Georgia pretended her pets were people. Usually her parents or babysitters. In her fantasies, they would do something bad, and Georgia would be forced to punish them. Soon, her own steady stream of pets wasn’t enough to satisfy her urges, so the neighborhood dogs and cats began to disappear.
No one ever suspected anything, until Georgia turned fourteen and began babysitting kids in her mom’s apartment building.
At first, the job thrilled Georgia. These weren’t dumb animals she was dealing with. These were actual human beings, who depended on her. Maybe these children would be the friends she so desperately craved.
But it turned out the kids were needy, a lot of work, and just plain annoying. Georgia was smart enough to not hurt any of them—microwaving a gerbil was one thing, but Georgia had a high IQ and knew that hurting a child would bring big trouble. But one of those brats she watched was just so freaking irritating, crying non-stop all the time no matter what Georgia did.
Georgia only stuck the child in the clothes dryer because she needed just a moment of peace. It’s not like she turned the dryer on or anything.
Then Georgia took a little nap because she was really worn out, and the baby’s parents came home earlier than expected. The baby didn’t die, but the lack of oxygen in the dryer did some sort of damage to its stupid little brain and Georgia went to jail.
In truth, she felt zero remorse. But she played it up big for the shrinks and the lawyers and the judge, crying like a drama queen and begging for forgiveness. The ploy worked. Instead of jail, she was sent to the Center.
Georgia fully expected to be let out early for good behavior. She figured she could con Sara and Martin the same way she conned everyone else, and they’d sign off on her mental well-being, and she’d be able to return to her so-called life.
But every time there was a court hearing, Sara said Georgia wasn’t ready to be released yet. Georgia had no idea how the bitch knew, but Sara knew, and it pissed Georgia off to the nth degree. So for the last two years, Georgia had been a guest of Mr. and Mrs. Do-Gooder, enduring countless bullshit therapy sessions, sticking to her story of mistake and regret even though it apparently wasn’t working.
Often, Georgia thought of running away. It was difficult, but not impossible. Since it opened, nine girls and two boys had run away from the Center, and ten of them were never ever caught. Georgia figured she was smart enough to get away with it. Certainly smarter than some of the rejects who succeeded. But if she did get caught, that would work against her at her next court hearing, blowing two years of acting and effort. Georgia had been tried as an adult, sentenced to seven years, and she didn’t want to be sent to an adult detention center when she turned eighteen. The smarter plan was to wait it out.
It finally looked like the plan would work. The stupid Center was closing, and Georgia would be sent to juvee. She could snow those dumb, overworked shrinks at juvee, no problem. Then she’d get released, and be sent back home.
She had business at home. Business she’d been planning for a while. The parents of that little retarded brat had taken away two years of Georgia’s life, and they needed to be taught a lesson. Them and their brain dead kid.
Georgia read a lot. She knew what she was. The American Psychiatric Association's Diagnostic and Statistical Manual called it antisocial personality disorder.
Georgia was a sociopath, and sociopaths couldn’t be cured. And why should they be?
Being one was so much fun.
Georgia ducked under a branch, pine needles tangling in her hair, and smirked once again at how she’d scared the shit out of that loser, Cindy. She wished it wasn’t so dark so she could have seen her expression better.
Frightening others was a pleasant sadistic thrill. Scaring the little brats she used to babysit was especially rewarding. It was easy, and satisfying, to reduce a five-year-old to hysterics. But since being trapped at the Center, playing the role of Good Georgia to the hilt, she hadn’t had any opportunities to let loose.
Tonight, she would do more than just let loose.
Georgia had been planning this for weeks, and had secretly smuggled all the supplies needed to do the deed. In her front pocket was an envelope containing five ounces of powder, a combination of four different materials. Powdered sugar, that she snagged while helping Sara make some insipid cookies. Iron oxide, in the form of rust particles, that Georgia meticulously scraped off a pipe behind the toilet at the Center. Saltpeter, which Martin had poured on an old tree stump out back to dissolve it. And non-dairy creamer.
The creamer by itself was flammable, as were most powders because of their high surface ratio. The other three ingredients combined to make a primitive form of black powder, a propellant used in bullets and fireworks. Georgia wished she could check the recipe on the Internet, but Center residents weren’t allowed unsupervised access, so she had to make do from the descriptions in old Civil War history books. She also wished she could test it first, but that hadn’t been possible due to the Center’s anal retentive lockdown on matches. It should work, though.
The plan was to wait for everyone to go to sleep, then sneak next to Sara’s tent, lift up the side, pour the powder in her hair, and set that bitch on fire. Georgia didn’t have matches, but the campfire was the perfect substitute. Maybe Sara would live. Maybe not. While killing her would be cool, leaving her horribly crippled and disfigured had its appeal. And with five other dysfunctional kids there, it couldn’t be conclusively blamed on Georgia.
Now all she had to do was get back to camp and wait for Sara to return and fall asleep. But that was becoming problematic.
Georgia had ducked into the woods to freak out Cindy, and had only gone maybe a dozen steps, but that was enough for her to be having some trouble finding her way back.
She thought about calling out to the others, but that wasn’t a real option. Georgia hated all of them. Hated them passionately. She preferred to stay lost than ask for help from those idiots.
So she began to wander around, which wasn’t working out too well. The darkness, coupled with too many damn trees that all looked alike, led Georgia on a meandering half-hour hike all the way to shore. When she saw Lake Huron, spreading out into infinity like a pool of black blood, she knew her only way back was to circle the shoreline and find that orange ribbon they’d dutifully tied to the trees. That would lead her to camp. Unfortunately, the island was a few miles in circumference, which meant a long, boring hike.
Georgia stared up at the stars and the bright orange moon, and tried to decide whether to go left or right. She chose left, walking along the sandy beach, holding her arms tight across her chest as the cool water breeze raised chills.
After a hundred yards or so, Georgia realized she was being followed. She sensed it at first, then spun around in time to see a figure scuttle off the sand and into the tree line, less than a stone’s throw away.
She felt the tiny hairs on her arms stand at attention, then quickly shook off the fear. It was probably one of those jerks back at camp, playing games. Georgia didn’t believe any of Martin’s silly campfire stories. Besides, if there was anything to be afraid of in the dark, it was Georgia. She was the one with the propellant in her pocket. She was the one with murder on her mind. Everyone else better stay the hell out of—
A twig snapped on her left. Georgia jerked her head toward the sound, and in the moonlight spotted a man-shaped figure leaning against a tree. It was too dark to make out any details beyond a shadow, but he looked thin and very tall, about the size of a pro basketball player.
Definitely no one from the Center.