Cullen: A Psychological Thriller, page 1
Copyright © 2022 by Solomon Petchers
All rights reserved
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the author. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission. For information, send requests through https://www.solomonpetchers.com/
Note: This is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are fictitious or are a product of the author’s imagination. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
Images: Depositphotos and Canva
Cover Art: Ferry Susanto
Cullen
ISBN: 978-1-7374169-8-2
ISBN: 978-1-7374169-9-9 (ebook)
Contents
. Chapter
1. Chapter 1
2. Chapter 2
3. Chapter 3
4. Chapter 4
5. Chapter 5
6. Chapter 6
7. Chapter 7
8. Chapter 8
9. Chapter 9
10. Chapter 10
11. Chapter 11
12. Chapter 12
13. Chapter 13
14. Chapter 14
15. Chapter 15
16. Chapter 16
17. Chapter 17
18. Chapter 18
19. Chapter 19
20. Chapter 20
21. Chapter 21
22. Chapter 22
23. Chapter 23
24. Chapter 24
25. Chapter 25
26. Chapter 26
27. Chapter 27
28. Chapter 28
29. Chapter 29
30. Chapter 30
31. Chapter 31
32. Chapter 32
33. Chapter 33
34. Chapter 34
35. Chapter 35
36. Chapter 36
37. Chapter 37
38. Chapter 38
39. Chapter 39
40. Chapter 40
41. Chapter 41
42. Chapter 42
43. Chapter 43
44. Chapter 44
Acknowledgments
Call to Action
About the Author
Follow Solomon Petchers
This story is dedicated to every person who's been chased, beat down, or endured physical and/or emotional bullying because of how you look, act, or identify.
It won’t rain forever.
And for those of you who’ve never had to deal with such monstrosities, stand up for those who aren’t quite ready to stand up for themselves.
Trigger Warning
Cullen is a story that deals with bullying and suicide ideation.
Bullying: If you or someone you love is experiencing bullying, there are many resources available to you and your loved ones. If you are dealing with bullying, please reach out to the people you trust: a friend, a teacher, and a relative. If you are the parent or friend of someone who is being bullied, please listen and look for the warning signs. Conversation starters and tips can be found at https://www.stopbullying.gov/
Suicide: According to the National Alliance on Mental Illness, suicide is the second-leading cause of death among people aged 15-24 in the U.S. Nearly 20% of high school students report serious thoughts of suicide and 9% have made an attempt. It is important to pay attention to our loved ones. If you have any questions, tips can be found at https://www.cdc.gov/suicide/prevention/index.html
Chapter 1
Wilderness Camp - June 2019
Branches pulled and scratched at Cullen Hickey’s bare, chubby torso. In his panic, he was only remotely aware of where he was going. Going? It didn’t matter. He just needed to get away from the half-dozen flashlights carving uneven beams of light. Their beams grew larger as they closed in, pushing him along. His chest burned, not only from the asthma that threatened his escape, but from whatever was poured on him. He recognized this feeling that usually started in his throat. Allergy enough to notice, but not enough to send him to the hospital or require an EpiPen. Not yet, anyway.
Ducking behind a fallen tree, he struggled to fill his lungs with air. Once again, he wiped away the muck that seeped through his hair and down his forehead. He needed to see, but what? The night usually scared him, but it wasn’t the night he was running from. It was something far more nefarious. What made the night so scary was the unknown. Most of the time it was nothing more than irrational thoughts. This…this was different. This threat was real, but the terror he experienced was the same every time. How had he gotten here? One minute he was enjoying the campfire at Wilderness Camp with other eighth graders from his school and the next minute sticky syrup covered him, followed by some kind of powder. This night wasn’t supposed to end like this. It was supposed to be the last hurrah of middle school before heading to high school. A time to celebrate with classmates and friends.
Friends. The only thing Cullen Hickey ever wanted was friends, but friends were scarce. It wasn’t because he was some kind of jerk. Quite the opposite. If given the opportunity, people would see that he was a nice boy, as his mother often pointed out. He’d give you the shirt off his back if someone needed one, but that would mean exposing a back full of acne and love handles that dripped over his pants. The reason Cullen didn’t have friends is that no one ever gave him a chance.
The awkward type and often dismissed for being different, Cullen was an easy target for those who got off on belittling others. He carried a target riddled with so many holes that only hints of color remained, its middle hollowed out by so many bull’s-eyes—gaping wounds from verbal shotgun blasts and physical torment. The holes became permanent scars. Not carved into flesh and kissed away by a loved one but driven deep into the psyche. An emotional rollercoaster that only went down…down…down. No longer fun. No longer wondering if the ride will ever end because he knew it never would. And, as long as the target was there, new holes developed, merging with the scars.
Cullen’s mother insisted that he attend the annual eighth grade field trip. He swallowed hard at the thought of two nights away from everything that was safe. It comforted him slightly when he overheard that Evan Stephens and Claire Matherson wouldn’t be going. Something about getting caught. Getting caught. That was funny to Cullen. Evan and Claire got away with everything, especially with how they treated Cullen. Evan belted out the beatings and Claire doled out the tears, pretending to be the victim. They were both professional marksmen and liars. So, when Cullen heard the news, he was relieved. This would mean he might enjoy a weekend in peace.
Deep down, Cullen hoped things would be different in high school. He prayed the kids matured and grew up and took a stand against bullying. Yes, he hoped, but nothing offered him hope. Nothing had changed since fourth grade. A targeted cloak was thrown over his head like a Scarlet Letter. That year he discovered the cruelness of people. People his own age. People older and younger who stood around and laughed while he cried. It wouldn’t matter that his hair was a matted mess of toilet water and urine. Teachers would intervene after each incident, dishing out an afternoon detention here and Saturday School there, but it was never enough. Over time, his predators just learned sneakier ways to abuse him.
Cullen rested briefly when he heard the voices call out a hurtful, childish play on his name. “Colon! C’mon out!”
The flashlights closed in and with them came cruelty. Got to keep moving. Sucking in a deep breath of air, he set off down the hill. Charging. Racing. Towards what? It didn’t matter as long as it was anywhere but here. Wild thoughts flooded his mind. Stand and fight! Don’t be such a wuss!
He’d tried that before. A couple of years ago. Something deep inside always smoldered, and after being pinned against the lockers enduring several punches to his pudgy side, a flame developed. Cullen turned around to face his assailants. Through curls weighed down by sweat, his eyes stared forward, tired and puffy from tears and pain. He glared at them. Not begging to stop. No, not that. His eyes asked for more. Daring them to do more. When Cullen righted his shoulders, he towered over most kids. Especially these kids. Younger than him. Looking to stake their claim. Pick on the easy target. But this time, even if it was only a moment, he faced his fears. His abusers muttered uncomfortably, not expecting this.
“D-Do it again,” Cullen stuttered, out of character. The boys stared at each other, confused. The crowd that gathered to watch rather than intervene whispered uneasily. Suddenly, a punch landed on Cullen’s neck. He didn’t budge. Instead, he grabbed the boy by the shoulders and shook him. “Wh-Why do you do th-this to me? What did I ever do to you?!” The boy was a rag doll in his hands.
Then, a pop! A punch out of nowhere landed squarely on Cullen’s cheek, dropping him in a heap. The boy he’d been shaking had an older brother. Evan Stephens. That was the last time Cullen stood up for himself. A brief, fleeting moment of bravery extinguished by a sucker punch. The sucker punch that did more than physically break Cullen. It crushed his spirit.
So, no. Cullen wouldn’t stand up for himself. Not today. Probably never. Wuss. Tonight’s mission? Make it through the night, no matter how long it would take. Run. Run as if his life depended on it. He was never really sure if it would ever come to that, but it wasn’t outside the realm of his psyche. Even though those thoughts came to mind in situations like this, it was in those private moments that horrific feelings consumed his mind. It would put an end to all of this. An easy way out. A permanent solution. It wasn’t the pain. He’d already endured as much pain as anyone could take. But he couldn’t bear leaving his mother alone. He knew she would blame herself. Another person in her life who wouldn’t stick around.
Instead, he ran. Whatever was poured over Cullen’s head at the campfire continued to trickle down his face. His vision blurred in the darkness, so he never saw the smaller shrubs in his path. He stumbled, tried to catch his footing, but agility was never his friend and gravity hated him more. He tumbled. No matter how hard he tried, his momentum was a boulder rolling down a hill. He skidded. Like a plane landing without landing gear, his bare chest scraped across the dirt, roots, and sticks. For a moment, he assessed his injuries. A burning sensation tore across his front, from belly to neck and nipple to nipple. Part of his face felt as if it had peeled back, and he worried if only skeletal remains were left.
He cleared what he could of his vision in time to watch the flashlights close in on him. The beams of light brought a crescendo of maniacal laughter that didn’t care whether Cullen had seriously hurt himself. Instead, they circled him, blinding him with their lights and recording his humiliation with their phones. They chanted, “It’s raining. It’s pouring. Colon’s butt is flowing. Slipped on it and bumped his head. Ate it for breakfast in the morning!”
Panic etched into Cullen’s eyes. This was beyond getting picked on in the hallways or at the lunch tables where there was always an adult to intervene. This was different. There was no one to break it up. A mob mentality. No logic. No mercy. Interested only in humiliation. Another hole in the target on Cullen’s back. As his large frame struggled to stand and see faces, the lights blinded him, and only darkened shadows loomed behind them, laughing and chanting the awful nursery rhyme. He stuttered, “L-Leave me alone. I d-didn’t do anything to you.”
The hands moved closer. Slapping at him. This summer, he’d learned the term Purple Nurple and felt hands reach for his nipples, pinching and twisting them until they ached and changed color. The sweat and syrup that covered him made his body hot and cold at the same time and stung the scratches on his skin.
Now the flashlights circled him and chanted louder, “It’s raining. It’s pouring. Colon’s butt is flowing. Slipped on it and bumped his head. Ate it for breakfast in the morning!” And then, the ultimate indignity…like a spider spinning a web around its prey, the horde wrapped him in rolls of toilet paper from all levels: his head, torso, and legs. “Every Colon needs toilet paper cause he stinks!” a teasing voice shouted.
“Cover up that turd!” another teased.
At first, Cullen tore off the first layers of toilet paper, but the supply never ended, and the battle became futile. And, as Cullen gave up all will to fight—like a spider’s prey who knows his time is up—he dropped his hands to his side as the scratchy, single-ply toilet paper absorbed the syrupy substance, creating a thick layer as roll after roll spun around him. His body tipped over like a tree.
The flashlights weren’t the only thing hunting Cullen. As his body laid on the ground, Cullen felt the dirt come alive. Tiny black worm-like fingers slithered from the soil, crawling over each other, probing for a way inside Cullen. They covered his face, tasting the syrup and sweat covering it. He felt the fingers infiltrate his ears, nose, and mouth, weighing him down. With his eyelids forced open, the fingers moved inside his head. Cullen felt himself pulled down…down into darkness. Not inside the soil beneath him, but into the dark recesses of his mind.
Suddenly, a whistle sounded in the distance. The last thing Cullen noticed was flashlights. The teasing students shouted something before they all scattered, running over Cullen’s body in an effort to escape. Something switched off inside him. A light, perhaps. A light that dimmed slowly over his thirteen years; each incident, each direct hit, caused his light to fade, reducing it to nothing more than a flicker.
Chapter 2
“Cullen. Are you okay? Cullen?” one teacher asked, pulling at the toilet paper covering his face, exposing scratches and bruises.
Cullen’s eyes blankly stared into nothing. The teacher looked helplessly at the other adults and shook his head.
Another teacher, Ms. Saunders, a teacher Cullen liked, knelt beside him. She was one of the few teachers that, unlike most others, didn't dismiss him. She brought her head down towards his ear. “Cullen, sweetie. It’s Ms. Saunders. Can you hear me? Are you hurt?” she asked, knowing well the obvious answer. He’d recover from physical injuries. It was the other injuries that she was most concerned with. The kind that pushed a person to this state. Cullen turned his head ever so slightly towards Ms. Saunders' voice, but his eyes continued to stare off to somewhere else. She reached for his hands, freeing them from their mummified binds. Taking his right hand into both of hers, she tried again. “Cullen. It’s me. Ms. Saunders. Can you hear me?” Cullen lightly squeezed her delicate hand. “You can hear me. We’re here for you.” Ms. Saunders looked up to the other adults and smiled concernedly.
Then Cullen’s hand squeezed her hand again. Gently, at first. Then, gradually, his hand turned into a vice grip. He squeezed…and squeezed…and squeezed. Ms. Saunders looked down at the blank stare in Cullen’s eyes as she winced. “Cullen, you’re hurting me. Please let go.” When his grip increased in force, she shouted to her colleagues, “He’s crushing my hand!” Her groans quickly progressed to a scream as she tried to tear her hands from his grip. “Cullen! Let go! You’re hurting me!” she shouted, but the vice tightened and tightened. Ms. Saunders looked to the others for help as the pain intensified. “Help me!” she pleaded. The three others struggled to free her hand. Cullen’s eyes held no anger, no rage. They just stared absently.
Suddenly, one by one, the crunching sound of bones echoed from her hand. Ms. Saunders screamed as her free hand desperately punched Cullen’s arm. One teacher mounted Cullen, but nothing he did offered relief. Ms. Saunders planted her feet into Cullen’s chest and forced her way back, but she was a mouse in the grips of a python, and it squeezed until every single bone shattered. She shrieked, “Cullen Hickey! Let go of me!” Then, as quick as it started, it ended. He just let go. His eyes were still absent and distant.
That evening, an ambulance brought both of them to the hospital. Ms. Saunders ended up in a cast, given something for the pain, advised to visit an orthopedic doctor, and released after a few hours. After they cleaned Cullen up, he was admitted. His blank stare didn’t change. The trauma set his system into shock is what the doctors said, but the truth was, they didn’t really know the true trauma. Not just this incident, but the countless incidents before this. Layers upon layers.
Margaret Hickey spent days whispering support into her son’s ear. Cullen, unresponsive except for the occasional flutter of his eyelids, stared off into…emptiness. After two weeks and a steady cocktail of meds, the doctors recommended that Cullen be transferred to Saint Mary’s Psychiatric Hospital.
Feeling helpless, Margaret could do nothing but cry. Alone. Lost, with no one to turn to. The measured responses of the doctors and nurses assured her that Saint Mary’s was the best possible place for Cullen. Then there was the visit by the social worker, but she offered little in the way of support. Just intrusive, rehearsed questions about Cullen.
Sandra Doyle, fresh out of college with a head full of ideas about how she would make a difference in peoples’ lives, cautiously approached. “Hello, Mrs. Hickey. My name is Sandra Doyle. I'm with Child Services and have been assigned to your case.”
“Margaret. Call me Margaret. What do you mean, assigned?”
Unsure of how to approach, she struggled. “This is all just standard procedure whenever a child in Cullen’s condition comes in. We want to be certain we have the full picture.”
“Condition,” Margaret stated, not a question at all. This wasn’t a condition. This was abuse.
