Porridge

I’d always hated the smell of oatmeal and that morning, the same as every morning, the hot wheaty-cardboard stench clawed its way up to my bedroom as Dad yelled Time to get up, baby!

Baby. One day I’d get out of this house, I promised myself as I slunk downstairs in the semi-darkness: I’d get out of this forest, like Mr Piper next door, and go somewhere no one called me baby.

Mom was lacing her running shoes by the front door and Dad, already squeezed into his spandex, was stirring the large vat of oatmeal on the stove.

“Come on, baby, get your shoes on,” said Mom, launching into her usual warm-up lunges.

I peered through the window at the grey mist curling out from the treeline which ran along the edge of the front yard.

“Do I have to?”

Mom tossed my shoes at my chest in answer.

As I laced them up I considered that, if it were up to me, breakfast would be a late-morning affair of honey-drizzled pancakes and eggs over easy, all washed down with a double espresso. But my parents were early-rising fitness fanatics who reminded me daily that oatmeal was a healthy, low-glycemic index food, best enjoyed lukewarm after a 3-mile run through the forest. Today, it seemed, would be no different.

“Morning, baby.” Our lodger, Locky, strolled past, yawning, her blonde hair sticking out at strange angles.

“Don’t call me baby,” I told her for the hundredth time.

“OK, baby.” She went over to the refrigerator with a smirk.

Mom had finished her stretches. “Here.” She tossed me a fluorescent vest.

“What’s this for?” I asked.

She glanced at Dad, who paused mid-stir.

“It’s foggy out there this morning,” he said. “We wouldn’t want to lose each other on the trail.”

“If you can find the trail,” Locky said, grabbing a carton of full-fat milk and pouring herself a bowl of cereal. “I had to hack my way through the hawthorn to get to Red’s house last week. And the ivy has already grown right over old Mr Piper’s place. Spooky if you ask me. What did happen to Mr Piper, anyway?”

“I believe he moved to Michigan,” said Dad.

I looked out again at the forest. Was there somebody moving out there or was that just a trick of the dawn shadows?

“Boo!” Locky yelled in my ear, making my fur stand on end.

“Hey!” I said. “Mom, how come Locky doesn’t have come with us?”

“Because I have the metabolism of a lynx,” said Locky, flopping down on the couch with her bowl of chocolate-covered cereal. “And you have the metabolism of a sloth.”

“Because,” said Dad, “she’s going to keep an eye on the oatmeal and take it off the heat so it will be the perfect temperature to eat when we return, isn’t that right Locky?”

Locky didn’t seem to have heard him. She turned on the TV and flicked quickly through the channels with a critical air. “Too boring,” she muttered, jabbing at the remote. “Too cheesy. Too – ooh, a nature documentary!”

Mom turned to me as she tugged on a fluorescent vest of her own. “Be nice to Locky,” she whispered. “She’s been through a lot.”

“Really?” I hissed back, glancing at the girl curled up cosily on our couch. “Seems to me she has it pretty easy: free food and lodging, unlimited TV. Even though she broke into our house.”

Dad came over and squeezed my shoulder. “Everyone deserves a second chance, don’t you think?”

“Enjoy your run!” Locky called out from the couch through a mouthful of cereal. I wasn’t convinced. But before I could say so, someone hammered on the front door.

“Let me in, let me in, LET ME IN!”

Mom opened the door. “Mr Wolf?”

Our neighbour pushed through us and slammed the door shut behind him, working the bolt across with frenzied jerks.

“Don’t go into the woods,” he said, panting.

We all looked at each other. Locky, sat up on the couch and switched off the TV. Mr Wolf staggered over to the kitchen table and put his muzzle in his paws.

“What’s wrong, Mr Wolf? What’s happened?” Mom sat down beside him and patted his back gingerly. His haunches were quivering, his fur was damp with sweat.

“Something’s happened to Mr and Mrs Hog.”

“Are they hurt?” Dad asked.

“No, no. Yes. No. I don’t know.”

He wasn’t making any sense. I noticed he had a large slash in his trouser leg which revealed blood-soaked fur. Locky went to the front window and peered out.

“There’s somebody out there,” she said.

We all went over and stared into the treeline until our breath fogged up the glass. Was that a hooded figure standing in the shadows?

There was a loud thump on the roof and we jumped then looked stupidly at the ceiling. Something skittered around the wooden porch which surrounded the house. Dad peered out of the kitchen window.

“It must be the Hogs,” he said. “I’m sure this is all just a misunderstanding.”

I went to unbolt the front door.

“NO!” screamed Mr Wolf, and he flung himself in front of me.

There was a moment of silence. Then the mailbox creaked open.

“Hell-o Mr Wolf!” It was a soft, sing-song sort of voice. “We know you’re in there!”

“They’ve found me!” Mr Wolf clutched his throat in horror.

“We are going to huff and puff and blow this charming little cottage down!”

There was laughter and the mailbox snapped shut.

“What exactly happened, Mr Wolf?” asked Mom.

Mr Wolf trembled as he sat back down at the table.

“They invited me in for coffee, just as they have done a hundred times. But then they turned on me with barbecue skewers,” he wailed. “They were like – animals.”

“I’ll sort this out,” said Mom, doing a couple of warm-up stretches then heaving the axe down from above the fireplace. Mr Wolf hid under the kitchen table as she inched open the front door. Dad and I stood either side of her with skillets.

“Get off my property you crazy pigs!” Mom’s voice echoed off the treeline. “Nobody threatens my house! Or my family and friends!” she added. I caught sight of three pink curly tails vanishing into the mist.

“There,” she said. “Sorted.”

We waited on the porch for a moment, listening to the soft breath of wind in the leaves; then the air was split by a heart-stopping scream. Two women burst out of the forest, skirts torn, terror carved onto their not-so-pretty faces; they paused for breath until a third woman charged out of the trees behind them yelling and brandishing the spiked heel of a glass stiletto.

“Cindy?” said Mom and Dad.

Before we could act, the mist swallowed all three of them up: the trees quivered and then silence reigned once more. As we peered into the forest, straining to hear something, a hooded figure emerged out of the shadow of a gnarled oak.

“Red!” Locky called out. “Are you ok?”

The figure said nothing. She stood there then slowly lifted a cross-bow to her shoulder, the tip of her arrow aimed straight at us. Mom yanked Locky inside and re-bolted the door.

“Something’s gone wrong in the forest,” said Dad, collapsing into his rocking chair.

“You don’t say,” chimed in Mr Wolf from under the table.

“It’s all the good guys,” I said slowly. “The Hogs. Cindy. Red. Something’s… flipped in their brains.”

“It’s the forest,” whispered Dad, staring into the distance and rocking back and forth with a creak. “We’ve gone against nature.”

“What are you talking about, Henry?” snapped Mom.

    “He’s right,” said Mr Wolf from under the table. “Think about it. We bad guys reformed. We took anger management classes and went to counselling, we got on the property ladder and started contributing to society. There was no more violence, nor more rage, no more fear. We unbalanced the natural order. And now the natural order seems to be – well – re-asserting itself.”

    There was silence for a moment. I could hear the oatmeal bubbling furiously on the stove.

    “Where’s Locky?” asked Mom suddenly.

“Right here.”

I hadn't noticed Locky slip away earlier; now she was standing on the stairs behind us. There was an odd angle to her eyes; something had changed in her voice. She descended the steps slowly, and I realised that she was lugging a twelve bore shotgun in her little human hands.

“Locky?” I said. “What are you doing?”

    “Hello baby.”

She reached the bottom step and shouldered the shotgun, aiming it right at us. Dad leapt in front of us and Mr Wolf whimpered from between the table legs.

“She’s gone crazy, just like the others!”

    “But it doesn’t make sense,” Mom said slowly. “No offense but you’re not one of the good guys.”

“Yeah, you broke into our house, you ate our food and ruined our furniture. And we took pity on you, we took you in,” gabbled Dad. So much for second chances.

“You’re right,” said Locky coolly. “I was the bad guy. Which means you three are like Cindy and Red and the Hogs. You could turn at any second. And I’m not going to take any chances.”

    I looked at Mom and Dad. Clean-living brown bears who minded their own business, paid our taxes on time, gave to charity and had never hurt a fly. Did they have the capacity for violence? Did I?

    I could smell burnt cardboard: the oatmeal was beginning to catch on the bottom of the pan but none of us moved.

Locky pressed her eye against the sight of the gun and pointed it at each of us in turn, starting with my Mom.

“Too… impulsive,” she said.

Then at my Dad. “Too hysterical.”

Then at me. “You’re just plain annoying. Baby.”

    It all happened quickly: Locky fired but the slug buried itself into the wall. I rushed to the stove while she recovered from the recoil and tipped the vat of boiling oatmeal on top of her. Her screams rang in my ears but I couldn't stop. Mr Wolf crept out from under the table, paws raised.

“P-please don’t hurt me! I’m an accountant!”

Mom and Dad stepped forward with strange expressions: they attacked him with the skillets, then took turns to finish off Locky with the axe. Blood. Chunks of blonde hair still attached to scalp. An oozing lake of bright pink oatmeal.

    It was very quiet in the cottage as I looked at my parents and then at what we had done: the butchered forms of Locky and Mr Wolf lay twisted on the floor. The strange scent of fresh blood mingled with hot oatmeal and sweaty fur. Horror and adrenaline took turns to churn my stomach. Was this what it felt like to be a bad guy? Mom and Dad seemed to be frozen in shock.

    “We’ve got to get out of here,” I said, pulling them towards the door. Outside, the trees shimmered in the muted morning light and seemed to whisper to me, beckon me.

    “Come on!” I urged. “We’ve got to run!” Mom and Dad didn’t move. Screams echoed out of the forest to our right and still my parents just looked at me blankly. I saw figures moving out of the shadows of the tree trunks. And I ran. I beat my way through the dark tangle of trees, covering my ears to the screams and whispers of the forest. I ran and I didn’t look back. I ran until I found a road, then a town, then a ride to Michigan.

People leave me alone in Detroit. There are no forests here. No bad guys and no good guys. I slept on Mr Piper’s couch for a while then I got a duplex in Poletown East with a guy named Eddie, and I scrape a living as a handyman. I keep my head down, avoid parks and back yards and the smell of oatmeal. No-one calls me baby here. I don’t talk about what happened; when I can’t sleep, I put on my running shoes and hit the streets, chasing down my second-chance and trying to take comfort in the cold, silent concrete.

I got out of the forest.

The question is: did I get the forest out of me?