Fifteen years ago, a boy by the name of Preston suffocated in the ball pit at our local indoor playground center for kids. I know this because a sign remains on the outside of the entrance part of the netting.
Do not sit on others in the ball pit. All faces must stay visible at all times.
Preston had cancer during the time of his death, and the school bullies were notorious for calling him, “Cotton Candy Scalp.” With his hair loss, the worst of the bullies made fun of him by referring to him as that sugary treat. They would often yank his hair out. Whether his death was intentional or accidental is a mystery, but Preston was found buried deep in the ball pit as others around him played.
Preston’s death was a big story in our town, but when I was a child myself, I didn’t quite grasp the significance of it. I just wanted to have fun myself. Just a kid being a kid. But when Mom dropped me off at the ball pit while she went out for a smoke, I had a collision course with Dean, the one kid my age who hated me, picked on me whenever the coast was clear.
Since I was scrawny and flimsy looking, Dean insulted me by saying, “Cooper, this ball is bigger than your head. All of them are.”
Now, this playground was the kind of place that did not have parent supervision. All the parents chatted outside with their cigarettes and sodas, so unfortunately, it was just Dean and me all alone for the ten minutes of chaos.
I remember the ball pit rumbling, coming to life.
“Cut it out, Cooper,” Dean shouted.
“I’m not doing anything,” I responded, as I noticed a hand emerge from behind Dean.
I fell back in shock and watched the hand reach for Dean.
Dean felt something touch his back and turned, “What the—”
Another hand surfaced, followed by what looked like the top of a young kid’s head, the face still hidden. Before Dean could cry out for help, the two hands latched on to Dean’s face and tugged him down. Imagine whisking your morning eggs but doing that to someone’s scalp. The two hands dug into Dean’s scalp and twisted and turned and pulled flesh, discarding it like it was cotton candy. Blood poured down Dean’s head like a freshly colored snow cone.
Dean’s body flailed and sunk into the depths of the ball pit. I went to retrieve his body and pull him out, but only two, sad eyes looked up at me. Preston’s eyes. And atop Preston’s head, a compressed mishmash of Dean’s blood and guts.
Preston smirked at me and then vanished, while I wet myself and shook frantically. I just sat there, teary-eyed, trying to wrap my mind around the display of horror. When I got the courage to move again, I rushed outside and grabbed Mom’s hand, pleading with her to come look inside for Dean.
But they never found Dean’s body. The ball pit was empty. No blood. Nothing. I told the parents what I saw happen to Dean, but they did what adults often do: didn’t believe in me. Instead, a missing person’s case was filed for Dean. Posters littered the town, but to this day, Dean remains missing.