WARNING: This chapter may contain some triggers, connected with child abuse and neglect, BUT... I wrote a soft-core version of it, omitting these elements so feel free to jump to the next chapter if you're faint of heart.

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I've never thought that I would reach this point. Sitting in front of the school shrink, feeling like a fish out of water. And yet, here I was. Talking about my family of all things.

"It's not that bad," I said, trying to convince myself more than the middle-aged man, taking a drag out of his cigarette. Yes, he smoked in front of a student. In his defence, he asked if it would be ok first.

"On the weekends he's actually quite chill. He doesn't drink. Just watches TV all day with my mother. They don't even pay any attention to me. It's when he gets home after work that things escalate," I kept pouring my heart out.

The shrink looked at me calmly, not even at all bothered that I just shared with him how my father was beating the shit out of me every night. When I wasn't smart enough to get out of his sight that is.

"I don't even know why Mr. Andonov sent me here. It's just a little bruise. It will heal," I referred to the blue mark on my right arm, conveniently omitting to mention the others I was sporting under my ribcage and shoulder blades. After all, my father didn't hit me hard enough to cause permanent damage. Only enough to let the steam off. He was having a hard time at work. If my boss was treating me like his personal slave I would be agitated too. Probably not take it out on my own child but still...

"He's worried about you," the shrink spoke, referring to my teacher. "As far as I understand, this is not the first bruise he notices on you."

"I'm a boy. I can handle getting a little roughed up from time to time," I repeated my father's words like a parrot.

The shrink leaned forward in his chair and put the cigarette out. "That's the thing," he said, gazing into my eyes. "You don't HAVE to put up with it. It is NOT ok to harm a child! Especially just because he was frustrated at work. Honestly, with your family situation, I'm surprised you still manage to keep your grades up. Or... Have you had intrusive thoughts?"

"What do you mean?" I asked perplexed.

"Have you felt... depressed? Or angrier than usual? It's ok to be angry at someone that's hurting you."

"Uhm, no?"

The truth was, I was indeed angry at my father. For venting his frustration out on me. And at my mother. For not even bothering to check if I have something to eat. I've been preparing my own food since I was nine. Sandwiches mostly. I didn't know how to make anything else. No one taught me how to cook, or run the washing machine. I had to educate myself on the internet for close to about anything.

"Are you sure there isn't anything you want to share?" The shrink asked. "It might not be related to your parents. Anything else that is troubling you? I'm here to listen."

"I would like to get back in class, if you don't mind," I said, getting tired of all this. Other children in my spot I guess would be thrilled that they wouldn't have to stay in class, but I wasn't like this. I wanted to learn, to cultivate new knowledge, to develop new skills. And my French wasn't as good as to allow myself skipping class. Even if I was authorised to do so.

"Ok..." The shrink said, leaning back in his leather chair. "You may leave. But call me if you need anything, ok? My door is always open."

I was sure this was the phrase he said to all students that came here, and he wasn't particularly thrilled about listening to some kid's problems, but I nodded anyway, saying a timid "Ok" before I bolted out of the door.

I've been feeling exceptionally weak the past few weeks. It was like my arms and legs were numb. Every movement took a great effort. And I'm not even talking about the pain. I was already used to the throbbing sensations in my upper body. This was something different. Something wasn't right. Which is why I told the truth to shrink guy instead of the usual white lie. 'No, no one at home is beating me. I just slipped and fell.' Like someone ever believed that! But once you said it, they no longer pushed the subject. It's almost as if they didn't want to know but felt obliged to ask anyway. It was their job to ask and mine to lie about it. This was how the world worked.

I reached the classroom and told Mrs. Roux where I was. She let me take my seat without further questions.

I had to sit next to the loudest, most annoying boy in our class — Pavel. A blond, green-eyed monster that took every chance he could to make fun of me. And it didn't help that his buddies were sitting right in front of us and turned around every five seconds for the usual idle chit-chat.

But what could I do? In most of our classes we were arranged by numbers and it just so happened that my name was right after his in the class list.

My name is Radomir, by the way. But my friends called me Rado for short. Sometimes even my enemies. Like the boy sitting right next to me.

"Hey, nerd! What were you doing with the shrink? Did you totally lose it or something?" Pavel asked, looking for something to keep him entertained in Mrs. Roux's class.

"None of your business," I muttered, taking out my textbook. But he kept nagging me until Sabah hissed at him to be quiet. My hero! She was one of the nice girls. Always righteously defending the weak. Even though she was a nerd herself. But for some reason the jocks actually listened to her when she asserted her judgement. I have no idea what she did to gain their respect but it was a fact. Once Sabah said something, everyone listened.

The rest of the day was rather peaceful. No one shoved me in the hallways, I didn't hear any snide remarks about me. I skipped PE, since it was the last of our classes, and went to the park. I liked breathing in the fresh aroma of nature, sitting on a secluded bench and gazing at the clouds. It calmed me down. And especially at the end of November, there weren't that many people so it allowed me to stay alone with my thoughts.

I had plenty of time until I had to go home. I took out the three dice that I kept in my pocket and started rolling them in my hand while looking at the cloudy sky. There were cumulus fluffy clouds. It wasn't likely to rain any time soon.

I thought about what I was going to do once I turn 18. Or what I called The Coming-of-age Plan.

First, I was going to find a part time job, of course keeping quiet about it in front of my parents. Something that wouldn't take me more than four hours per day and wouldn't get in the way of my studies. With my first pay check, I was going to open a bank account under my name, since trying to hide money at home would be a bother. And once I saved enough, I was going to look for a place to live in. Probably something cheap, that goes with a roommate. All the while, keeping my grades high. After all, I wanted to be a programmer. I had to get all As at least in Maths.

Honestly, I was kinda curious if my parents would even notice once I'm gone. Not my mother, but probably my father. Who would he vent his anger on, once I was out of the picture? Or would he come looking for me? Somehow, it didn't seem very likely. If anything, he would be pleased there would be one less mouth to feed.

I let myself daydream about the future, not noticing when a stray cat started meowing at my feet. It was a white one, with some black around its ears and a colourful tail. I tried to determine what colour that would be but I only saw it as different shades of brown.

I realised that my colour perception was a bit different from that of other kids at the age of eight. We were drawing something in class and one of the kids asked me why I was colouring the strawberries brown. He pointed to a slightly different shade of brown and called it red. At the time, it didn't seem like there was much of a difference but I got the 'red' pencil anyway and finished the rest of the strawberries in that colour.

Over the years, I've noticed that some shades of blue people call purple. Again, not much of a difference. And that oranges aren't light brown but were actually named after their own colour. Eventually, I learned not to state the colour of things lest I get it wrong and look like an idiot.

I bent over and petted the cat, regretting I didn't have any leftover sandwiches on me. I already ate all of my lunch after 2nd period.

I wished I could take it home. But if my father was like this with his own son what would he do to a mere animal? It wasn't safe.

Sometimes I wondered if he was sadistic in nature and his work troubles were just an excuse to get his fix. What did I ever do to deserve his contempt?

I stood up with a sigh, leaving the poor kitty behind. It was about time I went home. I had dishes to wash, a floor to clean, homework to do. Chores that I afflicted on myself in order not to live in a pigsty.

My mother was lying on the sofa as usual, her feet on the tiny coffee table, gaze transfixed on the TV. There were at least a dozen empty glasses scattered on the table around her feet.

I let out a sigh and got to cleaning, being careful not to stand in front of the TV. I gathered the empty glasses, washed the dishes, cleaned the kitchen counter... My mother was making a big mess even if all she had to do was warm something in the microwave. Right now, it showed that she ordered pizza for lunch by the paper pizza box I had to throw away. And she didn't leave any for me, of course. I wasn't even surprised by that.

Finally, I wiped the coffee table clean and went in my corner of the room. We were residing in a tiny studio apartment that had a sofa, a coffee table, a small TV, boxed kitchen and the washing machine all cramped in one room. The only room we had actually, if we weren't counting the toilet. My parents slept on the expandable sofa while I used a plain single mattress that I had to roll up every morning. It was a bother but I got used to it. That and the animalistic sounds that came from my parents for about five minutes almost every evening.

I browsed through my schedule: PE, French, Chemistry, Biology, Literature. I started studying in French first, writing down words and imagining the pronunciation in my mind. It wasn't the same as saying them aloud but my mother hated it when I made noise and disturbed her hobby. If you could call gawking at the TV for a whole day a hobby. But this was all she did so I guess it counts. Was there even a show she didn't find interesting? I mean, she even hushed me at commercial breaks, for fuck's sake!

Usually, if I wanted to speak with my mother, I had to wait for the sports news. Pathetic, I know. But from time to time, I needed a parent's signature for something. Mostly my student report card, which she never praised me about. Even though I got all As. But whatever. It wasn't like I lived for her recognition.

I was my own man.

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A/N: The only time I went to visit the school shrink I was in a group with other kids and we didn't discuss anything important. So I don't know how such a conversation is supposed to go or if the school psychologist in my story is being professional or not.

Also, where I live we don't have report cards. The school system is slightly different but I couldn't find a proper translation for that small notebook teachers write our grades in. The thing is, they do it all throughout the year, every time after a test or an oral exam, not just at the end of a term.  

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