"I haven't found a drop of a life"

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At age one Dave was already living in hell.

The adult that had adopted Dave had instructed him to call him "Bro". Dave just sat there like a lump. He couldn't say Bro. He was only one year old and couldn't properly form words. The adult didn't seem to care.

Age one was the point of time when Bro was at home more, even he understood that infants couldn't properly take care of themselves. The only problem here was that Bro had no idea how to take care of babies either. Bro didn't know where babies were supposed to eat or sleep or play with, he didn't know what to do with the kid in general.

Feeding Dave wasn't hard. Feeding Dave was probably the easiest part of raising Dave. All Bro had to do was set the food in front of Dave and Dave himself would just grab it and shove chubby handfuls of the goop called baby food in his mouth. That was the easiest part of raising Dave.

The hardest part was probably figuring out what Dave would do for fun when Bro wouldn't be around. Bro figured that his trusty (and terrifying) puppet Lil Cal could keep a cold, unseeing eye on the infant but that took a turn. The moment Dave laid a shaded eye on the creepy puppet he lost it. Baby Dave lost it. It gave him an uneasy feeling and what do babies do when something just isn't right? They cry and kick and scream of course. And that's what Dave did. The poor kid cried and swatted at the horrible puppet trying its best to wiggle away. Sure he could've crawled but Dave didn't know how to do that, he had spent a majority of his first year of life sitting on the couch.

Bro slung his favourite puppet over his shoulder to avoid Dave's tiny fists of fury, and picked the screaming child up. Of course that just made him scream even more, he was now closer to that godforsaken puppet. Bro didn't know what to do with the screaming kid, he just wanted the awful high pitched screeching to stop.  Spotting an open closet, Bro held the crying baby an arms length away before plopping him down inside the closet and shutting the door. This actually muffled the sound and satisfied the adult.

Dave on the other hand was terrified. It was suddenly darker than normal and he was alone. He saw shapes in the darkness and froze up in fear, he didn't know what was going on and he didn't know where he was. All he wanted was to be back outside and maybe even be held a little. But that didn't seem like it would happen any time soon, so he just sat there. Alone in the dark. Alone and afraid. He was alone and scared and sobbing his little eyes out.

That basically summed up the first year of Dave's life.

Age two wasn't much different.

Age three took a turn for the worst though.

Age three and Dave could now properly walk, run, and jump. And because of these basic physical activities he finally learned, Bro saw it right to teach Dave the other basic "necessities" of life. What was that you may ask? Strifing.

At age three Dave didn't know what to expect, he didn't know what it was to strife. He didn't know it involved being up on the roof of his apartment complex and being absolutely terrified. He didn't know it involved his guardian, his guardian, to attack him repeatedly with a goddamn sword. He didn't know it meant getting his ass handed to him on a silver platter. He didn't know it involved nearly falling off the goddamn roof. He didn't know it would leave him cut up all over, that it'd leave him in more pain than he was ever in.

But it did. And Dave was bleeding all over, and he was scared. The bleeding wouldn't stop and when he asked Bro to help patch him up, his guardian just said that he had to go to work and left. Leaving Dave alone and scared and in pain and bleeding. The blood was soaking through his grey shirt and he was starting to get scared. Three year olds should not have to deal with this.

Dave didn't know what to do. Dave was only three, the only thing that popped into his mind was that he was going to die, that thought only made him cry and the tears streamed out of his eyes and into the open wounds on his cheeks and oh my god, that stung like hell. The new stinging sensation only made him cry even more. It was like one endless cycle of pain and he didn't know what to do. Eventually, he had enough of a mind to try to not cry and that helped. His bleeding eventually stopped and all he had to do was clean himself off and change his shirt that was covered in dry blood. So he did, as best he could. Being three, that was kind of difficult, eventually he did though. He changed into a nice clean black shirt and tried his very best to ignore the stinging of his fresh wounds.

No three year old should have to deal with this.