PRESENT

'Boys!' snapped Mr. Krabs. 'You're working 24 hour shifts from now on!'

A crushing relief swept through me, catapulting me through the window above the cash register, smack into Squidward. 'Isn't this great Squidward?' I gush, too happy to apologize. 'We get to keep working and working without ever having to go home…'

FLASHBACK

'Miss do I have to go home?'

'What's the matter Spongebob?' Mrs Fin looks at me concernedly over her bottle-lense specs. 'Are there any…' She pauses delicately. '…Problems? At home?'

Tell anyone what them bruises are and you're dead do you hear me, cretin? D-E-A-D.

You'd think death would be a good thing at this point. But survival instinct screams at me to yank down my sleeves and stick another smile on my sore face. 'No Mrs Fin. I just feel too tired to walk home.'

She laughs, her voice high with relief that she doesn't have to get involved. 'Oh run along Spongebob, I'm sure Mummy will have a snack and a chair waiting for you when you get home. Here…' On a whim she pushes the painting I completed that day into my shaking hands. 'Take this home. Maybe Daddy can pin it on the fridge?'

'Yes,' I beam, pain raging through my every vein. 'Maybe.'

PRESENT

I shuddered at the sudden memory and automatically reached for my sleeves, which in my childhood doubled as a security blanket – and a smokescreen for my shame.

But the second I walked out of that door, into my adoptive parents arms, I ditched the baggy jumper and bought short-sleeved shirts. I didn't care who saw my scars. They'd never see the real ones because those lay six inches beneath my skin and no amount of stitching could ever seal them shut.

I used to be normal, you know. Back when I was a toddler, before my Dad hit the bottle and my Ma's customers started coming back to the house. I mean, I was still a square sponge but my laugh was infectious rather than annoying and I could lift a couple of cuddly toys without breaking a sweat.

See, when my Dad started going for me I tried to laugh it off before I felt his fists raining down on yesterday's bruises at which point I cried and screamed until I learned that it took less time if I was quiet.

Increasingly, my laugh became high-pitched and repetitive until it was just one broken note, going on and on for hours until my throat filled with blood and I knew it was time to give up.

As for my sapped strength…I went from carrying chairs and tables everywhere on my Ma's whim to not lifting a finger for myself when my adoptive parents picked me up. My muscles deflated like popped plastic bags and I knew I'd never get them back.

I don't miss them either. I'll be a child for the rest of my life because I grew up too fast.

I don't need strong arms to live out the rest of my life in safety.