A/N so I've decided to rewrite this story. It's been a couple of years since I wrote it, and while I haven't grown too much as a writer, I've grown enough where I cannot write a third story to this series if I do not sit down and rewrite the first two. Hopefully, it's better than the original, and if it isn't, whoops. I have on document on one side of the screen with the other directly next to it, keeping them side-by-side for reference. I'll keep a lot of the same stuff, and maybe even paragraphs will just be copied and pasted into this new story, but I'll see where it takes me. I'm writing this note before I even write the first sentence of the remake. Those of you who write know what I mean when I say the story drags itself in one direction and we're just forced to write after it because who are we to change what the story has become. That being said, if the story ends up a tad bit different than the original, please don't hurt me

I would be lying if I said that I didn't nearly forget that I had a family and a home to make it back to. It had been nine years since I saw my family last, and it had gotten to the point where I wondered if I made up the first four years of my life or if it really happened. I was four years old when I was taken, stolen from my home, and I didn't even know how old I was when I was found, but I did find out I was thirteen. The significance of the age thirteen didn't reach me at first because, when I was four, I didn't know there was a big significance. I was focused on being five because being five would make me a big kid, and I wanted to be a big kid.

If I was asked me to describe my time away from my family in one word, I would use the word darkness for two reasons. The first and most obvious reason would be the lack of adjectives I knew from being locked away for the majority of my school years. Despite that, however, I had a large vocabulary and understanding of the world because my captors let me read books throughout the nine years I was there, but since I was trapped since I was four, it was hard to really imagine that there was a world outside of that house I was in. It took a short while for me to really start using the knowledge I gained from reading in the 'real world' because the idea of a 'real world' was almost alien to me. The second reason I would use the word 'darkness' to describe the later nine years of my life at that point is because that's a large portion of what my day consisted of: darkness. Anywhere I looked, there was darkness. There were moments where there was absolutely no source of light anywhere in the room, and I grew accustomed to that darkness. There was a window at the top of the room which brought in light from the sun, but that was only some parts of the day because of the tree outside my 'bedroom'. All that being said, darkness didn't phase me, but light did. Horribly.

When I realized nobody was going to find me, I was around seven years old, I assume. Maybe it was only a few weeks after I initially went missing, or maybe it was five or six years later. I may not have a time frame to match it up to, but that doesn't take away from it happening. The people who had taken me normally kept me locked away when they weren't with me, and they would hurt me when they were, but there were some rare moments of serenity in the house I was in. I would be brought upstairs to spend some time with them, doing some things such as playing cards or watching the television. The day I realized I was going to be trapped there forever was a day we were watching the television. I can't remember what it was exactly we were watching, but I think it was something like the news or maybe the weather. The normality of the person speaking on the television pulled at my heart in an unfamiliar way as I made a connection that the person on the screen existed in real life. They had a real family to go home to, they had a real house, and maybe they had a child. Maybe the child they had was the same age of me. Maybe I knew that child before I was taken. That day was the last day I cried while I was held captive, and that day was the day I stopped dreaming of my lost family.

The police showed up in the house one day, and I didn't know who or what they were until I read the word 'police' on their uniforms. I didn't know why they were there, either, because at the house there were no visitors that the men I stayed with weren't expecting. There were never knocks on the door, and nobody ever busted the door down. It was unfamiliar and therefore it was scary, so I cowered in the corner of the basement, my bedroom, and waited for the unpleasantness of this surprise that must have been set up by my captors. Surprises were common when I stopped reacting the way that they wanted me to. The door leading to the upstairs was opened with such force that my body instinctively flinched back even though I had long since stopped flinching from their abuse. Down came four men and one woman, each wearing the same outfit and each holding a weapon I knew as a gun. When one of the men met my eyes, he lowered the weapon and advanced on me, asking me what my name was and if I was hurt. I couldn't remember my name.

It didn't take long for the police officers long to realize that I wasn't going to answer any question they asked me or speak at all, because then one announced they were going to go call for an ambulance and took the stairs three at a time as he ran out. The woman took a seat next to me, holding my hand while the men started pulling at the chains around my wrists and ankles. The woman assured me that the men who kidnapped me were under arrest and I would never have to see them again, and then I started pulling away from them with a force even I didn't realize I had. I was pulling away because they were taking away the men I grew up with, the people who were the closest thing to a family that I had for most of my life. What happened to me seemed normal, and it was a part of life. I knew everything they did to me was wrong, but I was so heartachingly sad to think about them getting punished for it. The sadness wore off after a while of the woman keeping her arms wrapped around me, making it harder for me to pull away from them, and the sadness was replaced by anger. I was angry that the men I grew up with gave up so quickly. I wondered if they even tried to fight, tried to make sure I wouldn't be taken away from them. I felt betrayed. If they tried to fight for me, I would have stood up for them to make sure the police knew it was one giant misunderstanding, that these men meant me no harm.

I wasn't allowed to talk to or see my real family for a few weeks after I was found in the basement. I wasn't stable for it, they explained to me. I wasn't stable and I was too confused about where I belonged. I overheard the doctors talking, saying that once I stopped reacting negatively about my captors being arrested then I would be able to return to my home. For now, they needed to make sure I wouldn't run off. Nobody seemed to remember that I could barely walk, let alone run. Also, nobody seemed to consider the fact that I did miss my real family, despite me wishing against the arrest of my captors. They didn't think I even remembered my family, which was partially true because I almost forgot they existed, but I remembered them. There was a lot of emotional turmoil over me being moved from the basement to a hospital, and I found myself wishing for my mother, as most children do in times of hurt. I missed my mom, and I missed my dad, and I missed my two older brothers. I wondered if I had any younger siblings to miss.

It was hard being in the hospital. One of the hardest adjustments for me personally was sleeping in a bed during night. I was used to sleeping on the hard floor which wasn't as uncomfortable as the doctors seemed to assume it was, and I was also used to sleeping at any point in the day. In the basement, I didn't have to worry about silly things like walking back and forth or lifting my leg up and having to hold it there while everybody around me counted in unison. In the basement, I didn't have to deal with blinding lights being turned on during different moments of the day. In the basement, I didn't have to listen to people asking me hundreds of questions each day. I kept my mouth shut the entire time, refusing to say anything. I didn't say anything about the men or my time in the basement. I didn't say when the doctors did something that hurt or when I was too tired to continue walking back and forth. I didn't say anything when the light burned my eyes. I didn't say that any food I was given tasted like garbage I had been forced to eat while starving in the basement. I listened to them as they told me I was thirteen, missing for nine years, and my name, but I didn't say a word in response.

The physical exams given to me during the hospital was hard to endure. The first time they closed the door, pulled the curtains, and explained what they were going to do, I had a freak out where I couldn't catch my breath and the doctors had to restrain me when I started physically reacting. The next time an exam was attempted, it was a nurse who talked softly and didn't approach me until I relaxed my body and allowed her to do the exam. She gave me a few minutes to brace myself after explaining in full detail what she was about to do. It was uncomfortable and I was scared, but she made it go by simple enough. Any other physical exam I needed, she was the one to perform it.

I think I was on the hospital for around three weeks before I was finally stable enough to meet my family again. The nurses all got together to go out and buy me a few sets of clothes, since the only thing I had to wear from the basement was a very large shirt that was given to me by the man who stole me from the park all those years ago. Together, the nurses picked out an outfit for me to put on so I could look decent when seeing my family again for the first time in nine years. They nurses guessed my size wrong because the clothes they got me were baggy, but they fit better than anything I have worn while away from my family. The jeans were completely uncomfortable, but after a short while I had grown used to the feel. I detested the shoes, but I hadn't worn anything on my feet since I was four so even I could have expected that.

I was told the night before they arrived that they would be coming around lunch time the following day and that caused me to be up most of the night, wondering what they would be like. I wondered if I would recognize them immediately or if the rare daydreams and night dreams I had of them were depicting different people. I wondered if they would even want me anymore after I had been damaged the way I had been in the basement. The doctors and nurses knew the gist of what I experienced, such as the forced drug use, physical abuse, and sexual abuse, and I was sure they told everything to my parents. Maybe they didn't want me as a son anymore, knowing I wasn't the same person who they lost nine years before.

The doctors said I was full of nerves as we all awaited the arrival of my parents. Two doctors and three nurses were waiting in my room with me, all of them claiming that they didn't want me to have to face them alone, but I knew they wanted to make sure someone was there to restrain me if I got out of hand, as I did often enough while I was there. They were all just too touchy, and I didn't want to be touched. I sat on my bed with my knees up to my chest as I stared at the doorway, terrified of what could possibly happen but also a type of nervous-excited that I hadn't remembered ever feeling. My family was supposed to show up at eleven that afternoon, but we all started waiting around 9:30. Around ten, I heard a lot of commotion. It was quiet commotion, but it was a lot of it. A few moments later, I saw four people looking around frantically, but then the woman looked up and locked eyes with me.

I immediately recognized her. She had aged quite a bit, her once blonde hair was now graying, and the clear, happy face I remembered was replaced with one with worry lines. She seemed smaller than I remembered her being, but she was always a tiny woman. The smile that presented itself on her face brought me back nine years and it was like I never left. She had a thing about her that could make anybody feel as if they've known her forever. She had a kind face, very full of life and happiness and the desire to make everybody else live their life to the best of their abilities while she supported them the entire way because that's who she was. She was always a mom to everybody who weren't even her children, but she saved some soft spots for her family. It was my mother, and she looked happy to see me.

My father came rushing behind my mom when he saw me staring at them, and I couldn't help but wonder how it is they recognized me so well. My dad still looked young and nowhere near his real age which had to be between forty and fifty, but I couldn't remember. His eyes were soft and the grin he had on his face was genuine. His head lowered in an unfamiliar way, because my father always had his head held high, but when he raised it again I saw the tears that were present and he gripped my mother's hand as they stood in the entrance to my hospital room. My father was always one giant child, always running around the house and creating just as much noise as us kids, but he had an older look in his eyes. Not the old age type of old but the old the suggested he had been through more than anybody his age ought to. That didn't take away the from happiness seeping into his smile.

My oldest brother was a spitting image of our father that I almost thought I was seeing double, except he looked even older mentally than my father did. They stood at around the same height and if I didn't know any better I would have assumed they were brothers, but I could recognize Darry's face. Darry had a certain, unnameable feature about him that just told me he was my big brother. The tears that were flowing down his cheeks weren't happy tears, but they were sad tears. Sad tears because I was back or sad tears because of how long I had been missing, I couldn't tell, but I hoped it wasn't the former. The grin he gave me after the two of us made eye contact made me throw away any idea that the tears were sad because I was there.

My other brother, the middle child, was grinning at me ear to ear. He seemed to have taken more after our mother than our father, and our mother was beautiful. He had looks that would probably take anybody's breath away. His grin was playful while his eyes remained sad, and I could tell he wore his heart on his sleeve. There was no secret to the emotions he was feeling as it was evident on his face. Even someone like me, who had no practice in reading emotion or even recognizing them all the time, could figure out exactly what he was feeling.

I didn't want to imagine how I looked like to them, but after examining them so hard I couldn't help but remember my own looks. I had taken plenty of time in the bathroom of the hospital to just stare at myself, because during those nine years I had not once glanced in a mirror or anything to see what my own looks were like. I had very long, brown hair that was just unhealthy and greasy and I had a few clunks of hair missing atop my head. The doctors said it was from how unkempt my hair was the entire time and that it had just fallen out in some spots throughout the years. My teeth shocked dentists because they were baffled at how my teeth were relatively healthy after my time away and never using a toothbrush. That didn't mean they were perfect, though. My mouth was full of cavities and I needed three teeth removed in the back, but he did saw relatively healthy, so my teeth must have been expected to be much worse. There was no color to my skin, making me look more gray than pale. My eyes were almost as colorless as my skins, giving off a gray look with a tint of green. My nose was a bit crooked from an early incident where I was hit in the face, and I assume my nose broke or else it wouldn't have been crooked. I had no fat anywhere on my body so my skin kind of hung awkwardly on my bones. I couldn't figure out how they recognized me so easily, but maybe it was because of the same reason I recognized them.

All four of my family stood in the doorway, staring at me while I stared back. I didn't smile like they did, and I didn't cry. I don't think anything changed on my face from seeing them again for the first time, but internally was a different story. My heart was pounding so hard in my chest and I had butterflies in my stomach. Part of me wanted to jump up and hug them as tight as I could, crying about how I missed them and the torture I endured was horrendous, but another part of me remembered how they might have been my real family but they weren't the family I had for nine years. That part of me wanted my other family back despite the fact that they were in jail and would remain there forever, as soon as the court dates were over.

It was my mother who made the first move after standing in the doorway for a few moments with no reaction. She took a few steps closer to the bed I was sitting on, my father's hand releasing hers as he stood in the doorway. She moved slowly as if she was expecting me to slide backwards and away from her, but when I remained motionless she probably took that as a sign to continue because she walked towards me with more confidence than she started off with. Tears rolled down her cheeks as her eyes stared into mind, and I heard her voice clearly now for the first time in nine years, but all she said was one word.

"Ponyboy..."

A/N Okay so this is Chapter One. Maybe I'll continue this rewrite, maybe not. I'm going to wait to see any comments I get. See who thinks I should continue, who thinks I shouldn't, and whatever. If this first chapter is absolute shit then I'll just leave the series alone