It's always started like this.

A tense moment of silence between the two of us, all to familiar with the unease our room holds. I can't look at him, not when I can feel the hatred in that gaze. He's circling me like a predator around it's next meal. It's too much all at once and I swallow a whimper.

I shouldn't have said anything.

Wringing my hands together, I chance a dart of eyes towards the door, calculating my chances of making it there before him. Of course he could overpower me, tear me apart if he wanted, but maybe I'd be quicker. Maybe I could scream for help. But who would come? It's a Friday night, everyone's either gone home for the weekend or left to find some form of entertainment in town.

Besides, wouldn't that just make him angrier?

The creaking of his teeth as he grinds them together pulls me from my thoughts, violently snapping me back to the present rather than the possibilities. Regardless of who's faster, who's stronger, his labored breathing locks my knees and keeps me in place.

I can't believe I slipped up, got too comfortable...

He stops before me, his presence demanding my attention. I close my eyes and count my breaths, trying in vain to calm myself.

One.

Two.

Three.

I move my head slowly, meeting his heated stare. "You really know how to make a guy feel special, don't you Petey?" He says this so slowly, drawing out each word like he's got all day. And he might. Your every day concepts like "attending school" don't really apply to him. Gary makes his own set of rules.

"I'm sorry." I know our parts well, the privacy of our dorm the stage. It isn't the first or the last time and though my words feel stale in my mouth, the terror in my heart remains fresh. "I-…. I didn't mean it."

"And do you think I'll mean it when I break your fingers?" He chuckles darkly and any hope is replaced by the realization that there is nothing more I can say to stop him. There goes the normal script, ripped to pieces at our feet. Gary isn't supposed to look like he's actually considering his words. I usually manage to get off with a black eye or busted lip, but this is beginning to look much more grim. Small, unsure sounds escape my lips. I blink away tears.

Oh, God... This is it.

He's wearing a mockery of a smile. It's so far from real, twisted at the edges and dripping with the aching desire to harm, to tear, to kill.

All of this in what's supposed to be my home. I'm meant to be safe here, but I only see these four walls when I can't hold out on sleep any longer, and even then it's with one eye open for fear of what lay in wait across the room. When Doctor Crabblesnitch told me it would feel like home in no time, he lied.

"I can't fucking hear you, Peter." Too quickly to be true he is at my side, looming over my head. I can feel the heat from his body seeping through my dress shirt and I'm certain that I will burn.

I sputter a reply. "Y-yes."

"Do you want to call me crazy again, Peter?" He's moved behind me now, his breath like fire in my ear.

"No."

"Give me your hands."

I almost, almost, let another refusal slip past my lips before rationalizing that a few broken fingers are better than no pulse. I lift my hands from their place at my sides and suddenly they are stone, heavier than I can bear, and the world is in stop motion. I leave them hanging uselessly in the air, shutting my eyes tightly. I don't want to watch this. "Please," I breathe, faint to even my own ears. "get it over with."

I can hear him shifting and the sound nearly makes me cry out. "Good boys get to make requests, Petey. Do you know what bad boys get?" He prompts. "Do you?"

"Nothing."

"That's exactly right. You get nothing."

To my dread, I receive it in abundance. I can't tell how much time has passed with no physical pain to give me a sense of time. How can I count the seconds in heavy blows if none come my way?

Instead, I feel the barest of touches against my face.

It feels too delicate to be real, and I have to stop myself from lingering in the reprieve, reopening my eyes to the sight of a nightmare. He's standing so close to me now and if he comes any closer then my hands will be caught between our chests

His fingers leave my cheek. "You think I'm crazy? That I should be institutionalized, just like my Mom?"

I hold back a whimper.

"You're right." And for no more than a few seconds, the heat dims in those dark, dark eyes. Later on, I'll be able to convince myself that I saw pain there.

"Gar-" A sharp punch hits me square in the ribs, another to the stomach and my words fall helplessly to the hardwood floor, followed shortly by my body.

"Stay down there and think about what you've done wrong, Peter."

I wheeze as he prods me with his boot, pushing me onto my back. I can feel his glare rolling over my convulsing torso. Collar fully buttoned, khakis a little too long, and yet I feel utterly exposed under the scrutiny of the older boy.

My head lolls to the side, but his shoe nudges my cheek to face him once more. "I want you to listen closely. Really listen." Gary crouches by my limp form and snaps his fingers in my face until my gaze reconnects with his own. "Hello? Earth to Petey?"

His fingers reach toward my neck to continue their path along my skin. "There we go. You listening? Good boy."

Suddenly his grip tightens around my windpipe, his face within an inch of my own. I can't think, his breath intermingled with mine, every freckle and scar stealing my view. There is a silence, and I cannot fathom the depth of those nebulous eyes.

"Disrespect me like that again and I will beat you within an inch of your life."

I let out a wheeze as the rickety door slams behind him. He is gone, leaving me on the cold floor, aching, exhausted, lost.