text: Oswald readied himself to spend the night like every other, to sit on his bunk-bed and glare patiently out of his high window into the darkness of the pine woods beyond, to wait for one of the woodland creatures to trigger the lights and spark his imagination. The outside world fascinated him. A world he could see, but never truly touch. During the day he marvelled at the ever-green leaves and the thick grass onto which the pinecones fell. He wondered of their touch, their smell. The only scent familiar to Oswald was that of disinfectant. The most common touch? Cold disinfected chrome. Born with an immunodeficiency disorder he was unable to leave the confines of his home without a full-bodied and helmeted suit, for the slightest illness would come with a substantial risk of death. An only child, Oswald lived with his mother; she was everything to him: parent, friend, mentor, doctor, dentist, teacher, confidant. It was safer that way - cutting people out of their lives severed the risk of contamination, of infection, to negligible. Anything they required, they ordered. Any deliveries would be taken to the ‘cleaning room’, his mother's den (a converted garage adjoined to the kitchen) for thorough decontamination. Oswald wasn’t privy to the process. His father had left them both shortly after Oswald’s birth. ‘We were young,’ his mother had told him once, ‘and your father wasn’t ready, wasn’t able to make the sacrifices required to put you first, to give you everything you needed, and to keep you safe.’ The pain that leaked from his mother’s eyes, those all familiar icy-blue gems (in wonderful contrast to her jet-black hair) which ordinarily radiated nothing but affectionate warmth, invaded Oswald’s mind whenever he recalled her words. He had promised himself to never speak of his birth, their time in the hospital, or his father; she had suffered heartbreak and forsaken everything for him, the least he could do was spare her the torment of re-telling. Legs dangled over the side of his metallic-framed bunkbed with one foot rested on the ladder as Oswald stared out of the window. The darkness surrendered itself into a burst of illumination. Something had been caught in the trapping glow of the light. It had been a squirrel last night. His imagination still throbbed, pulsed with fantastical treetop adventures, daring to dream himself beyond the walls of his confinement - his sanctuary. He leaned forward in eager anticipation, edging for a better view; the window’s high position and slender shape framed a limited picture. Though nothing could be seen, the light remained to clue Oswald that whatever creature it was, lurked still. He waited, tried to fight the natural need to blink. Many anxious heartbeats passed before Oswald’s patience was vindicated. Surprise and raw joy rippled across Oswald’s face as though the vision had hit him flat on the nose; eyebrows rose, cheeks lifted outwards and lower jaw dropped open. A dog! A four legged, waggy-tailed, living, breathing dog. Other than on paper Oswald had never before seen a dog, nor had he dared dream he might. Enthralled, he watched it trot through the long grasses, stopping every now and then to sniff. With a sudden perk of the ears and a tilt of the head it bounded out of sight. Without warning, darkness reclaimed its territory. Filled with unbridled joy which soared above the rising flames of burning questions, Oswald lay back, just for a moment, to collect himself. Where had it come from? Whose was it? Does that mean there was someone there? Is it hungry? What is its name? Did I imagine it? Is this the best day of my life? He knew that the forest wasn’t completely wild. There were several paths that coursed through its many acres. But, according to his mother, the nearest of those was too deep through wood to be of concern. She didn’t want any stray person knocking on the door and touching things they shouldn’t. Though every surface was cleaned four times a day, she always said you never could be too careful. He desired to tell his mother, to share the joyous occasion with her, but feared what he would miss if he were to leave his post. I can tell her in the morning, start the day bright. The light did not return before Oswald succumbed to sleep. A distant shriek summoned Oswald from infant dreams. A fox he surmised, once his thoughts caught up with his ears. It wouldn’t be the first time a high-pitched bark had pulled him from his slumber. He had only ever dreamed of foxes, followed them to their dens of lost treasures and truths of the world. Sweeping his long dark hair to one side, he sat up, tried to open his eyes and flinched under a stab of pain. The outside light shone bright. He cast his blanket aside and shuffled down the bed to prop himself once more at the ladder. Brown eyes rubbed free of gunk and adjusted to the light, he stared once more at the illuminated carpet of grass and the front-row of bristly evergreens which twinkled as a breeze waved over them. A scene of tranquil beauty framed in PVC. A scene short-lived. Peace was broken as a slender form slyly emerged from the bottom of the frame. Auburn hair pulled back into a ponytail which trembled in the breeze. A vixen , thought Oswald innocently. He was drawn to her face: skin painted in grim pallor from the light; small lips, slightly agape; and wide-eyed. She looked worried - no, petrified. Desperation hewed over her face as she took a few steps back, dropped to her knees and begged. Weariness seeped out of Oswald’s every pore, replaced with a tide of adrenaline. He was locked in place, fully absorbed in the events which unfolded outside. His mother needed to know, he needed to tell her. But he couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. He could only watch. A second figure crept into the scene, hooded, their back to Oswald. Each step a methodical act of intimidation; a count-down of the Vixen’s life. Oswald remained transfixed and bore witness in silent, terrified shock. The hooded figure hoisted a club over their head with both hands, and obvious intent. Oswald’s heart tried in vain to hammer him into action, to call for help; each pulse drawn out as time slowed around him. Still, he did not move, could not claw his eyes from the assassination unfolding outside. A diagonal swing, the thrust of death, jolted events forward as time raced to correct itself. The Vixen’s head snapped to the left. Blood spewed. Teeth scattered. The body slumped in on itself, teetered, then dropped. The hooded figure looked up to the moonless sky, then turned. Oswald’s eyes locked with those of the assassin, face was obscured not only by the hood, but by a mask which covered the whole lower-half. They exchanged stares until, through lack of motion, the outside light went out. Darkness settled before Oswald leaped from his bed to charge from his room and tell his mother. Slipper-socked he stampeded over the landing, through the hallway, past the toy room and the study, and almost crashed through the bathroom door as he rounded the corner towards his mother’s room. He rushed straight-through the open door, and panic-stricken, shouted ‘Mum!’ as he launched himself onto her bed. A soft, springy, empty bed caught him with a bounce. ‘Mum?’ Sudden bewilderment gave way to boiled panic seasoned with fear, ‘Mummy?’. The walls soaked-up his screams, fed off them and whispered promises of lonely isolation. He curled into a ball and sobbed. So lost had he been in terror that Oswald didn’t hear the light switch, didn’t heed the reddish glow through closed eyes, and didn’t realise he was no longer alone until the hands were on him. They grabbed at his arms and tore them away from his chest. He felt something, someone, wrap around him. He was pulled tight. Embraced. ‘It’s OK, Baby. It’s OK.’ With a stuttered, whimpered breath - an end to the sobs - Oswald turned to face his mother. A heartening smile restored some of his resolve, as she gently caressed a tear from his face. ‘There was a... a... a Vixen... sorry... a woman... and she...’ Oswald recounted. His mother’s brows slanted downwards softly, an expression of loving concern as she listened to his tale. ‘Do you think you can be brave for me, and show me, if I put on the light?’ * * * ‘They were right there!’ Oswald pleaded. ‘You were dreaming, Baby.’ His mother offered with a smile; the words sharpened with a stern edge. ‘Maybe, yeah.’ She threw him a pointed look, ‘Yeah, you’re right. I must have been dreaming. Sorry Mum.’ She failed to catch the slight hesitation in his voice. ‘That’s alright, Baby. You get yourself off to sleep now.’ She marked her a hand-placed kiss to Oswald's forehead. Repeatedly clenched toes and fingers, little bouts of physical pain kept Oswald awake long-enough so that he felt sure his mother would be asleep. He was convinced it wasn’t a dream and he was determined to prove it, at least to himself. Hazard suit in hand, he crept downstairs; covert steps aided by the padded socks he had to wear. Carefully, he made his way through the dining area and living room to the back door. Quietly, he stepped into his suit, yanked it over his shoulders, pushed his arms into the gloved sleeves, slowly pulled up the zip and then secured his full-visored and sealed helmet. Tentatively, he turned the key, opened the door, and then stepped outside. Gripped with nerves, he held his breath as he edged deeper into the gloom. In any moment the light would flash into life. He took a couple more steps. Nothing. His mother must have completely turned it off earlier. It would make his search more difficult, but he would also be harder to spot. Doubt began to sprout as he scanned the empty darkness. It festered as he scoured the earth and combed through the grass for a tooth, anything to show it had been real. Eventually, he cultivated the doubt, questioned whether it was worth risking his life for. What was he thinking? What if it had been real? What then? He had sobbed when his mother wasn’t in her bed, what was he going to do against the masked killer? He was about to give up entirely and head back inside when a dim luminescence pried his attention to the front of the house. Carried by impulse he found his way to the garage, to the ‘cleaning room’ - the garage door floated ajar; a faint flicker of light escaped through the crack. Curiosity now guided him as he lifted the door enough to crawl under. It was the shrine that Oswald first noticed, illuminated as it was in candlelight; wax almost burnt-through. Pictures and what looked like notes adorned a wooden counter. He moved forward for a closer look but stopped short after skidding on something underfoot. Oswald positioned himself away from the shrine, allowing the waning flames to light up the obstacle. A long tuft of bloodied, red fur - no, hair; a ponytail? He feared to breathe, felt a sickness writhe within and threaten expulsion every time he was forced to take breath. Focus. He needed to focus. But on what? His eyes went once more to the shrine, the treasure his fox had delivered. He looked first to the pictures. A young blonde couple, smiling, a new-born in their arms; an incubator; the same baby riddled with wires and tubes; now unadorned, resting in a glass cot. Oswald’s attention shifted to the notes, to the papers. A birth certificate: ‘Oswald Jenkins, born to Mary Berger and Francis Jenkins on July 17, 1998...’ Mine . A death certificate: ‘July 19, 1998; Oswald Jenkins; Male; 2 days... infection’. 'She wanted to take you away from me.’ His mother, from the door to the kitchen, ‘They all want to take you away from me. I won’t let them. I won’t.’ Her eyes revealed nothing; hollow. ‘Wh-who am I?’ a haunted whisper. ‘You’re my little boy, you hear? Mine. I raised you. I cared for you. I loved you. Not them. Me! ’ She ran to him as she spoke, took his head in her hands, ‘You’re mine. You know that. You’re my little Os, and you always will be’.