#It's still in the white and black trimmed hazmat suit right?

[ailithnight]

Danny, instinctively feeling someone messing with his grave, but not understanding that feeling: Gosh, why do I suddenly feel so angry, grieved, restless, and moody? Is this puberty? Ghost puberty? I feel like I should go haunt the police department about it.

“Hello, Mr. Wayne. I’m calling on behalf of the Amity Park police department. I… god, there’s no easy way to say this. We found a dead body, and genetic tests identified you as the next of kin.”

A mixture of icy fear and confusion pooled in Bruce’s chest, and he felt himself lean against a wall for support. “What? Who? But, Damian was just here!”

“Don’t worry, it’s not him.”

“He’s the only blood relative I have.”

The officer sighed. “I dunno what to tell you. We don’t know. Kid was dead for months before we dug ‘im up, so identifying any other details towards his previous identity has been… difficult. Doesn’t even match any missing persons reports. Quite frankly, we were hoping you’d know something, ‘cause we’ve been coming up blank.”

“I will,” Bruce rushed out unthinkingly, his mind still caught up on the word ‘kid’.

“What?”

“I’ll help however I can. Amity Park, you said? Where is that? I’ll book a flight right away."

“No, really, sir. I appreciate it, but you don’t need to do that. No offense, Mr Wayne, but you’re not a forensic analyst.”

The words ‘yes I am’ balanced on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn’t say them. Batman was the detective, not Brucie Wayne. But Batman didn’t have any reason to travel so far afield to investigate a single dead kid, so Bruce Wayne would have to do.

“I at least want to take a look.”

[supercasey]

The Perfect Child

Description: Michael Peterson was raised to be the perfect child. Perfect grades, perfect manners, perfect actions... unfortunately, his little brother wasn't. When all you've ever known is perfection, how can you possibly handle average?

A/N: So this is my first “creepypasta”, although I’ve been writing for about six years now. I really love reading creepypastas, so I finally gathered the energy to write one of my own. It’s not as scary as it could be, so it’s more an allegory for my own insecurities. Constructive criticism is appreciated, but please refrain from being too harsh (I’m a huge wimp lmao). With that said, I hope you enjoy this piece!

Hello, my name is Michael. I am a seventeen year old boy, and I’m a perfect child. Please, allow me to explain:

I was born mid March, 2002, in Kansas. I was born on a hundred acre property, settled out of the public eye. When I was young, I saw nothing wrong with this. My life, as far as I could tell, was like any other child’s. From the moment I was able to walk, I was surrounded by other children, and for the most part, we were left to our own devices. The land we lived on held numerous barns, which were our room and board. We spent many a day running in the open fields, catching bugs, and playing small games together. We didn’t have names; we didn’t know what a name was. We didn’t talk either… no one had ever heard a word. No one screamed; those who screamed would be gone the next morning.

Three times a day, a siren would go off in all of the barns. Instinctively, we would all return to our beds (beds we had never once thought to move or not sleep in), and we’d find bowls of food waiting for us. It wasn’t sludge or nasty garbage either; we had steamed vegetables, baked chicken, eggs of all varieties, and much, much more. We didn’t know where it came from, it was always just there, waiting for us. No one had ever taught us to eat, but we ate in a dignified manner nonetheless, never spitting out our food or opening our mouths midway. After we ate, we would go right back outside to play in the sunshine.

It never rained. It never snowed. We had never seen a cloud in the sky before. The sun would rise and set indefinitely, and we never bothered keeping the time. We only played. Sometime when I was around four, my life changed. That day had been like any other; I slept, played, and ate. But that night… I went to bed, but I couldn’t fall asleep. This had never happened before. When I sat up and looked around, I saw a few other kids weren’t sleeping either. They were just as confused as me. Everyone else was out cold, unable to wake up, not that we tried to wake them. Suddenly, a group of adults filtered into the room, dressed in full body hazmat suits.

No one said a word- again, we had no concept of language- and we didn’t move either. We just let them approach us (an adult for each conscious child), pick us up, and carry us out of the barn. Once outside, they took us towards a building I had somehow never noticed before. It wasn’t a mansion, but it was easily three stories tall, and was painted white with a lovely blue trim. The adults took us inside, and in there, everything about my life was drastically changed. After being tucked into a brand new bed (though it looked no different from my old one) and falling asleep, my mind adapted.

When I awoke, I could speak. I spoke fluently, something no normal four year old could do. The other children could do the same. We could also read, write, and draw, things that were improved upon throughout the next year. For one year, the adults, who never once removed their hazmat suits, tutored and taught us within that house. We weren’t allowed outside anymore; that was for the little kids. I excelled at everything they told me to do. I washed the dishes best, was the most creative artist, spoke the most clearly, and was reading at a high school level by the time I was five.

The day before I turned five years old, I was pulled aside from the other children, and taken into the basement. I had never been in the basement before. It was nothing like any basement I had ever heard of, either. The walls were a beautiful redwood, and the carpeting wasn’t the least bit cold, even though I wasn’t wearing socks. Quickly, I was led into a small office, where I finally met an unmasked adult for the first time in my life. Behind the ivory desk sat a plump, mid aged woman with greying hair, dark brown eyes, and saggy skin. In front of the desk sat two women, both young and beautiful, decked out in their finest attire.

As soon as we walked in, one of the young women cooed at me- something I had never heard before, but I knew what it was from reading of it- and held her arms out to me. Without missing a beat, I smiled at her, and obediently walked up and hugged her. I had never given, or received, a hug before. Both women were ecstatic, and for the rest of the meeting, I was traded from lap to lap, both women taking turns cuddling me. The meeting was more of a business transaction than anything else; the lady behind the desk showed the two women a binder, filled to the brim with information on me. She listed my traits, my mannerisms, and health record. All perfect, just as ordered.

At the end of the meeting, the older woman- who I learned was called The Provider- seemed happy, and with a big smile, took a sheet of paper out of a drawer and laid it on the desk, presenting it to the young couple. It was an adoption form. The two ladies gladly filled it out, giving me my first and only name; Michael Damian Peterson. Afterwards, the employee who had brought me in scooped me up, took me out of the room, and got me ready. I was given a long bath, dressed in a red sweater with blue overalls, had my hair cut to be shaggy but short, and was fitted with a pair of white socks and black sneakers.

Once ready, I was returned to the young couple, who gasped and cooed at what I was wearing. Again, I was never set down, and they swiftly completed the transaction- handing The Provider a check for ten million dollars- and left. Internally, I wanted to run around the moment we stepped outside, as I hadn’t been outside in a year, but it was dark out and I was very tired, so I didn’t fuss. The couple took me to a sleek, brand new black minivan, complete with a hot rod flame design on the sides. When they opened the backseat, I was greeted with the sight of a large booster seat, and was strapped in immediately.

We left soon after, driving down a seemingly endless road. The windows were darkened, and with it being nighttime, I couldn't see a thing. It was then that the couple explained what was happening. Their names, to me, were Mama and Mommy, and I was to be their new son. They had always wanted a child, but due to their professions, they were unable to have or even adopt one through legal means. It was then that they were approached by a friend, who raved to them about the incredible work Perfect Children did. They then learned about a remote farm, out in the backend of Kansas, that specializing in producing ‘perfect’ children.

I was told, in no uncertain terms, that I was bred to be perfect, but they admitted that not every child bred by Perfect Children was that way. In fact, more than ninety percent of them weren’t even close to perfect. So… what happened to the ones who weren’t perfect? I was told that they were picked out early in the program- around five to six months of age- and placed into the Bad House. A little ways away from the main buildings, sat a large, decaying barn, that was overflowing with needy, loud children that simply weren’t good. Sometimes they got better, Mama admitted, but those were very rare.

Again, I was confused. What happened in the Bad House? Mommy filled me in. “Those children… who simply aren’t perfect,” She had actually sighed, clearly disappointed. At the time, I thought it was with the company. It was only when I got older did I learn that she was upset with the children themselves. “Those children are for slaughter.”

“There are people in this world- and especially in our profession- that also want children. But not for raising,” Mama had seemed… hesitant to tell me these things, but after getting a nod from Mommy, she swallowed, then continued. “Sometimes, people want to have an imperfect child for… leisure. Maybe when you’re a little older, I’ll tell you more, but for now,” She put on the warmest smile I had ever seen, and before I could react, a little screen emerged from the roof of the van. “How about some TV, sweetie?”

I don’t remember the rest of the car ride. In fact, most of my memories of the farm have faded. Most of what I know now was learned later in life, but I do, somehow, remember my fifth birthday. When we arrived at our destination, the sun was rising, and I could finally see out the windows. What I saw… was incredible. Just on the horizon, I could see a massive, luxurious mansion. Even from a distance, I could see the first bits of the garden, surrounding the mansion in a field of different flowers. Mama must’ve noticed my gawking, because as I was looking, she cheerfully told me that the mansion I saw was OUR house… my new home.

When we arrived, there were already people waiting. Mommy and Mama’s friends. None of them had children of their own, but they cheered as Mommy parked the car, and came running once Mama had me in her arms. The party was spectacular. Everyone brought me at least five presents each, and they all gushed over me, telling my mothers how precious I looked. My manners were impeccable, and I never once acted out. I allowed the adults to pass me around, and even when they weren’t hovering around me, I still kept up my manners. I even offered to clean the dishes, something my mothers assured I could do later.

That night, I was brought to my bedroom. The room was painted baby blue, and despite having unwrapped enough toys to last me a lifetime during the party, my room was already filled with plenty of toys for me. I was promptly tucked into bed, read a bedtime story, and given two goodnight kisses. I fell asleep immediately.

From then on, I was the perfect child. Once enrolled in school, I was the best of my class. I never once got anything lower than 100% on all my assignments and tests, I was friendly with everyone in my grade, and I volunteered to help my teachers at every occasion. My mothers always beamed at the praise my teachers gave, and when pressed for how I could possibly be so good, my mothers would exchange a knowing smile, and happily tell my teachers the same answer each and every time: “Love.”

When I was six, my mothers wanted another child. I was unable to feel any form of jealousy. A week after my birthday, I was left with a babysitter, and when my mothers returned home, they brought me a brother. He was five when he arrived, just like I was, but he was… different. Where I was well behaved and honest, my brother- named Kyle- was good… to a point. He was ecstatic the first few weeks, clearly happy to be living with me and my mothers, but he soon began to make mischief.

I remember his first big prank. It had been a few weeks after he arrived, and while we were playing quietly in the living room, he asked me for a cup of water. I did as told. As soon as I opened the fridge, a jug of Kool-Aid spilled on me. I didn't cry. I didn’t get angry. I cleaned up the mess, approached Mama, and told her what had happened. When she questioned Kyle about it, he burst out laughing at the sight of me, still drenched in Kool-Aid. Mama laughed too, at least a little, before sentencing him to a time out. He took it calmly, and afterwards, it was water under the bridge… or rather, Kool-Aid under the fridge. Mama never could get the stain out.

Not a week later, and another prank occurred, this time getting Mommy. Kyle had taken the liberty of collecting every grasshopper he could find and hiding them in Mommy’s purse. The scream she let out when it opened was incredibly loud, and instinctively, I fixed her up a mug of hot chocolate while she went about punishing Kyle. He got another time out, and was made to write an apology letter to Mommy. He did so, though his handwriting was sloppy, and the incident was again forgiven.

But his misdemeanors continued. It quickly occurred to me that Kyle was one for mischief, but wasn’t outright malicious. He just liked to frighten folks, and wanted to make us all laugh, though he didn’t understand why no one else found him funny. Things soon got worse. He too was enrolled in school, but he took it badly. While I continued to excel, he barely passed anything, and routinely got into fights and arguments with his classmates and teachers. I tried to help him; I took a few punches for trying to end fights, and even if I ended up getting on the other student’s good side, my brother would get right back into it the moment I stepped away.

While my mothers had taken Kyle’s pranks and misbehavior somewhat well beforehand, they didn’t care for his school troubles. They routinely lectured him as to why he needed to get better grades, treat others better, etcetera. But he refused to behave. By the time I was seven, my mothers had reached their limit.

It was June when Kyle was returned. I was woken up at three in the morning by a frazzled Mama, who I obeyed to the letter. I dressed myself in my clothes and followed her out the door, and into the waiting minivan. Kyle was already there, screaming and biting at his carseat’s buckle. Mommy was in the driver’s seat, panting and angry, but with determination in her eyes. Mama turned up the radio several times on the way there, but Kyle’s screeching was hard to drown out. I tried giving him kisses and hugs, but he only bit and hit at me. When we arrived at the farm… I felt an icy chill up my spine. I stood beside Mommy and Mama outside the car, the sound of Kyle’s sobbing almost deafening.

There were no children in sight, and The Provider was waiting outside the farmhouse for us. She greeted my mothers kindly, and asked what they were there for.

“A return.” Mommy had said, her voice chillingly calm.

“Oh?” The Provider had appeared confused at first. She turned to me, head tilted. “And here I thought this one was one of our best products… was there a malfunction?”

“Oh no, not with Michael. He’s just as perfect as we’d hoped,” Mama explained, all of her usual kindness and love on display. However, it seemed to slip away- like a mask- the moment she brought up my little brother. “No, the problem is with Kyle.”

They was an audible sigh from The Provider. “I should have known… yes, I hate to say ‘I told you so’, but I did warn you about that one. I must ask; what else did you expect from an imperfect child from the slaughterhouse? Yes, they’re plenty fine for some, but when you’ve only ever had perfection,” She smiled at me as she said that, patting me endearingly on the head. “It’s hard to deal with normal children after you’ve had a taste of perfect.”

“That’s why we’re here, ma’am. We’d like to make… a return,” There was hesitation in Mommy’s words, and even at seven years old, I could tell she was second guessing herself. “We won’t have to see it happen, will we?”

“Heavens no! No no no… we’ll take it from here,” Suddenly, a few men approached the car, opening the side door and pulling out Kyle. They weren’t the least bit gentle with him. “In fact, we have a customer coming today for a ‘leisure’ child… I’m sure he’ll adore this one.”

“MOMMY! PLEASE, DON’T GO!” Kyle’s screaming turned to begging, the terror on his face apparent. I’ll admit, some part of me was confused; life here had only ever been kind to me, if not a bit boring. What was he so scared of? “I PROMISE TO BE GOOD! I’LL BE PERFECT! PLEASE!”

“Please hurry with him; I can’t stand that racket anymore…” Mommy rubbed at her head, a clear headache coming on.

Immediately, I retrieved a bottle of water alongside some Advil for her from her purse, holding the items up to her. “Here you go, Mommy. I love you.” I said, not even aware I was doing so. I was rarely aware of my actions.

The Provider grinned at me, chuckling to herself. “You see how much easier a perfect child is? So attentive, always willing to fulfill your needs,” She suddenly came closer, leaning in as if she had some big secret only available for my mothers. “You know, we have a few new ones that are ready for adoption… if you’d like, I’ll give you a good bargain for a replacement for the inconvenience. Perhaps a daughter? We have some precious little girls that are raring to go.”

It seemed to do the trick, as Mommy and Mama brightened at the news. Kyle didn’t. “NO! PLEASE! MAMA, MOMMY, I LOVE YOU! I’LL BE PERFECT! I’LL BE PERFECT! PLEASE DON’T LEAVE ME HERE!”

“Can we see them?” Mama had entirely ignored Kyle, more interested in the little girls that were available. “A daughter sounds absolutely lovely.”

“Right this way then,” The Provider was quick to lead us inside, away from Kyle and the security guards holding him. “I have the most perfect little girls ready for you.”

I’ll be honest with you… my memory of Kyle is weak. Sometimes I think he was a dream. Other times, when I close my eyes, I can still see the smile he’d give me when he ate anything sweet, or played with me in the garden, or managed to get a laugh out of someone. That day, when we came back out to the car, a little girl in Mommy’s arms, Kyle was gone. I never saw him again. My mothers named my sister Scarlett, and just as promised, she was perfect. Together, we were perfect siblings. If one fell, the other helped them up. We played games together, but never roughly. We never once fought. We hugged and loved each other, all while strangers swooned over the ‘precious siblings’.

Scarlett also got perfect grades, was friendly with everyone in her class, and went out of her way to help her teachers. Again, my mothers were flooded with praise, and they grinned as though it was all their doing.

When Kyle’s old teachers asked about him, Mommy provided the news: “He passed away. Tragic, really.”

When I was fifteen, my life changed… again. Scarlett was thirteen. We had been at school, both at lunch together, when we were approached by two men in police uniforms. We cooperated entirely, and were led out of the school, into the parking lot, and into separate police cruisers. We didn’t cry. We didn’t ask questions. We obeyed. Once we arrived at the police station and sat down with the sheriff, we were given the news; Perfect Children had been discovered by the FBI, and promptly shut down. Inside the farmhouse, they had found all the records on every child that had been sold on the property. We weren’t allowed to see our mothers anymore.

Again, we didn’t cry. We didn’t ask questions. I held my sister’s hand under the table and we obeyed.

It’s been two years, and I’m only just beginning to become my own person. I’m still not sure exactly what Perfect Children did to make me the way I am… the FBI agent who lets me call her Mom says it was a lot of things; the food, the water, the subliminal messages that they played while I was sleeping, the chip on the back of my neck… but I’m getting better. We all are.

I’m living in a hospital for right now, living with all the other kids they could track down involved with the company… Mom told me it’s because we’re all too impressionable to be around regular people. We’re too inclined to obey, and now that people know what happened… they’re looking for us. They want perfection.

Scarlett handles things better than me. She can laugh on her own now, something she’s really proud of. She managed to prank me a few weeks ago. It wasn’t much, just switched my pillow for her’s, but it reminded me of Kyle. I told my therapist about him, and she says that I’m getting better, too. I can speak, sometimes, without being prompted. It’s not much, but it’s better than before. Yesterday, one of the boys yelled after someone stepped on his foot. We all got very quiet, but one of the supervisors started cheering, and pretty soon, other kids yelled, too. I can’t do that yet, but that’s okay. I’ll get better.

I don’t know where my mothers are… Mom says that they’re in prison, and not just because they bought me and Scarlett. I thought of asking what else they were in for- something that made me feel very, very wrong- but I didn’t. I’m not sure I want to know.

Someday, I’m going to get better. It’s hard to imagine not being perfect, but it’s also… nice. It’s freeing. I want to yell. I want to pull pranks. I want to laugh. Someday I’ll get there, and when I do, I’ll get out of this hospital and be a normal person. Scarlett wants to get an apartment with me, and I think I’d like that. It won’t be perfect- nothing ever will be again- but you know what? I’m excited. I’m happy. I’m getting better.

The kids they pulled out of the Bad House are doing better than any of us. Most of them are older- averaging in their mid twenties- so they act a lot like older siblings to all of us. They’re trying to help us yell, and think for ourselves, and take things. None of them are Kyle. I tried looking around, but I can’t find him. Deep down, where I’ve secretly always felt things, I knew I was never going to see him again, but… I had always hoped I could. One of the imperfect boys let’s me call him Kyle sometimes. He likes the name, and he reminds me of him, so we’re going with that for now. Scarlett won’t comment on it, but I hope she will someday. Any reaction is a good reaction around here.

For their hard work as tutors to us, some of the other perfect kids have tried to return the favor. We give them names, like how I named Kyle. They don’t always stick- Duncan didn’t like Lauren’s first suggestion of ‘Dragon Slayer’- but some do. We also help with handwriting, since almost none of them have ever written before, or read for that matter. Now when I go into the cafeteria, I can see a group of imperfects learning basic table manners, while a perfect girl tries to chew with her mouth open. Mom is proud of me- of all of us- and I think I am too. I’m not perfect anymore… maybe I never was. Oh well. I’m learning to not care.

Thanks for listening to my story… stay imperfect.

A/N: There! I hope you all at least liked it. If not, why not tell me why? BTW, the reason I gave the main character two moms wasn’t to try and be like “having two moms is bad”, I just want to normalize queer relationships, and if I can do it through my writing I like to do so. Have a great day!