary or horrific. As a goopy, green sort of thing lumbered after a scrambling character, Omosupe said, "Blaine? Baby, you know that's all nonsense. There isn’t any such thing as monsters." Blaine's only response was a slight tilt of his head, his mound of indeterminately brown hair shifting to one side. Satisfied that he had been heard, Omosupe returned to watching the program.

The bright animation disappeared, showing a simple printed message that said NEWS BULLETIN. Suddenly the screen was filled by a close-up of a man who would have been recognizable as a newscaster, even without the microphone--it was something about the carefully moussed hair and the Serious-with-a-capital-S expression. "This is Cal Peterson, reporting live from Covina, here in Lenwood. I'm standing just outside the police barricades that have been erected around the central area of Lenwood. Behind me," he gestured, as the camera's focus pulled back to show the background, "you can see the hubbub of activity that has swarmed over this once peaceful little resort since early this morning. Details are still sketchy, but from what we've been able to gather, there has been some sort of..." he paused dramatically, "well, I guess the only word for it is ''terrorist attack."

The wedge of toast, butter soaking in, making it soggy, dangled forgotten in Omosupe's hand as he stared at the screen, letting the words and images wash over him. "...owner's abandoned jeep first alerted police that something... hostages, found in a makeshift prison... hysterical young Carriers told a jumbled tale of horror and abuse... private sources say that the kidnapper was a man, and he himself met his death at the hands of... no identification yet, as the body was decapitated..."

There were grainy video clips, all shot from a distance--a smashed window, the remaining shards of glass smeared with what could have been blood, a queasy looking officer coming out of a washhouse carrying what looked like a plastic swathed axe, various evidence bags being carried, or laid out on grass that was bright and wet, last night's rains still not burned away by the sun. And then... An ambulance crew on the shore of the lake was loading a sheet draped body into another body bag. There should have been a lump at one end--the head--but past the spread of the shoulders the sheet draped smooth. As they lifted the body, an arm dropped, dangling loosely. As the attendants quickly tucked it back out of sight, Omosupe saw that it was clad in a black wind breaker.

The reporter was droning on about speculation, suspected motives, and the tragedy of so many young lives ruined.

"Damn," Omosupe whispered. "Damn, that’s... that’s so… horrible."

The knock on the door startled him so badly that he brushed against his cup, cool coffee spilling out to flow across the waxed surface of the side table. For a moment he stared toward the front door. No one really ever came here. He glanced quickly at Blaine, but the boy remained as always, attention fixed on the television. Omosupe wondered if it was just Wallace and he got up and went to the front door. He checked to see that the chain was secured, and then peeked through the spy hole. The view was distorted, but the dark brown uniform and tan Stetson hat were easy to recognize--they matched the outfit of the man currently telling the reporter, more or less, to fuck off till an official statement was released.


Deputy Robert Sherwood ("Don't you fucking dare call me Robin!") was about to lean on the bell again when he heard the sound of a lock disengaging. The door opened a slit, and a pretty carrier peered at him through the crack. Omosupe gave him a wary smile and Robert couldn't blame him. A carrier had to be careful, living out here, "Good mornin'...uh, Carrier.”


"Yeah hi, can I help you, officer?"


"Deputy Sherwood." He cocked his head, hearing the distant mumble of a television. "Yes. Is your husband in?"


"I’m not sure. I just got up, I haven’t seen him" Omosupe turned his head a fraction, as if looking back at the television, then looked at him again. "Umm, were you two suppose to meet here or something?"


"That's right. Wallace was supposed to meet me here," He shrugged. "I just spoke to him."


"Oh, well, he’s probably on his way."


"Alright, umm..."


"Omosupe. Omosupe Scott." He hesitated. "Would you like to come in and have a cup of coffee, Deputy?"


Sherwood almost wilted with relief. He'd been up most of the night and what he really wanted was a stiff belt--but coffee would help. "That would be most welcome."


A smiling Omosupe opened the door. "The kitchen is back here."


As they walked back, Robert glanced into the living room, and noticed the teenage boy sitting cross-legged on the floor. He was a little surprised that Blaine never took his eyes off the screen. In his experience, most teenagers were very aware of any officer of the law. He paused in the kitchen door as Omosupe took a mug from a row of hooks and began to pour coffee. "Is that your son?"


"Blaine, yes."


"Shit, I didn’t know Wallace had a kid! Why don't you have him come on in, so I can meet him?"


Omosupe set the mug down on the table. "I don't think that’d be a good idea."


Robert fought down the urge to sigh. Not another overprotective Carrier. "Omosupe, I just wanna say hello."


Omosupe tried to think of a quick acceptable excuse.


"Look," Robert tried to keep his voice reasonable, "Up until now I didn’t even know Wallace had a son, I just want meet him for a second. He’s sitting right there."


"No," said Omosupe firmly. "It isn't that I don’t want you to meet him, but..." Omosupe hesitated, biting his lip, then said softly, "Deputy, he's... 'special'. You know?" Robert gave him a blank look, and Omosupe sighed. "Have a seat."

He did, and Omosupe left the room. A few moments later he returned, leading the limping boy by the hand. The boy *A young man, really. He must be at least fifteen or sixteen.* shuffled slowly at Omosupe’s side, eyes fixed on the floor, head tipped down so that his curly, brown hair moved forward, curls obscuring his face. Omosupe said quietly, "Blaine? Blaine, baby, this man is one of your Daddy’s friends; he’s a police officer. His name is Deputy Sherwood. Say hello." There was a moment of silence. "Blaine."

"Hello, hello, hello." The voice was a monotone. "Hell, hell, bell, swell, tell. Tell a secret, never, ever, sever. Hello, jello, mellow, bellow. Yell, yell, yellow. Hello."


Omosupe put his fingers under the boy's chin, tipping it up gently, and Robert got his first clear look at him. Robert winced. He wasn't ugly. In fact, he might have been very pretty--if there had been even a spark of expression on his face. The brown eyes were directed toward him, but they seemed to be looking through him. It wasn't really as if Blaine was seeing something else--it was more like Robert had disappeared, and there was nothing there for him to see. Robert felt the fine hairs on the back of his neck prickle. But there was something else different about Blaine; something Robert couldn’t exactly put his finger on and it made him suspicious. Omosupe said, "Now do you understand?"

He had to clear his voice before he could speak. "Yeah. Nice to meet you, Blaine."


Omosupe smoothed the boy's hair, tucking a strand back behind his ear. "Go watch TV, baby. It sounds like that bulletin is over, and I think Winston will be on soon." He turned the boy around, and Blaine shuffled off toward the living room. A moment later the noise from the television shifted to bright music, accompanied by a cheerful, booming, "It’s Wiiiiiinston…And I’m going to sing to youuu."

Omosupe got a cup of coffee for himself and joined him at the table. "He's not stupid, Deputy, but... but the world doesn't impact him much."


"You don't need to explain to me, Omosupe."


Omosupe shrugged.


"But, if I may ask, why does he walk that way? You know, with a limp?"


Omosupe paused, mug halfway to his lips. "Oh, he hurt himself yesterday."


"Really,” Robert tried to look contrite, "how?"


Omosupe grimaced. "Playing soccer."


Robert seemed to consider this for a moment.


Omosupe was a jumble of nerves. *Did Robert believe him? Had he seen someone going through the change walk like that before? Did he recognize the signs?* Omosupe didn’t know. *Where the hell was Wallace anyway?!*


When he glanced at Sherwood anxiously; Sherwood was looking back at him. To Omosupe, Robert looked as though he had come to some conclusion or another.


Just as Omosupe opened his mouth to say something Sherwood stood up, taking his hat in his hand. "I hear Wallace pulling up. Thank you for the coffee."

Omosupe felt relieved as he followed him to the front door. "Alright then, Deputy, see you around.”

Robert hesitated on the front step. He thought of the silent, staring son in the front room, and saw the tension in Omosupe's eyes. He said, "Honestly, Omosupe? I think we will be seeing each other around." He tipped his hat respectfully as he started toward Wallace’s waiting car,

“Good Bye.”

Omosupe closed the door, carefully resetting the locks, then leaned back against it, closing his eyes as a sense of dread washed over him. “Fuck.”

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Tune in next time for another exciting installment Blaine Scott!

I know, I'm an asshole for not updating sooner, right? Yeah. If you find any mistakes or errors, leave 'em alone. I own THEM, THEY'RE MINE! No, seriously, TELL me. >.0