The Hermit

I was called the Hermit. Well, actually, I was called a lot of things by the kids who threw rocks and pinecones at me, but the Hermit seems to be the one that at least polite people called me. Plus, when my traps failed to catch me dinner and I couldn't scavenge any food from any other sources, I'd dig through the dumpsters behind the Country Store. Sometime in my third year here, I began to find wrapped packages in the dumpster addressed with simply "The Hermit". I'd find the food they were throwing out nicely wrapped up, so I wasn't pulling scraps out of the garbage. I assumed it was for me, so I must be the Hermit. I began checking daily and began putting on weight.

I live in a cave in the San Gabriel Mountains, adjacent to the Angeles National Forest. In fact, the Rangers have tried to chase me out several times, but my cave is on private land, so they can't evict me. I know that the owners won't either -- the land is owned by a trust and the trustees never bother to come up here. I've been here now for over twelve years. I found this cave when I was 37 years old and moved in three years later.

It's nice here in the spring and summer, and most of the fall. When it rains it can make it difficult to find food, but when my larder is full, I just stay snug in my cave. I had a catch system to trap water from rain and snow and had a cistern large enough to see me through the dry spells. And there is a natural crevice at the back of my cave where the smoke from a fire there gets naturally pulled out. I'm warm in the cave and the forest outside supplies an unending supply of firewood.

When I moved in, I brought a spit and grill to cook food on, a skillet and some pots, a hatchet, an axe, and a pair of good knives. I had a trunk filled with clothes and a metal cooler in which I could keep food secure from scavenging animals. Twelve years later the clothes were worn threadbare, the grill was warped from years on roaring fires, and the edges on my implements were pitted and uneven. I'd forgotten a whetstone and had been sharpening my tools on a granite slab.

I hacked off my hair and beard when they had grown too long. I knew that in my ragged clothes and wild hair I was a scary sight to the campers and hikers that came across me. I did my best to avoid contact, staying on private land as much as possible, but had to venture out for the food packets at the Country Store.

That's what lead to my downfall. I headed down to the store as soon as the moonrise gave me enough light to navigate the trail. It was when I was crossing the highway that a car whipped around the curve and slammed me down the road.

I woke in the hospital, where I saw the white coated doctor looking at my old wallet, which I still carried. She stared at the wallet before turning her blue eyes to me. "Daddy? DADDY?" I passed out again.

I used to be J. Walsh Pickford, Walsh to my friends, Mr. Pickford to everyone else. I owned 65% of Pickford Enterprises, a multi-billion-dollar holding company. I controlled a score of business in various industries and had real estate holdings in 37 states. I had been on Forbes List, way down the list, around 1650, way down past where most people stop looking. I was self-made. With just the twenty million my father gave me I built an empire before I was 25.

After I met and married Priscilla Maycomb, I thought I had it all. A business empire, fawning employees, and a gorgeous wife. I thought that was everything, until Sylvia was born. From the first time I held her in my arms, Silly was my life. I spent every moment I could with my little beauty. I never missed a dance recital, a soccer game, or a father-daughter dance. On weekends we'd go hiking or biking, or take her friends to Magic Mountain, Disneyland or out to the beach. I'd thought we had a happy family. Silly, Priscilla and me.

But of course, I wouldn't be the Hermit if that were true. Between work and my little Silly, I failed to notice that my wife had an increasing number of commitments that took her away from our weekend outings. I probably would have stayed blissfully ignorant except for Silly's bike accident. It's an old story, a sordid story I'm sure you're all familiar with. Coming home early, unexpectedly, to find clothes strewn around the house, a wife with her legs in the air.

Of course, it was all a mistake, a one-time event, never to happen again, blah, blah, blah. I tried to make it work for Silly's sake, but trust was gone and so many things now made me suspicious. I don't know what I had in mind, but that's when I had the company engineers set up the catch basin and cistern in the cave. It was on land I owned but had now moved to a new trust that only my lawyers knew about.

Of course, it wasn't one-time, hadn't ceased and the next time she was entertaining two gentlemen. I immediately fired them from my gardening staff and informed my wife that I'd be filing for divorce forthwith.

The bitch smirked at me. "I'll be keeping your precious Sylvia." She gloated. "She's not even yours and I have the DNA results to prove it."

I left. I left everything. I hung around town just long enough to move most of my assets into a trust for Silly. I didn't care if she wasn't my kid, but I knew my wife would never let me see her if she had her way. But I could give her everything. Which I did. I set it up in a trust managed by the board of directors of Pickford Enterprises. The lawyers and I had set up the framework after I first discovered Priscilla's infidelity, and there was little to do beyond signing the paperwork to set it in motion. Then I walked away.

I threw away my tie and used my car as I purchased the things I'd need. I transported them to the cave, then returned the car that night to my lawyer's parking lot. I signed the pink slip over to the lawyer, put it and the keys in an envelope, and slipped it through the mail slot in his door. Then I walked away.

Now twelve years later I was back, sort of. I awoke in a bed with guardrails, in a room, a pleasant if unremarkable room, with a cast on my left leg. I hurt and wasn't surprised when a nurse led a doctor into my room. I rubbed my face and realized that someone had trimmed my beard. A quick feel revealed that my hair had also been trimmed. Someone had cleaned me up.

"Mr. Pickford?" the doctor queried. "Do you know who you are?"

I sighed. "Yes, I am J. Walsh Pickford."

"I'm Dr. Medford, Dr. Oscar Medford." The doctor exchanged a glance with the nurse. "Do you know where you are?"

"No, not specifically. I'd say a medical facility, but this bed isn't a hospital bed." I ventured.

The doctor leaned closer. "Mr. Pickford, this is the Wellingham Medical Center."

I flopped back onto the pillow and looked at the ceiling. "The place we used to call the Well I'm Mental Center? The looney-bin?"

"Yes, but we don't use those terms here, Mr. Pickford. We are a therapeutic hospital. Your family is concerned. You disappeared over a decade ago and have apparently been living in the wild since then."

"They've nothing to worry about. I ditched a cheating slut of a wife and a daughter who wasn't mine. I just got as far away from them as I could. Maybe not in distance, but at least in spirit." I knew I was going to have to prove my sanity. Hopefully, it won't be too hard.

"Mr. Pickford, I know Priscilla and I can assure you that she isn't a slut." As soon as the doctor spoke, I knew he was sleeping with my wife and proving my sanity would now be much harder.

The doctor left with the nurse, informing me that I would be subjected to a round of mental tests over the next week before a judge would decide on my future living conditions. I asked to speak to my lawyer but was informed that no visitors would be allowed until after the mental testing was completed.

I would have preferred no visitors, but proving the exception to the rule, my wife showed up. I woke up to see her leaning on the door jamb, watching me sleep. When she realized I was awake, she flipped on the light and allowed the door to close.

"Well, Walsh. You're back. Now maybe you can straighten out the mess you left behind you." She pulled a chair up next to my bed. Damn, the bitch was still beautiful.

'What mess? I thought I left everything very tidy." I smiled back pleasantly. I saw her eyes flash with anger.

"You know damn well what you did. You tied almost everything up in that trust, that Silly trust. I've got very little and if that trust hadn't been paying the maintenance and bills, I couldn't have afforded the house and servants. Your bastards on that board of directors won't give me anything unless Sylvia asks for it." She gritted her teeth. "Your little darling, they'll give her anything. Cars, gowns, medical school, whatever your Silly wants, she gets. For me, nothing. You fix it- damn you."

"She's not my Silly. You made that clear. 'I've got the DNA results to prove it!'" That last I said in a mocking falsetto imitation of Priscilla's voice.

She had the grace to look embarrassed. "She's yours. Of course, she's yours. I never cheated until she took you away from me. Once she was born, everything was for her. You never gave me a glance after you had her. That's all you wanted from me. You might as well have left me."

"That's not true. You were always included. You're the one who stopped coming!" I was confused. I was so convinced that my daughter wasn't my daughter. Was she, my daughter?

"Yes, I was soooo included." Priscilla drew out the 'so'. "Did you even miss me when I stopped coming? Did anything at all change on your outings? Did you miss me once?"

Guiltily, I had to admit that she was right. It hadn't made an iota of difference that she hadn't been there. I shook my head and admitted, "No, probably not."

"I decided that if you didn't notice me not coming, then I'd just cum somewhere else!" She laughed at her pun. It took me a moment to get it. "I screwed everyone I could. Those two gardeners just happened to be the ones who had the shift that weekend. You should have fired the whole gardening staff! They had to hire extras just to accommodate my needs every weekend."

I lay there thinking that she really was a bitch, but maybe I was somewhat responsible. But Silly was my daughter. I smiled, which seemed to piss off my wife.

"Why didn't you just divorce me? We had no prenup, you would have been very rich. You could have divorced me and then slept with whomever you wanted." After all these years, maybe I'd finally learn why she'd cheated. Over the years I'd imagined every possibility, from "She never really loved me, just my money" to "Is she a size queen?" to just "Why wasn't I enough for her?"

Priscilla tilted back her head and looked at the ceiling, blinking her eyes. I could tell she was trying not to cry. "Because I loved you! Damn you, I loved you."

"You've a strange way of showing it. You could have really shown your love for me and had an orgy." I snapped back at her.

She lost the battle with her tears. "Who says I didn't?" She smiled wryly. "I kept hoping you'd come back to me, but each year you paid less and less attention to me. I was just striking back at you. I think I wanted to hurt you like you were hurting me. Do you know what it's like for a mother to grow to hate her own daughter? To be jealous of her?"

She glared at me. "Then you went and put everything in trust for her and disappeared. You left me nothing! I've had to beg her for everything. Your directors say that she had to agree to every expenditure from the trust once she turned 21. I can't get a new gown or a new car without my daughter's permission."

She wiped her eyes. "And while I blamed her for your disappearance, she blamed me. So, she never made it easy for me."

"Wait," I said. "I left our personal investments out of the trust. You had over three quarters of a million dollars. That's not exactly nothing."

"You had billions! You left billions to your precious Silly. Not even a million for me. And how long do you think that money would have lasted if I paid for everything I wanted, Huh?" She wiped at her eyes again. "But now that you're back, I can prove that you weren't thinking straight when you set up the trust. My lawyer assures me we'll get it all reversed and I will control the trust as your guardian."

"Guardian? I don't need a guardian."

"Sure, you do, sweetie. You've been off living in the woods like a wild man. Anyone can see you're not all there." Her smile would put a cobra to shame. "And with the medication you'll need to adjust your mental state, which Dr. Medford will administer to you, the court will have no problem ruling you non compos mentis. I hope you like the room I'm providing, because you'll never see the outside of this door, not if you live to be 100."

"Yeah, you really loved me. I can really tell." A chill ran up my spine. Her plan seemed way too plausible to fail. And now I was positive that she was sleeping with Medford.

The cobra smile again. "I did love you, but now I've decided I love your money more. Once the judge rules in my favor, I just cut your precious daughter off and she can live off her doctor's salary. Let's see if she'll like begging for a pittance from me."

With that, my loving wife blew me a kiss, turned off the light and left me with my misery.

Later that night, they woke me up to give me my first dose of medication. Beyond that, my memories are scrambled. I later learned that from then on, I did little but mutter to myself and drool.

Sylvia had been the resident on duty in the emergency room of the USC Verdugo Hills Hospital on the night the car hit me. It was she whom I saw looking at my wallet, she that said, "Daddy?" She directed my care and never left my side the first day I was in her hospital. It was when she finally went home that my wife, who had been alerted by the authorities of my condition as my immediate next of kin swept in with her lawyer and pet Dr. Medford. They moved me to this looney bin and denied all access to me, including my daughter.

Working with the Pickford directors and their lawyers, she fought to get access to me. Dr. Medford insisted to the court that any outside attention would be detrimental to my long-term care. The judge sided with the doctor, stating that he was my authorized medical provider.

Silly cried openly when I was wheeled into court, muttering and drooling. She demanded through her lawyers that my blood be tested for drugs. The judge denied this. Silly told me later that she saw my wife blow a kiss to the judge. Was there anyone this woman wasn't sleeping with?

In the end the court ordered me involuntarily committed to Wellingham and granted my wife's petition to challenge the validity of the trust. Once the ruling was made, she felt comfortable enough to have Medford stop dosing me. When my mental capacities returned, she came by to explain the situation to me and gloat. The challenge to the trust would take some time, but the judge assured her that it would go her way.

Part of her gloat was to have me tied down on the bed while she rewarded the good doctor with one of her well-practiced blowjobs. Holding his cum in her mouth, she then came over and planted her lips on mine. She tried to drop the load into my mouth, but I pressed my lips tightly together and shook my head rapidly. In the end, she only succeeded in smearing sperm all over my face.

That seemed to satisfy her. She laughed, told the doctor to zip up. They were going home, she said. She needed a good rogering. Looking at me as she left, she said, "I'll tell them not to wash you face, Walsh, so you can enjoy the feel and the smell of a better man's spunk."

Laughing, she doused the lights and left. Later that night, they again began dosing me with their mind-numbing drugs.

Meanwhile, Sylvia (now Dr. Sylvia! I was proud of my girl) and the directors had been striving to gain access to me, but had been stymied by the legal system. (Damn again! I don't think there was anyone Priscilla wasn't banging!).

Finally, Sylvia had her brainstorm. She asked the lawyers to check whose care I had been committed to, and when she learned it was to the Wellingham Medical Center, she took her idea to the board of directors.

With the greatest secrecy and paying a premium for speed and confidentiality, Wellingham Medical Center quickly became a proud asset of the newly formed Pickford Enterprises Medical Group, Dr. Sylvia Pickford, CEO.

First order of business, firing Dr. Medford and having him immediately removed from the premises under guard.

Second order of business, moving in competent help in the form of Dr. Otto Krueger, the recognized mental health authority on the West Coast.

The third order was to have my blood drawn and tested by the authorities. It proved that I was being given an illegal cocktail of drugs for no other reason beyond scrambling my brains.

In short order after that, I was again weaned off the drugs and returned to sanity. An emergency hearing in front of a woman judge (I didn't think my wife's proclivities went in that direction, so we felt a female judge could be trusted) reversed my order of commitment. That also ended the challenge to the trust.

Once Dr. Medford had been arrested, the whole scheme was exposed by him in exchange for leniency. While he still lost his medical license, his plea bargain had him serve only 5 years in prison and allowed for time off with good behavior. He could be out in three.

Priscilla and her judge weren't as lucky. They each will serve at least 10 years behind bars, even with the best behavior. When she gets out, I probably won't be able to trust female judges thereafter.

Sylvia has returned control of the trust to me. I really didn't want it. I've learned over the last twelve years that there is really nothing that I need. Beyond my Silly. I will always need her.

One order of business I did use the trust for. I had everyone who worked in the Country Store, where I had been getting those thoughtfully wrapped food parcels, flown down to a dinner at the finest restaurant in Los Angeles County. I wanted to reward them for that act of kindness they had done for me. I had never enjoyed digging through the garbage.

No, the dinner wasn't their reward. The check for a million that Silly presented each of them was the real reward.