C H A C E' S  P.O.V

Everyone stopped what they were doing and turned to look at us. My hand was on my seven year old cheek, not understanding what I did wrong or why I deserved to be "punished".  A scorching pain shot up, running my tongue over my lip tasting the metallic texture of blood.

All I ever asked was for the last slice of pizza remaining on the plate, sounding as polite as any well behaved child would be. Was saying "Please" a mistake?

"You imbecile little twit..." my mother hissed. "I've had a long hard day where I slogged my ass, from morning till evening, and you dare to threaten me that you wanted another slice?!" She screams, slapping her hands on the table as the glasses shake.

The floor beneath my feet ripples, my head hung low refusing to meet my mother's gaze. "You are an ungrateful little shit. You hear me? You are an ungrateful piece of trash, I didn't know what sins have I committed to deserve you!"

Gulping, she grabs a fistful of my hair and whips it away, hitting it against the wall of the booth. Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry. If you do, she will hurt you again.

"But mom..." I grapple to keep my voice from quaking.

"I've been good today. I shared my food with Becky Delbassio at school today because her momma forgot to pack her lunch,"  I blink twice. "Does that still make me a "Bad Boy?" 

"You did what? You had... some nerve to share my hard earned money with a bitch?"

Mom snaps, taking a knife and slicing the pizza into half. "You even have the balls to question my dignity?!" 

Flinching with fear, I cringe against the wall for support, wishing someone at least someone, would help me. No one did. They just continued to look on, as if it wasn't their problem.

Dragging me by my arm, mom kicks off her shoes and kicks the door closed with her foot, the T.V in the living room left on. My eyes widened with horror, knowing what was going to happen next.

"Mark!" Mom yelled over the noise coming from the T.V screen, a beer can rolling and stopping by my feet.

"What?!" Dad slurred, getting up. "What did this imp do now?!" "He called you the 'L' word," mom lies. "Seek him out." Dad's blood shot eyes flashed with indignation as he stormed towards me, his hands circling around my face. A muffled scream erupted and his fist collided with my temple. "Dad... no ... please ... don't do this..!" I cried,  as he rolled down his pants, removing his belt from the loops, a sharp, agonizing slash pinching my back. The next thing I knew, he was on top of me ripping my shirt off  and I caterwauled into unconsciousness.

I saw my childhood replay in front of me and it brought me back to relive that Sunday night.
I wasn't in Lester's, I was at my house begging my mom to stop, promising that I will be a better son. As usual, she did nothing to prevent me from waking up in my own blood, body sore and legs bound to the toilet seat. I can still hear her words echoing through my head, I kick a pile of trash cans, lifting the empty one up and dumping it to the ground.

My breathing is ragged, my chest is heavy and I'm desperate to search for some distraction that I can inject through my skin, numbing the remnants of my past memories that are still poisoning me with every effort I put in to move on. I pick another empty can, dumping it and I face the wall, connecting my fist and ignore the sound of my knuckles snapping into two. I saw myself in that kid.

He too was probably thinking why his mommy was yelling at him. He too probably forced himself to rectify the "mistake" he had committed. He too might probably grow up one day, society viewing him as an uncaring and uncouth child, branding and blaming him with a plethora of curses that define who he is.
That define who I am.

That boy may not even have a father who would surprise him to a Knicks game, let alone be the type of dad who would cheer his son on during a race, immensely believing in him because he is his son.

That boy might question his existence. He might not even know if there is a place for him. He might not even see if there would be anyone to accept him and take him under their wing, seeking to know more about why is he lost in the present. The sky is dark, clouds getting closer towards one another, my throat hurts. There is a hole in my heart that is ripped open, preventing me from shedding a tear. I believed I wouldn't feel the need to feel this type of pain, this stab, this wound that is making me bleed inside, for the first time in my entire life. I thought there was nothing that could destroy me.

I had the perfect plan. I had everything planned out. Take Hurricane out, make her experience that life is too short and hopefully convince her into giving me a chance, seeing where we will possible go. All I wanted was to be right next to her twenty four seven, inhale her scent and be the source of her happiness. I no longer wanted to take her into bed with me, because I finally found a light which gave me reasons to see that Hurricane and I have a future together. Reasons that also made me want to live again.

That will never happen, my father mockingly whispers. You are not capable of being loved by anybody, other than the darkness inside you, my mother laughingly retorts. "Shut Up!!" I shout, sliding the knife out of my pocket, throwing it at my mom's chest as she vanished into thin air.

"Chace?"

  
                                    ****

IVY's P.O.V

I saw something glimmer in Chace's aquamarine eyes, he looked more than just expressive. It looked like something similar might have happened to him before or he wouldn't have reacted the way he would've reacted.

"Ivy, you need to go." He forewarns, eyeing me resentfully. I can't find the words to describe the way Chace is behaving. I have never seen him look this disturbed about something sensitive. The last time he acted like this was when I was almost groped by a creep in my first college party and when I told him about bits and pieces about the people who had previously hurt me in the past.

"No," I protest, striding towards him. "I"-

"Cut the crap, alright?"

He snaps, his blue gaze flashing with emotion. "Don't play pretend with me and entice me with words of fucking comfort, when I sure as hell can make the hell out, that you are lying to me. Don't even try."

My heart totters after what he said. Chace would never say such horrible things to me.

"I don't need you, I don't need anyone. It's just how you put it, Ivy. People pretend like they are there for you and you do whatever you can to do the same for them. But you didn't mention the part where we are the ones who end up getting hurt. Take the opportunity and fucking leave!" He slams his fist against the wall, tears fall from my eyes.

"Chace please talk to me, I swear I'm not pretending!" I beg, not being able to suppress my sadness any longer. "Please, Chace."

"When I tell you to go, it means you fucking go," his voice is low. "Just go before I loose more of my shit." He tugs at his hair and clenches his teeth, facing the ground. "I'm not going anywhere, I want to stay. I want you to talk to me, because that is what.... frien-I- do. I know your not fine, so yell at me, do whatever. But don't for a second think I'm going to walk away like that."

His eyes meet mine and my arms encircle his waist, hugging him tightly. Chace goes still, eventually hugging me back, nuzzling his face into my shoulder, hauling me nearer to him.

"Don't go."

"I'm not going anywhere," I croak, feeling his tears silently fall from his mesmerizing face.

"I've got you."

Always.