YOUR LITTLE SCORPION

DISCLAIMER: I wrote this short story and published it for the first time way before there was anything called CHAT-whatever, back when I used to use em-dashes every time I thought they were appropriate, so I am NOT going to delete said em-dashes just because some panicked souls now believe that "em-dashes = AI-generated content." FYI it's not. Also: Human em-dashes forever! More about this topic here.

YOUR LITTLE SCORPION

“Would you let scorpions roam free in your house or backyard? Or at your school, if you were a teacher, regardless of how small they were? Would you let a scorpion sting and kill someone first before calling the proper authorities? Of course, not. You would ask for that danger to be promptly removed—and rightly so—wouldn’t you, Mrs Bram?”

All you can do is nod. The white walls around you seem even colder than before. The lights are too bright. The scent of sanitizer is too pungent. You feel nauseous.

“She’s just in shock,” you hear your husband say. “We both are.”

“Of course,” the MedO agrees, with practiced illusive kindness. “It is always shocking for the parents. And, yes, realizing your seven-year-old is a Scorpion can be a bit more challenging for the mother.”

“A bit more challenging?” The MedO’s euphemistic cliche makes you want to scream. Life as you know it is over. Giving birth to a Scorpion—code word for a child with sociopathic tendencies—will deem you unfit to procreate. Bram will have to divorce you. You’ll be sent to some place where unfit procreators are reprogrammed—whatever that means.

Your son will be euthanized.

Seven-year-old Ori smiles in your mind, causing your heart to sink.

“They’re going to kill our son,” you say to your husband, realizing for the first time what the test results the MedO just gave you really mean.

Your words make Bram’s expression stiffen. He looks away, troubled by your emotional reaction to the news.

“It’s painless, I can assure you,” the MedO calmly says. “We’re not monsters. We would never exert any kind of cruelty upon children. Your son will just go to sleep and he’ll never wake up. That is all. A painless transition into another state.”

“You’re going to kill my son!” This time, however, you manage to catch and silence the thought before it becomes an audible sentence.

***

You sit on the sofa and try to memorize every detail of the living room. Your living room, decorated with the warm color drapes and the synthetic wood furniture you’ve chosen. Cozy and welcoming, like your childhood memories from your grandparents’ house. Soon, it will stop being your living room. Bram will likely remarry. The living room will belong to the new Mrs Bram. Will she replace everything? You’re sure she will. Maybe Bram will do it before getting a new wife, to obliterate any signs of his past failure. It is a failure for him as well, of course—just with less dramatic consequences. He will keep the house and maybe even his citizen rank. It might take him a few more years to get the promotion he wants. You’re sure he’ll get it. Eventually.

What will it be like, living in some faraway facility with broken women like yourself? How many are there? Nobody seems to know. Not the general public, anyway. Bad for morale, you guess.

And what about Ori? His life will end at seven years old. 

Your soon-to-be-ex-husband creeps in and places a cup of hot herbal tea on the coffee table. The camomile fragrance reaches your nostrils as Bram says:

“He’s sound asleep.”

Bram stopped saying your son’s name after the MedO gave you the terrible diagnosis. 

“Why are they doing this?” you ask, hoping for a tiny glimpse of doubt in his gaze. “He’s just seven. What if the test is wrong?”

“What if the test is right?” Bram retorts. “Have you thought of that? Have you stopped to consider the implications?”

His questions turn into a lecture about how dangerous sociopaths can be to any society and the necessity of putting a stop to them before they can reach the top job in the nation, like last time, and plunge the whole country into a civil war.

“We pledged never to let that happen again, remember? You took the oath as well, Bel.”

“We were kids. We didn’t know what that oath meant—” You lower your voice, turning it into a murmur before adding: “We didn’t know it meant we would have to kill our own children.”

“We’re not—” Bram almost shouts. He takes a deep breath and whispers: “We’re not killing the boy. We’re complying with the Law by allowing him to be euthanized.”

“Yes, we’re letting other people kill our son.”

“Drink your tea and come to bed, please,” says Bram, giving up, and moving away.

***

You wake up on the sofa and suddenly there’s something so clear in your mind it almost lights up the living room: your life may be over but Ori’s isn’t. Not yet. Not while you can still fight for him.

You get up and move silently across the house, putting stuff away inside an old rucksack, a vestige of your previous life with Nan and Gramp. 

When you enter Ori’s room, he’s so deeply asleep you hesitate for a moment. You want to stay there forever, listening to him peacefully breathing, imagining he’s happy in his dreams.

Ori suddenly opens his eyes. There’s no alarm in his gaze, just the usual inquisitiveness.

“Be very silent,” you whisper to him. “We must go away.”

“Is Daddy angry with me?” the boy asks. “He doesn’t call me Ori anymore.”

He’s noticed it! Of course, he has. He notices things. He’s a smart boy. That’s also probably why the results are wrong. He’s just a very smart boy. 

Sadness saturates your voice when you reply:

“Of course not, sweetie. Daddy is just worried. You must get dressed now, all right? And be very quiet, because we don’t want to wake up Daddy.”

“Because he’s worried?”

“Yes.” 

It’s not really a lie. You know Bram is worried—mostly, about how fathering a defective child will impact his career.

***

“There’s someone there, Mommy,” Ori says, letting go of your hand and pointing to a shadow in the park you’ve decided to use as an escape route.

He’s right. There’s a figure hiding in the bushes, under a tree.

“Bel?” the figure asks.

“Nan?”

As you move closer, your eyes can make the woman under the tree.

“Nan, it is you! I thought you were dead! I don’t understand…”

“That’s what I wanted them to think,” the old woman admits. “I’m sorry, sweetie. I had to go underground. There was no other way. And I couldn’t risk your safety by telling you I was alive.”

You hug for a brief moment. Nan looks just like she did the day before the accident. Even her clothes look the same. She never really cared much about fashion.

“Who is this old woman?” asks Ori.

“She’s my grandmother,” you explain. “And your great grandmother.”

“What is a grandmother?”

“Here,” says Nan, handing you a code card and leaving you no time to explain what a grandmother is to Ori. “We have a boat nearby, at Nerva Harbor. It’s called the Rising Star.”

“We?”

“People who don’t believe in doing… you know what… to children. I could say we are the Resistance, but it’s not that simple… Anyway, don’t waste any more time, Bel. They’ll be hunting you and the boy as soon as your husband wakes up and gives the alarm. You must take your son to Merry Isle.”

The name alone evokes memories of warm holidays and peaceful summers.

“But it’s off-limits,” you tell Nan. “Merry Isle is on the border, part of the forbidden territories now.”

The old woman smiles.

“Of course it is, sweetie. We’ve turned the old cottage into a safe house.”

“Won’t the scanners spot the boat?”

“That thing has some sort of cloaking device,” says Nan. “Don’t ask me to explain how it works. I was never good with technology. All I know is that New Order systems won’t be able to track it. Send the boat back as soon as you get to the island. It’s programmed to return to Nerva Harbor and replace all the data with info from some innocuous trip. You and the boy will be safe. I’ll meet you there as soon as possible. But you must go now.” She grabs your arm and whispers: “Grandpa’s shotgun is still there, as well as some ammo. Do you remember the place where he kept it?”

“Yes,” you tell her. “In the attic, inside a—”

“Yes, good. Just in case, you know what I mean,” the old woman says, relinquishing your arm. “Now, go!”

‘In case of what?’, you want to ask, ‘Didn’t you just tell me it was safe?’ Nan is right, though, there is no time to lose. Bram can wake up at any moment and notice you’re gone. He’ll notify the authorities. You know he will.

You grab your son by the hand and walk down the park until you reach the harbor, dash through the gangway that leads to a small boat called Rising Star, and use the code card to make it come alive. A soft humming sound feels the starry, moonless night. You look around, worrying that someone else might be there, watching you and Ori getting away. 

“Enter destination,” demands the autopilot.

“Merry Isle,” you whisper with your mouth so close to the dashboard screen it fogs up for a moment.

“Where are we going, Mommy?” asks the boy.

“To a safe place, Ori,” you reply, breathing in the cold salted air and trying hard to smile so he can’t see how scared you are and somehow knowing he can sense it in your voice.

***

You turn your face to the sun, close your eyes, and listen to the waves breaking just a few feet away, the shrieks of gulls soaring above you, and the juvenile cries of sanderlings playing cat and mouse with the surf. The air smells of salt, rotten algae, and old memories of safer times. 

“Isn’t this great?”

There is no answer.

“I spent the holidays and all my vacations here when I was your age, before—” You open your eyes and look at the boy sitting on the sand next to you. “Ori? Are you okay?”

“How long must we stay here?” he asks, facing the sea.

“Until Nan comes for us.”

“And then?”

“Nan will tell us what to do. We might have to travel to some other place. Somewhere safe. Maybe overseas.”

“So I’m not going back to my room? Ever?”

You can feel your heart breaking again. What should you tell him? The truth? Before you can offer an explanation, Ori asks another question:

“What about Daddy? Will I ever see him again?”

“I don’t know. I hope…” No, you mustn’t lie to the boy. Bram will not change his views about the Law. Seeing Bram again will mean certain death for your son, so you fall back to your first sentence and say: “I don’t know.”

***

“What is that, Mommy? There’s something on the fence.”

You look up through the window above the kitchen sink and almost let go of the dish you’re washing.

“Stay here,” you ask Ori, then get out and walk down the backyard drying your hands on your shirt.

There’s something on the fence, all right. 

Something dead. 

Dead birds, sanderlings and larks, garroted and tied to the decaying wooden fence.

You back away horrified.

Ori is right behind you.

“Are those birds, Mommy? Dead birds?”

“Yes, Ori. Don’t look at them.”

“Why not? They’re just dead.”

They’re not just dead, you think. Someone has killed those poor creatures and placed them on the fence. Someone has left them there with a purpose. As a warning? To scare you off?

Nan’s words come back to you: “Grandpa’s shotgun is still there, and some ammo. Do you remember the place where he kept it? Just in case…”

In case of what? Is someone else using the island as a refuge? Someone dangerous? Maybe another rescued Scorpion? A grownup Scorpion?

Suddenly, the cold sea breeze feels more like a gale.

You return to the house as fast as you can, Ori trailing behind you, and go straight to the attic.

It should be there, inside a long crate. You scan the dust-covered remnants of a different era for a clue.

“There’s a boat on the other side of the island,” Ori states. “It’s inside a house. Maybe we could use it to go home.”

You remember the old boathouse. That boat… It might belong to the person who did that horrid thing to the birds. You stop looking for the crate and gaze into your son’s eyes.

“Don’t you ever go to the boathouse alone, Ori. Ever! I mean it.”

The boy nods.

A glimpse of something moving in the attic makes you start. It’s just your reflection in a big old bathroom mirror, left in there when it became too stained to do its job properly.

You find the crate right next to it. It’s locked. 

After smashing the padlock open with a hammer, you look at Gramp’s old shotgun next to a few boxes of ammunition, and question yourself: “Am I really going to teach a seven-year-old boy how to use a shotgun?”

“What’s the alternative?” your reflection in the tainted mirror seems to ask. What will happen to Ori if the person who did that to the birds gets you first? How will Ori be able to defend himself then? Knowing how to use the shotgun will make a difference. Won’t it? The old mirror declines to reply.

***

You wake up and realize you can't move. Something is holding your hands and feet. Ropes? Your first instinct is to scream so that Ori might run away but he’s right there, looking at you. And he has Gramp’s shotgun!

“What’s happened, Ori? Did you see who did this to me? Help Mommy out of these ropes.”

“No,” he says. His gaze is icy cold. 

Then, it hits you.

“Did you do this to Mommy? That’s not nice, Ori. You must untie Mommy.”

“No,” the boy restates.

“Why?” 

“I don’t like it here. I want to be with Daddy.”

“No, Ori, sweetie, you can’t be with Daddy. It’s too dangerous!”

“You’re lying. Like when you said someone would come for us.”

“Nan will come for us. She will!”

“You said Nan was dead.”

“I thought she was dead. She isn’t, though, and that is great! She will come for us. We just have to wait a little longer. Please, untie Mommy so we can have some breakfast.”

“No.”

“Please, Ori, untie Mommy.”

“You want to stay here. You’re happy here. I’m not. I thought you would want to use the boat if…”

The truth hits you again. The birds… There is no other scorpion on the island. There is no one else there but yourself and your son. Your extremely smart, defective son.

“Ori, please, untie Mommy, and will talk about this. What you did…” 

You feel too sick to continue.

***

Daylight hits your eyes. It takes you a moment to realize you’re still on the sofa in your living room. There’s someone at the door. Bram is talking to them. So soon?

Ori is on the floor, next to the sofa, looking up at you.  

“I had a strange dream, Mommy,” he says, startling you.

“Me too,” you admit, pulling him up onto the sofa. “A terrible, terrible dream.”

Crying while hugging your little scorpion seems to be the only thing left for you to do.

THE END

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Pic: Canva

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