I was the first, and last, kid to ever be friends with Lucio Pedina.

No one really knew what to make of Lucio when he first came into our class in the second grade, and we continued to be mystified by him for the many years that followed. Lucio was an awkward and gangly Italian immigrant with an accent so thick it was often difficult to understand. Compounded by his embarrassing clumsiness, odd hobbies, and eccentric dress, and it wasn't terribly confounding that Lucio was the recipient of copious abuse.

Lucio always looked like his mother dressed him, years after that was still considered socially acceptable. Oddly enough, he lived alone with his father, who evidently saw fit to put the poor boy in brightly coloured shorts with suspenders and bowties. Had Lucio the sense to remove the suspenders and tie upon arrival at school, he likely could have saved himself a number of spectacular wedgies (a ritual long abandoned for run-of-the-mill abuse, but the presence of the suspenders seemed to present enough of a challenge for the bullies to make the old cliché interesting). Alas, he lacked the sense to abandon either those childish trappings or his bizarre fascination with dolls.

That was probably what people teased Lucio about the most. For reasons I could never understand, he always brought dolls with him to school to play with. Scary dolls. They weren't teddy bears or Barbies or anything normal children played with; these dolls were old and eerily realistic. They stared out at you from eyes made of painted wood, or occasionally pewter, and they wore these fantastically dated outfits. He never brought porcelain dolls anymore, however. The last time he did, someone had shattered them all right in his hands, cutting them with the shards. As his blood flowed along the edges of the dolls' shattered faces, it looked as if he was holding tiny, pulverized corpses. Judging by the tears in his eyes, he may as well have been.

Until about 5th grade, I had witnessed all of these atrocities as a fairly casual observer. I admit that I did occasionally feel some pity for Lucio, but for the most part I knew enough not to get involved. And I likely would have continued on this way, had it not been for the unfortunate intervention of Ms. Holwick, our 5th grade teacher.

Mrs. Holwick was, as near as I could tell at the time, a goddess. She was friendly, easily the most intelligent woman I knew (as my mother had, at the time, never expressed any capability with long division), and absolutely gorgeous, especially compared to my ancient fourth grade teacher. I would do absolutely anything to incur her favour.

Including, it would seem, trying to intercept Lucio on his way home to hang out for a few hours. As I waited near his front door, I found myself alternating between my desire to run far, far away and my desire to act out one of Van Halen's most infamous fantasies. As this game of moral pong blipped in my head, Lucio approached his house and froze several feet away from me. His walk was jerky, as if he wasn't in complete control of his body, and his eyes were wide, the eyes of someone desperate to take in as much information they could, as if they had limited time to do it in. In his arms, he clutched one of his dolls.

"Whatah are you adoing here?" He inquired suspiciously.

"Hey, Luche. I thought we could hang out." I responded, trying to sound casual. He narrowed his eyes.

"Whatah are you wanting to be hanging? Have you noose for Lucio?"

"No, no! It's an expression. It means I want to spend time with you. As a friend." Dear Lord. I thought. This boy has spent years here, and he still hasn't learned about American friendship.

His face brightened, hesitantly at first, and then more and more boldly as he examined my face, seemingly looking for any hints of deception. Grinning broadly, he took me by the hand and led me to the front door. "We shall be friends, then!" He said eagerly, undoing the lock and letting us in.

Lucio's house was old and musty, and sawdust, scissors and extraordinarily thin string lay strewn about the floor. Seated all along the walls were dolls of every conceivable make, size and material, all expertly crafted and all staring with eyes that were eerily hollow- though not quite as hollow as they should have been. They peered as if they perceived what was before them, but only barely. Like someone in the final moments before slumber.

"Lucio," I began, as I looked around, impressed and horrified by the dolls. "Why do you always carry dolls with you to school, if the other kids make fun of you for them?"

Lucio laughed. "Are not dolls, silly boy! Are puppets!" And with that, he slowly lowered the doll in his hands to the ground by several infinitesimal strings. Strings so thin that it wasn't terribly surprising that no one had ever noticed them before. Strings so thin that I wasn't entirely sure they were there at all. And as the puppet's feet touched the ground, it began to dance.

It moved so smoothly and so naturally, that for a moment I didn't notice that it was being controlled by Lucio, and honestly believed it to be possessed. As I looked at his hand, however, my fears were assuaged and I was allowed to fall into an uneasy trance. Lucio's puppetry was elegant, and beautiful. More so than any I'd ever seen before. Lucio actually moved the puppet more gracefully than he moved himself.

"Lucio..." I breathed. "Where did you learn that?"

"Papa is puppeteer." He said hesitantly. "I pick it up from him."

"You mean he taught you? Do you think he could-"

"No, papa no teach. Papa simply... pass it on. Papa come home every day at 6, very tired. Too tired to teach. But papa no need teach, puppetry is inside me." As he said that, a large grandfather clock in the next room chimed six times. A look of horror fell over Lucio's face. "Friend! You must leave quickly, before papa arrive!" He explained hurriedly, as he dragged me to the door by the arm.

"Why? Are you not allowed to have friends over?"

"Take too long to explain! Just-"He was suddenly interrupted as the door burst open. In the doorway, stooped an elderly man in a blue button-up shirt and khaki slacks. In his hand he held a wooden X. His expression was sour, and directed at me.

"Lucio!" He intoned angrily, his voice somehow shaking the house. "You bring intruder into my home!?" The quaking did not end with his speech, and the dolls slowly started to slide and shake off of their resting places.

"Papa! He is my friend! Please, do not be angry!" Lucio pleaded.

"Friend!? I did not approve of any friend!"

"But Papa, I just thought-"
"No! You have been too free for too long, today! You are reckless! You disgrace your father! You must be controlled!" And with that, several long pieces of wire manifested from the tips of the wooden X in Papa's hand, and snaked towards Lucio. He tried to evade them, but they burrowed into his joints and head. As they did so, his skin became hard and polished, and his features painted. I could hear muffled sobs coming from the marionette, but Papa was obviously deaf to them.

"Now..." He said, turning his eyes towards me. "You who have come into my house! You are no welcome here! Lucio shall make his father proud of him again!" He flicked his wrist slightly, and the marionette swung a wooden claw at me, raking its rickety fingers into my arm and drawing blood. My cries of pain were loud, but they were nothing compared to Lucio's cries for his father to stop.

"No papa! He is my friend! You will not make me do this!" Lucio cried, as he swung at me again, his usual clumsiness gone in favor of a wicked fluidness that threatened my life and limb. I barely managed to dodge the blow, and Lucio pursued, his wooden joints and limbs clicking and clacking against each other.

I tried to free myself, to outrun the diabolically controlled marionette, but to no avail. Within moments it had tackled me to the ground, and it raised a hand up high to slay me. As it did so, Lucio's cries reached an all-time high. I saw the creature's claw pause in mid-air, as Lucio forced his will against that of his father. Papa yelled back, screaming that the boy was unruly, while Lucio countered by calling his father a tyrant. The two went back and forth, the old man's grey face turning purple with effort, as Lucio let out a final loud scream and wrenched the wooden X forward. The man's death grip did not permit him to leave, and he was dragged forward towards Luccio and out of the doorway.

"Run, friend!" Luccio choked out, as he struggled to claw Papa across the face. I looked back once more, seeing as Luccio and his father literally wrestled one another, the battle of wills having merged with a battle of brawn, before running out of that cursed house.

I never heard from Luccio again after all that, he stopped going to our school, and to this day I do not know if he escaped his father. Having been on the receiving end of one of his strikes, however, I do believe he had a fighting chance.