His arms are covered in scars, just like everyone else's here. In this damn place.

He hates his father. Hates him so much that all he does is hide now, finding solitude in a place that is supposed to help him overcome these fears.

He fears his father. Fears the day he sees his father once again and is turned into 'fantastic' shades of black and blue.

Sometimes, during the night, he'll see his father. Then sleep is harder to find, that is when he bothers to look for it. He's all but given up in that search by now.

His father is the reason for the marks that litter his arms, some of them even put there by the man himself before this place.

Most of the marks, however, are put there by his own hand.

Fear and doubt now consume him, he who was once a sweet, innocent child without worries and fears.

This isn't living. This is Existing.