ONE

Marigold Place, Montana

April 2000

The sixth-grade classroom of the middle school was filled with activity; and anxious students anticipated the ringing of the bell to end the last class of the day. The students, both boys and girls, chattered with their friends and classmates, their classwork done and turned in. Some discussed what they’d do after school, and others made plans with their friends. The young English teacher sat behind her desk, grading the essays she’d had her class write.

At the back of the class, alone and mostly unnoticed except to be picked on, Brian McPherson doodled on the blank piece of lined paper he’d ripped out of a notebook. His pencil moved along the sheet without any particular image or result in mind, making lines and undefined shapes. He flicked a golden strand of slightly long, straight hair out of blue eyes as he worked, his attention focused on his task as he ignored the others around him.

Though above average in height for his twelve years and significantly taller than most of his classmates, Brian was lanky and underweight—a perfect target for bullying. A foster child who had lost his parents at a very young age, he’d been passing through the foster system for years, moving from one home to another each time his current foster family tired of him, and was a loner. His tendency to stick to himself and avoid other children also played a part in making him the target of bullies at the school and around the neighborhood he lived in.

When he had filled the paper with his doodles and scrawls, he flipped it over to the other side and continued. The conversations between his classmates reached his ears, but he paid no attention. Since the start of middle school, he had only caught the attention of boys who liked to bully him and girls who laughed at him; and elementary school hadn’t been any better, though the beatings and harsh jibes of his peers seemed to worsen as early childhood ended and they neared their teen years. He went out of his way to avoid interacting with other children, and it usually worked—except for days he found fate just wasn’t on his side.

In between intervals, vacant pale blue eyes directed glances to the opposite side of the classroom from beneath lowered pale-colored lashes to the spot his archenemies were seated, huddled together, talking and whispering. The group of five boys—John West, Nathan Roland, James Forbes, Victor Norris, and Matthew Julian—had been the bane of his existence since elementary school. John was the supreme leader, and of course the most popular boy of the class and grade; and the other four were his sidekicks, copying him or following his orders. The group enjoyed picking on, teasing, and bullying children that were weaker socially, emotionally, or physically; and regretfully, Brian was weaker in all three aspects, making him their favorite target.

The five boys, seated far apart from each other since they had the tendency to disrupt class with their talking and pranks, had taken over a group of four desks as soon as their seatwork had been handed in, the original owners forced to find elsewhere to sit. The teacher, busy grading the essays, didn’t even seem to notice the class arrangement had been moved around—or she just didn’t care since everyone had finished their work. John and James, seated beside each other, were turned in their seats to speak to Matthew and Victor, who had taken the seats behind them, while Nathan had seated himself on the desks of the latter two so he could join in.

From the corner of his eye, Brian watched John as he raked a hand through his thick chestnut-brown curls, his deep green eyes sparkling with excitement as he spoke to the others. He was his least favorite of the group. Just the sound of his voice provoked an irrational fury within him; but he didn’t have the power to go against him, especially when he was a complete loner and the other boy had four sidekicks to support him and do his bidding. He would only be asking for more trouble and pain if he attempted to turn on John in revenge.

His gaze moved on to the other four boys with his primary nemesis, all four of them Caucasian like himself and John since the other boy believed those of different ethnic backgrounds to be socially inferior and not worth his attention, a belief ingrained into him by his own parents. Brian also fell into that same category as an orphan with no real family. As expected, the children of the school who came from non-Caucasian backgrounds—whether African, Latin, or Asian—were also frequent targets of John and his gang as well as those coming from families that didn’t fit the mold due to poverty, divorce, death, or other causes.

While John spoke animatedly and enthusiastically, James, Nathan, Victor, and Matthew listened attentively, laughing and chattering with him. Their laughter and the sounds of their voices put Brian on edge, irritating and infuriating him. His loss of control each time he was faced by the group frustrated him; and hearing them happily talking and enjoying themselves, while they were his source of misery and problems at school, doubled his rage, yet he didn’t have the power to change it. He didn’t have friends to stand up for him, teachers to support him, or family to comfort and encourage him—he was completely alone.

He pulled his attention away from them, glancing toward Harriet Lawrence, seated at her desk and grading the essays that had been handed in. Not over twenty-three, she’d been hired at the beginning of the year, but she wasn’t any different than any other teacher he’d had. Just like the rest of them, she had labeled him as a problem child who wasn’t worth her effort. She never cared that he didn’t hand in work along with the rest of the class and didn’t worry on days or weeks he didn’t show up to school. She hadn’t even approached his table to ask for the assigned essay when she had asked the others. In return, he despised her just as much as he disliked all his other teachers.

He dropped his attention back to the paper he’d been drawing and doodling on, torn out of his English notebook. Shutting out the sound of the voices and laughter around him, he resumed dragging his pencil across the paper in different directions, waiting for class to end. Though he hated and despised school, he didn’t want to return home either. It wasn’t really any better than school—it was usually worse. He was safer in a boring classroom than he was at home with his foster family, though his hatred and distrust of the adults around him would prevent him from seeking their help.

The bell rang shrilly, finally signaling the end of class, and the teacher glanced up from her paperwork, tucking a strand of coal-black hair behind her ear as forest-green eyes observed her students jumping to their feet, legs of the chairs they’d sat upon scraping against the floor as they eagerly prepared to leave class. Belongings—textbooks, notebooks, pencils, pens, and erasers—were stashed into school bags, and chairs were pushed back to the desks. In unorganized groups, the boys and girls hurried out of the class, pushing and shoving their way through as they joined the rest of the student body in the halls making their way out of the building.

Brian watched his classmates from beneath lowered lashes, not moving as he waited until the last one was out of the door. He’d been pushed, shoved, tripped, and even kicked by the other boys—especially John and his friends—enough times to learn that it was safer to remain seated until everyone was gone. As the others escaped the classroom, he folded the paper he’d been doodling on and tucked it into the notebook he’d ripped it out of. Then he began to pack his belongings into his bright red schoolbag, his movements slow, organized, and methodical. He knew there was a higher chance of everyone being gone if he made no attempts to rush since everyone else seemed highly anxious to escape class, so he took advantage of it. After all, there wasn’t anything to rush home to.

By the time he had finished packing, the class was empty—even the teacher had left with her papers and books, but he barely gave her a second thought. He shouldered his bag and made his way out into the hall. To his dismay, the hallway was still filled with a large number of students, which meant there was still a chance of being shoved, tripped, or hurt by anyone who recognized him. A large flow of children between the ages of eleven and fourteen made their way out the building, and he followed, trying not to be noticed by anyone he recognized as a bully.

He’d almost gotten out the door when he failed to notice John watching him. With a malicious smirk, pale green eyes sparkling with cruel intent, the other boy stuck out his leg. Without seeing it, Brian tripped, hitting the floor, holding back the groan of pain as his body made contact with the hard flooring.

John filled the hall with his malicious laughter, his group of friends—who had witnessed the cruel act—as well as several others joining him. “You really should watch where you’re going, don’t you think, Brianna?” He laughed at the offensive nickname he’d dubbed Brian with and kicked the other boy’s still body as he passed, still laughing. “See you, loser.”

Brian inwardly fumed at the feminine name he’d been nicknamed by John and his gang, while everyone else laughed; but he knew better than retaliating to the remark or teasing. If he made any effort to stand up for himself or fight back, the bullying, abuse, and teasing worsened. If he remained still and silent, they eventually tired and left him alone, so he made no move and kept his mouth clamped shut as he waited for John to walk past. Even after John had walked away though, Brian still had to contend with his four followers, so he didn’t dare move yet. As each one walked past, he had to endure their physical and verbal abuse, too. 

Nathan smirked, olive-green eyes beneath a head of wavy blond hair glinting cruelly, as he kicked his classmate. “Sissy.”

“Wimp.” Victor laughed, tossing long strands of straight coal-black hair out of  jade-green eyes, as he aimed a hard kick to the other boy’s side.

“Girl.” William shook his head of unruly, long and wavy sand-brown hair, a spark of malice in his deep brown eyes, intentionally stepping on Brian’s hand as he walked past.

“Pea-brain.” James glanced down at Brian with sapphire-blue eyes, set beneath his head of curly coal-black hair, and he kicked the other boy’s shoulder as he followed the others.

The laughs of the boys around him echoed in his ears and tears of humiliation pricked his eyes when they kicked at his still body as they passed. He clenched his teeth and bit his tongue to prevent himself from crying out in pain. The scenario wasn’t new to him. He went through it on a daily basis. Every day, he tried to avoid being targeted; but he usually failed in that endeavor and found himself flat on the ground being kicked and even stepped on by a number of boys at the end of the day, and the teachers never intervened, which he took to mean they didn’t care enough to notice.

His fear of being knocked down or tripped again kept him from rising—since it had happened more times than he could count at the beginning of the school year—and he waited until they had all passed. Then, without a word or sound, despite the soreness of his body from the abuse, he rose to his feet. He made certain his bag was closed and nothing had fallen out.

He also checked his pocket to make certain no one had snatched his inhaler for the severe asthma attacks he sometimes got, usually provoked at school from running from his abusers. It had been several times that he’d had one taken. The current one he possessed was the fourth replacement in the month, and he’d been warned by his foster father that he would not receive another. He was relieved to discover it was still in his pocket.

Once he was certain nothing of importance had been taken, which was a miracle, he went on his way, holding back the tears of humiliation that had formed in his eyes. Crying wouldn’t solve anything, and it would just delight those who enjoyed hurting him and lead to more torture.

As he walked through the door and left the property of the school behind him, he was momentarily relieved. Outside of the classroom, when there weren’t teachers around or when they weren’t paying attention, school was always a nightmare because of the other children. Inside it wasn’t enjoyable either since Brian didn’t enjoy studying or schoolwork, nor did he obey authority figures; but most of his teachers had long ago stopped bothering trying to make him do any work and pretended he wasn’t even in the class.

He resented the interference of any authority figures and was rebellious toward the adults in his life. Though he gave the impression of being quiet and obedient, he was neither. He was antisocial with his peers, but he was also a problem child among adults with behavior that couldn’t be managed and an attitude that couldn’t be controlled.

Brian slowly started on the way to his current foster home, which he’d been staying in since he’d been ten; and it wasn’t any better than the former ones he’d been in—it was far worse. He dragged his steps to delay from reaching it for as long as possible. The bullying wasn’t limited to school and the neighborhood—even at home, he was a target. He was surrounded by both physical and emotional abuse at school, in his neighborhood, and at home. The only times he found a reprieve was when he stole off and hid in places he couldn’t be found just to be alone; and he rarely had that kind of opportunity.

Brian had once had the perfect life with the best parents one could ever ask for, the son of a gentle, loving American mother and a firm but affectionate Irish father. Though he’d lost them in a tragic accident at the age of four, he could still remember how loving and caring they’d been toward him, how they had never laid a hand on him—even during his worst tantrums. If he tried hard enough, he could almost hear their voices, too. They had always had their own ways of disciplining him without turning to physical punishment.

On the fateful night that changed Brian’s life forever, the couple had left him at a neighbor’s and gone out for a dinner date, and they hadn’t returned. They were found to be victims of a mugging and shooting; and four-year-old Brian had been left parentless, swallowed by the foster system. The confused little boy couldn’t understand where his parents had gone and why they had left him alone, and no one cared enough to give him the explanation or support he needed. He couldn’t understand why he was being sent from house to house either. The result was a raging child with tantrums no one could control.

The foster families who took him in had no patience for his tantrums, and that showed in their dealings with him. It soon became clear to the little boy that—unlike his parents—the adults he was surrounded by believed physical punishment was the answer to disciplining and stopping tantrums. However, the measures taken did not improve his behavior. Instead, it made it even worse. When his parents had been alive, he had been a mostly obedient and well-behaved child; but he quickly changed into one of the most difficult children to handle, resulting from the lack of correct care, stability, and support he desperately needed.

Eventually, the disciplinary methods, which had started out as a means to manage his uncontrollable behavior, at the hands of the foster families he lived with morphed into abuse that was both physical and emotional. Not only did his temporary families abuse him, but he also became a target of bullies within the schools he attended and the neighborhoods he lived in. With each new family, the abuse seemed to be more severe; and his behavior would worsen in result. No one seemed to recognize a child who needed understanding and help. Instead, he was labeled as a boy who just didn’t want to listen or behave, and they only caused his behavior to worsen as they made the attempts to change it.

Now at twelve, he had accustomed himself to the abuse; but it still had a strong psychological effect on him that would possibly carry into adulthood. His behavior was at its worst. Though he didn’t possess the mean streak some kids did or pick on those he found weaker than himself, he had no respect or appreciation for adults or authority figures in his life. Orders he was given were disobeyed; and he went out of his way to aggravate his foster parents, teachers, and anyone else who attempted to intervene in his life and choices. The foster family he now lived with was one of the worst he could recall from his history of foster families. He’d been constantly whipped for his misbehavior, disobedience, and attitude; but just like it did with every other family, it made him rebel and caused his behavior to worsen.

Though he could endure the abuse directed at him, he still dreaded returning home to face his foster parents. Dragging his feet along the path that led to the house, he pondered over the idea of stopping somewhere else first, though he knew he’d get in trouble for it later—but he always found himself in trouble, so it made little difference to him. With that in mind, he changed his direction and turned to head toward the local park instead. Since most kids directly headed home for lunch after school, he knew it would probably be empty for at least a while before he had to contend with any bullies.

As he reached the open gates of the park, he stepped inside and was gratified to find the grounds were empty, except for three teenage girls of high school age—two of them blond and blue-eyed and the third possessing cocoa-toned skin and dark eyes—who were having a picnic of some sort, sitting together on a picnic blanket with a basket as they talked and laughed. They presented no real threat to him and didn’t even notice him, so he paid no attention to them and searched for a spot to sit.

His eyes finally landed on a vacant area several feet away from the girls. His eyes focused on a spot beneath an oak tree—it seemed to be the perfect place to sit for a while. He started toward the chosen place, dropping his bag as he reached it. Then he sat down beneath the tall tree’s shade, leaning against the thick trunk.

As he leaned back, he took in his surroundings, the blue-eyed gaze keeping an alert lookout for anyone who could be considered as a threat. As the minutes ticked by and no one new appeared, Brian relaxed. He observed the teenage girls pack up and leave, and then he found himself completely alone, which he was perfectly fine with.

He felt safe and secure—there were none of the bullies around, nor was he near his foster family. It was rare for him to have moments of peace and serenity like this one, so he appreciated and enjoyed it, knowing it wouldn’t last. At some point, other children were going to start showing up since the park was a regular hangout for the children from the local elementary school and middle school. Plus, he couldn’t stay indefinitely—he would have to return home, despite his reluctance to do so and his dislike for his foster family.

He reached into his schoolbag and pulled out his English notebook. He rarely—if ever—did actual work in any of his notebooks, and he usually ripped papers out of them to draw or doodle on out of boredom instead. As he had done in class, he ripped out a piece of paper, found a pencil, and began to doodle on it, while keeping an eye on the open gates at the same time. He couldn’t afford the chance of missing the arrival of a threat.

Brian, to his dismay, wasn’t alone for much longer. As he was drawing lines and shapes on the paper, an athletically built young man walked in through the gate, a bottle of beer swinging from a hand as he moved, a navy-blue bag slung over one shoulder.

Brian stiffened as he lifted his eyes and studied the countenance of the older boy, instantly recognizing him—Lane Neeson. He had never been personally involved with him in any way, but the teenager was well-known for being heavily involved in both alcohol and drugs, and he was feared by those his age and even older because of the hot temper and hard fists that moved without warning.

Lane Neeson was labeled by the adults who knew him as a hopeless case. At sixteen, he attended the local high school, but no one knew where he lived or who his parents were. He had no friends to speak of—just acquaintances he bought his drugs from—and didn’t seem to care. He gave the impression of being a dangerous enemy and not someone anyone with a grain of intelligence would hang around with. It was all these factors that made Brian fear him rather than any personal experience.

In actual fact, the twelve-year-old hadn’t had any actual experience with Lane at all. He had seen glimpses of the teenager from time to time in the past two years, but he’d never spoken to him or been spoken to. He hadn’t even been in close proximity to him, usually catching sight of him from a distance before running in the opposite direction with the mindset that he would only bring more trouble and pain to his life. This was the first time he’d been this close to Lane Neeson since he’d first heard of his name and reputation, and he wasn’t certain if this would end well, given the type of guy he was known to be.

Stiff and heart quaking with fear, certain someone rumored to be as dangerous as Lane could do much worse to him than any of the bullies he usually had to contend with, Brian hoped the young man would ignore him and walk on. In the times he’d seen him before, he had never taken notice of him, so he hoped he wouldn’t notice him now either. He fixed his gaze on his paper with the hope that if he didn’t acknowledge the other boy’s presence, he might decide to leave him alone. He moved his pencil along the paper, barely aware of what he was doing, his thoughts being so fully occupied by the new visitor.

Lane flicked coal-black hair off his forehead, turning to his right to notice the younger boy beneath the tree. Smoke-gray eyes, often described with the words, cold as steel, by those who knew him, studied the other occupant with interest. He recognized him—though he hadn’t spoken or approached him before, he knew him by name and knew of the problems he had. He had once been the same way, but running away from home and living on the streets had changed him. Compared to the weak, timid boy he’d once been, he was unrecognizable and no one would dare to lay a finger on him now.

He approached the other boy, stopping directly before him. He looked down at him with curiosity. “Brian, right?”

Brian, heart quaking with fear that he’d been approached by the very person he’d hoped would ignore him, reluctantly raised his head to meet the older boy’s gaze, wondering what it was he wanted with him. “Yes... How do you know?”

“I have my ways.” Lane shrugged and dropped down beside Brian without asking for an invitation. Shrugging off his bag, he popped open the bottle he carried and took a gulp. Though he wasn’t legally allowed to drink, but he drank for the same reason he used the drugs that weren’t legal either—to forget for a while, to numb the pain of a tragic childhood. “So do you know who I am?”

“Lane...” Brian responded, coming to the conclusion that the older boy had no intent on hurting him—or at least as long as he didn’t anger him. None of the bullies he knew tried to carry on a decent, civil conversation before launching an attack. Instead, he seemed keen to talk to him for some reason, raising his interest and curiosity. “Everyone knows your name...”

“I bet you’ve heard some really nasty things about me,” Lane commented with a slightly amused smile, knowing full well what was said about him.

Brian nodded without detailing anything of what he’d heard. He wasn’t going to repeat what had been said about Lane when he was being nice to him. It was a novelty to have someone speak to him as if he held some degree of importance. What he thought or felt had never been given any importance before—neither by the adults nor other kids.

Lane looked over the younger boy from the corner of his eye as he took another drink from the bottle. He had the look of neglect, abuse, and pain that he had once worn, too. Those factors still affected him today, forcing him to seek solace by getting himself drunk or stoned so he could forget those times. “You know, you’re kind of like me...”

“How?” Brian turned shocked eyes to the older boy, trying to comprehend such a statement. He couldn’t see any similarities between them. “Everyone is scared of you. They wouldn’t dare touch you. No one will leave me alone. I’ve been through so many foster homes, and all they can ever do is hurt me.”

“Now,” Lane pointed out. “I wasn’t like that once. I was just like you are now.” He set down his bottle. “I know you have problems, and I don’t mind listening if you need someone to talk to.”

Brian looked at Lane with surprise. It was the first time someone had made such an offer to him. Before he could stop himself or think clearly, he was spilling his frustration to his companion. “Everything used to be so perfect. I had great parents and all, but they died when I was four. I can still remember what they were like, you know. No one understands me. All they do is beat me when they don’t like what I do.”

Lane remembered the countless times he’d been whipped almost senseless by his own father before he’d run away. “I know what it’s like...” he said slowly. “So I’m going to help you a little—I can give you something that will make it all go away for a while. I won’t even ask you to pay me anything.” It was a largely generous offer on his part, especially considering the amount he had to pay for it. “What do you say, kid?”

Brian knew what Lane was referring to without needing to ask. “You mean drugs, don’t you? Is that why you do it?”

“Yeah,” Lane admitted honestly. “When the pain is too much, when I can’t take it anymore, taking a little something helps me forget it all—and I feel great for once. So what do you say?”

Brian knew he wasn’t supposed to accept such an offer. He was significantly younger; but he still knew using drugs, if they weren’t for medical purposes, was wrong. However, Lane’s description was alluring. He wanted to forget the pain and abuse; he wanted to feel great for once, too. “Okay. Deal.”

Lane smiled. He knew he shouldn’t be making this offer to a child; but the drugs had helped him in a way, and maybe it would help Brian. “Alright then.” He picked up his bottle again. “I’ll bring it to you tomorrow. Meet me here tomorrow, but don’t tell anyone about it; and if someone finds out, don’t tell where you got it.”

“Why is it secret?” Brian wondered. “Doesn’t everybody know you’re into drugs anyway?”

“They suspect,” Lane corrected. “They don’t know because they can’t prove it. If they could, the police would have probably arrested me by now. I’m trusting you to keep your mouth shut. Not a word, McPherson.”

Brian nodded. “I promise.” It wasn’t fear of what Lane would do to him if he told anyone about the promise they’d made, but respect and admiration for the one person who had listened to him and wanted to help in his own way. “I won’t say a word to anyone.”

Lane nodded and smiled. He drained the rest of his drink and pulled himself to his feet, the empty bottle in his hand. “Alright then. We’ll meet tomorrow. Same time, same place. Don’t forget.”

“Okay.” Brian nodded his head.

Lane, picking up his bag and slinging it over one shoulder again, turned and walked away. Dropping his bottle in a nearby trash can, he exited the park, leaving the younger boy behind.

Brian watched him until he’d completely disappeared from sight. Then he realized it was nearly sunset. He also noticed there were a number of children around—many of them those who often picked on him—staring at him. Lane’s presence had kept them away, but he was vulnerable now that he was gone, which meant he had to leave before he became a target.

He shoved his notebook into his bag and jumped to his feet, hefting his schoolbag on his shoulders. Though hesitant to return home, he didn’t want to stay behind at the park either, knowing an attack would be launched at him if he waited long enough. Once the other children—the well-known bullies among them in particular—were sure Lane wasn’t returning, they would probably ambush him. He had to leave before then. He left the park and with great reluctance, he turned toward home.

The home of the Michaels, his current foster family, was quite a distance from the park when walking on foot. It put him at advantage when he wanted to be as far away from it as possible, but when he needed to hurry home—or face punishment from his foster parents—it became a great disadvantage. This was one of the days it became a disadvantage. He was expected to return home before sunset, but he knew full well he wouldn’t reach the house in time to make the curfew.

By the time he reached the Michaels’ home, the sky had darkened and the sun was setting. With dread, knowing what he was likely to face inside for returning late, he entered through the whitewashed picket fence surrounding the property, crossing the green lawn and his foster mother’s flower bed as he made his way up to the two-storey cream-themed house. Then he climbed the steps and turned the door knob.

He stepped into the well-lit home quietly with the intent of sneaking to his room if he was unnoticed, closing the door softly. His plans were thwarted when he noticed Charles Michaels, sitting by the door in a chair that had been placed there just for the purpose of waiting for his return. He inwardly cringed, but stared at his foster father without expression or emotion.

“You’re late.” Charles tone was cold and crisp as usual. He lifted his tall, slender frame off the chair to interrogate his foster son, the deep green eyes beneath a head of wavy chestnut-brown hair already dark with anger and displeasure, which they always seemed to be when directed at him. He picked up the whip, which was conveniently leaning against the chair he’d been sitting on, and turned to Brian. “You know you’re supposed to be here after school. I was waiting.”

Brian wasn’t surprised by the sight of the whip. It always seemed to be ready to be used on him when his foster father was around. He shrugged at Charles, not responding—it wouldn’t change his foster father’s intent to whip him, so he found it a waste of his time and energy to even bother explaining why he was late.

Brian’s lack of response angered Charles more. “Answer me, brat!”

Brian stared at him blankly, maintaining his stoic, emotionless mask. He remained silent. Whether he answered or not, he knew Charles would whip him anyway. He’d quickly learned within days of entering the household that his foster father was a cruel, brutal man who derived pleasure from bringing him physical pain since he wouldn’t behave in a way that was pleasing to him. He was the first and only one of his many foster parents over the years that abused him to a point that it was too painful to even move.

“Turn,” Charles ordered sharply, preparing to use the whip. He despised the way his foster son disobeyed the rules and behaved as if nothing mattered, and it irked him to no end. His attempts to whip the boy into shape—literally—had not been successful so far; but he determined that he would become tired of the beatings and start behaving the way he should one day. He rationalized the pleasure he felt at bringing physical harm upon the boy as normal because of his deplorable behavior.

Brian didn’t move, hands clenching at his sides. He knew Charles would whip him as soon as he turned, and he certainly wasn’t going to freely allow him to do so just because he’d ordered him to. He still had cuts across his back from his last whipping. He remained still, standing by the door.

“Not going to obey?” Charles smiled, a cruel glint in his eyes. “It’s not like I need you to listen this time, kid.” He grabbed Brian by the shoulder, turning him by physical force and shoving him against the wall, pulling the schoolbag off him. Yanking the T-shirt and undershirt up, mostly for the pleasure of making the beating more painful, he mercilessly brought the whip against his foster son’s scar-covered back repeatedly, the sound of the whip whistling through the air before it cut into Brian’s tender skin.

Throughout the whole beating, Brian clenched his teeth and bit his tongue to keep himself from crying out in pain. He refused to give Charles any more pleasure or satisfaction than he already received just from beating him. He could feel the whip break into his skin, but it wasn’t new to him. Charles had been whipping him within a week of his arrival into the home and hadn’t stopped, sometimes leaving him covered in blood and unable to move. It did not reform his behavior toward his foster father, however—it only made him more disobedient and resulted in him despising the man more than he’d disliked any of his former foster families.

Charles didn’t stop until he was satisfied he’d hit the boy enough for the beating to be a reminder, his arm tiring from the force he’d thrown into it. He finally dropped the whip and stepped back. “Go to your room!”

This time, Brian obeyed; and that was only because he had wanted to go to his room to escape Charles in the first place. Pulling down his shirt over his blood-covered back and picking up his bag, he walked down the hall, dragging the schoolbag with him, and past the sitting room. As he passed it, he noticed the stares and smirks of his foster brothers and foster sister and the cold, disapproving glare of his foster mother, which wasn’t uncommon. Even on days when he didn’t have to endure Charles’s beatings, he had to contend with the rest of his family, each of them abusing him in some way or other.

Anna Benson Michaels, his foster mother, stared at him through cold aquamarine-blue eyes, curly wisps of her gold-blond hair falling into her face, not saying a word. Though she’d never physically touched him in a harmful way, she was his source of emotional abuse in the house, and she never stopped the others from hurting him.

The Michaels triplets—Fredrick, William, and Jared—watched him with identical smirks in place. At seventeen, the three teenagers were identical in appearance, tall and athletic, possessing their father’s wavy dark hair and their mother’s pale blue eyes. Though he couldn’t tell them apart, despite having lived in the house for two years—and didn’t care to either—Brian knew them by name. They were his primary source of misery in the Michaels’ home. While his foster father’s abuse could be explained by his hot temper, Charles’s sons attacked and poured heaps of cruelty on the young boy for their own amusement; and they were never stopped, scolded, or punished for it.

The closest in age in the house was his foster sister, Natalie Michaels, at fifteen. However, she wasn’t any kinder than the rest of her family. A knowing smile was in place on her pale features, and the deep green eyes she’d inherited from her father, below the head of waist-length, curly blond hair from her mother, glinted with malicious amusement. Just like her mother, she was a source of emotional abuse, often calling him names and going out of her way to crush his self-esteem.

He ignored the glare of his foster mother and the smiles of his foster siblings as he walked away. He reached the room he’d been given upon his arrival, which was more of a storage room than a bedroom. Inside was just a thin, ratty mattress to sleep on and a small cabinet to keep the few clothes he owned. Entering the room, he dropped his bag and closed the door behind him.

He resigned himself to not getting any dinner tonight, which was something common and expected under the Michaels roof. He hadn’t been given any money that morning for the cafeteria either, so he hadn’t had anything to eat throughout the day. The Michaels family considered depriving him of food and starving him as another form of discipline, and he had accustomed himself to going to bed hungry most of the time.

He went to the window, peering out to watch the sun set as his thoughts wandered, trying to distract himself from the stinging pain he could feel on his back from the whipping and the cuts it had left. For a moment, as he watched the flaming light of the day descend from the sky and pondered over the wonders of the world, he found himself wondering if God truly existed. He remembered his parents had believed He did and so had some of his foster families. Then he began to ponder on why he wasn’t being helped if that was the case.

If You’re really out there, God, why won’t You help me? Don’t You see I need Your help? Have I done something wrong? Have I made You so angry that You won’t help me? Are You punishing me?

Slowly, he moved away from the window and sank down on his mattress, feeling confused, desolate, and dejected. His thoughts then turned to Lane Neeson, and his frustration left him. Despite the rumors around him and the reputation he had, the older boy had been kinder and more understanding than anyone Brian had ever met since losing his parents. He was not what everyone else made him out to be, even if he was a troublemaker and involved in things he wasn’t supposed to be.

Brian recalled the promise he’d made with Lane with a mixture of guilt and excitement. Even now, he knew it had been wrong to agree; but if it took him away from his pain and misery for just a while, he was willing to pay the cost.

As the room fell into complete darkness, he pulled off his red-and-white high-tops and then stretched out on the mattress—avoiding lying on his back since it was too painful—closing his eyes. He didn’t bother thinking about the homework in his bag. He never did it anyway, and the teachers had stopped expecting him to. He rarely even did the class work they gave him, unless he felt like it; and that was usually when he was bored. As he drifted off to sleep, his last thoughts were of his meeting with Lane the next day.