A/N: I cried while writing this and it's not even that sad. No joke. Tears, runny nose, the whole nine yards.
I got the inspiration from Concrete Angel by Martina McBride. I remember listening to this as a child and not knowing what the song was really about, thought it was about an actual statue that a little girl saw everyday in a park or something and thought that she would be able to get away from bullying. I took most of this from the video. The packed lunch, the window, the tree. Yeah. But, I tried to make it as 'mine' as possible.
I listened to the song on continuous loop while typing this up. I can't watch the video without crying. Domestic violence, especially on a child, is unforgivable. If you hear something or see it happening, don't just don't do something. You could save a life someday even if it's just dialing the police. I'm lucky to have a loving home, as I hope you all are too.

I recommend listening to the song while reading this to get the whole affect. Please and thank you. And I am also leaving this as 'incomplete' because I may write a second part explaining Alfred and Arthur's ordeal.

This is dedicated to anyone and everyone who has had to put up with any kind of abuse.


Matthew Williams, an eight year old third grader. He walked down the quiet sidewalk of his American suburban home to his school. The trees rustled in the wind and the birds sang a sweet song. His large, red sweater seemed out of place in the warm spring air, but he wore it nonetheless. His blonde hair was dirty and unkempt. A small bruise could be seen peaking from under the sweater's collar.

Matthew Williams held a small lunch box be had packed with a lunch he made himself and his old, worn out stuffed polar bear. His backpack was worn as well, holes in multiple places. As he got closer to the school and more children came to view he could see a little girl around his age hugging her mother good bye. Matthew looked away.


In class, Matthew was ignored by the other children. He wasn't invisible. In fact, the children could see him quite clearly. They didn't like how he looked. He always wore the same sweater and shirt and jeans everyday to school. Sometimes he smelled gross so they left him alone to suffer quietly.

There was a spelling test today and Matthew tried his hardest to get all the words correct, but try as he might he was tired. His mother had kept him up last night and he wanted to sleep for a bit. The teacher, Mrs. Herdervey, walked the aisles and noticed little Matthew nodding off.

She nudged his arm and couldn't help but notice him flinch. He was an odd child. He didn't like when others touched him. She saw a few bruises every now and again but she also saw them on the other children. They were third graders after all. He was a nice, polite child who never raised his voice or talked back. He was always the sweetest child when talking to a teacher. What could he be doing anyway?


At recess that day, Matthew sat on a bench clutching at his toy, Kumajirou. They talked in silence. Matthew never had to say anything aloud for Kumajirou to understand him. The beady, black eyes of the stuffed toy knew everything that Matthew endured at home. He understood why sometimes, while he was coloring in his room as he hid, that he asked God why He couldn't just let him go up to live with Him.

The wind blew a few strands of hair into Matthew's eyes and he swept them aside. Out of the corner of his eye he could see another boy coming up to him.

"Hi." The boy said with a smile.

"H-Hello," Matthew croaked; his voice hoarse from disuse. He clutched Kumajirou closer. He was probably going to make fun of him like the others.

"Why're you sitting here all alone?" The boy sat down next to Matthew. "You looked kinda sad so I came to play with you. Is that okay?"

The boy was blonde like Matthew, except for that his hair was clean and shorter, a cowlick at the top of his head instead of in front of his face like Matthew's. He had shiny blue eyes instead of dull violet ones. His skin even glowed unlike Matthew's. He was like an angel.

"Y-Yes."

"I'm Alfred. But you can call me Al. What's your name?"

"M-Matthew. Matthew Williams."

Alfred thought a moment. "You sound funny. Where are you from?"

"…I-I'm from Canada." Matthew felt dejected. Maybe Alfred wouldn't like him anymore because of the way he talked…

"That's so cool! And I'm gonna call you Mattie, alright Mattie?" Alfred smiled and stood up. "Do you wanna play with me?"


The two boys played on the playground, in their own little corner, in their own little world. Alfred never mentioned Matthew's dirty hair or asked if he was hot under his sweater. Matthew felt himself open up to the boy. He stopped stuttering and enjoyed playing with him. He hadn't played with another kid for as long as he could remember.

When the teachers began calling for their students, Matthew was sad to find that Alfred didn't have the same class. In fact, he didn't see him in any of the lines. His class must have gone in before his own.


Matthew stepped out of the school with a small frown. He had to go home now.

His sad thoughts were interrupted though when Alfred bounded up to him. "Hey Mattie!"

Matthew felt his face lit up with a smile at the other blonde. "Hi, Al. Are you walking home too?" Alfred nodded.

"I live on Westmire Street."

"So do I," Matthew said gladly. Maybe they could play together some more at Alfred's house.

"That's cool. Could I come over? My dad doesn't get home until late." Alfred still had that wide smile but Matthew felt his own break.

"N-No. M-Mom doesn't like it when people come over." That wasn't true. In fact, Matthew had no idea what his mother would say or do if he brought someone home. He never tried and he didn't want to find out.

"That sucks. Well, we could go to my house and play there. I have a key." Alfred then raced down the sidewalk to a dark blue, two-story house. Matthew tried to make himself invisible when he noticed Alfred lived just right next door to him. Maybe if he pretended to be someone else, his mother could stay in her room and forget she had a son for a few hours.


Inside, Matthew noticed Alfred's house was sort of dusty. The lights didn't work and it was cold in all of the rooms. The furniture had crème sheets over them and there were no appliances in the kitchen or bathroom.

"It's not much, but I call it home." Alfred smiled, taking Matthew deeper into the house. They played hide-n-seek until an older blonde man came home. He didn't look like Alfred at all, but the boy still called him father.

"I-I have to go," Matthew said when he noticed the sun was setting. His stomach was churning and he had a lump in his throat.

"Alright. And don't forget to open your window so we can talk." The boys had noticed that their rooms were adjacent so Alfred suggested talking through them at night.

"I-I won't."

The man, who introduced himself as Arthur Kirkland, smiled at Matthew with a glint in his eyes. It was like he was reading the boys soul. Matthew felt ashamed.


The house was quite when he opened the front door. He didn't announce his arrival. He had done that once and learned that it only brought more pain quicker.

Matthew snuck to the kitchen like a shadow and made himself a snack before going up to his bedroom on the second floor.

True to his word, Alfred was already waiting for him, his head sticking out and his smile as wide as ever. Matthew shut his door and turned the lights on.

His room was small, the walls painted white, and there were crayons and paper everywhere. He put his backpack under his bed in its hiding place and sat Kumajirou and his snack on the window sill after opening it.

"Hey, Mattie!" Alfred said. Matthew smiled.

"H-Hi, Al." He noticed that his palms were sweating, but he tried his hardest to ignore it as he ate the sandwich he had made.

"Long time no see, huh?" Alfred laughed at his own joke. "So, you room looks nice - from what I can see."

Matthew smiled. "T-Thanks. I liked yours too." Alfred's room was pitch black. It was dusty and looked like no one had lived in it for years. There was an equally dusty bed and no dresser for clothes.

"Yeah, but I bet yours is more fun to play in. Too bad your mom doesn't like people over. That's a bummer." Matthew stifled a small, nervous giggle.

"Y-yeah, a bummer."

Then, without warning, his bedroom door slammed open and Matthew was dragged from the window. Alfred titled his head when he noticed that the woman who had come into Matthew's room was screaming at him.

Matthew glanced sideways at Alfred just before his mother hit his face. Alfred was shocked, stunned. He stared at Matthew from his room, his voice lost. He watched as Matthew's face turned red with a hand-shaped print on his cheek. There were tears welling in his eyes, threatening to spill over.

The screaming continued. Alfred watched until Matthew's mother pulled him to where he couldn't see anything but their shadows. He watched as a grey hand swung down again and again onto the grey figure that was Matthew's shadow.

"A-Al!" He heard. A tear rolled down Alfred's face. He hadn't noticed Arthur come into his room and stand behind him, but when he did, the boy looked up, more tears streaming down, at his father.

The screams continued, shouting out obscenities and insults at the crying boy. The boy who was calling out for Alfred's help.

"I-I'm sorry for lying to you, Al! Please help!"

Then, Alfred watched as one last hand fell onto the crumpled shadow of Matthew and it was silent.


Three police officers stormed into the small home at nearly two in the morning. A few neighbors had called, complaining about noise and maybe some sort of domestic argument going on in the house.

When they entered the house, they found a woman sitting in the living room. She was sitting calmly, watching television, like she hadn't heard the police pounding on the door just seconds before they barged in.

"Ms. Williams," the largest officer, Officer Beilschmidt, said while the others began investigating the house. The woman looked at him with a glazed look. The house smelt like smoke. She was probably high. "We got some complaints from your neighbors about some yelling."

"It was nothing," she slurred. "I took care of it."

"Ludwig! Come here!" Ludwig handed the woman over to Officer Zwingli and made his way up to where he heard his partner calling.

"What is it, Ivan?" Ludwig saw the large Russian kneeling on the ground. His soft, childish smile was gone, replaced with a sad frown.

"I've found why the yelling was about." His voice trailed off. Ludwig made his way into the room of a child, fearing the worst.

He bit his lip at what he saw. There was a small blonde child, bruised face and blood pooling under him from a head wound.

"He has no pulse," the normally happy Russian said. "His mother probably beat him to death while she was on a high."

The German inspected the body while Ivan called in the paramedics. There were bruise marks on the boy's arms from when he undoubtedly tried to protect himself. His eyes were closed and still puffy from when he had been crying out only hours before. He was small and looked too thin to be any healthy.

Next to him there was a stuffed bear stained with his blood. The boy's left arm was reaching for it, the bear just out of reach. He had probably been trying to get it for a few last minutes of comfort before he died.

Ludwig sighed heavily. He knew all too well what kind of trouble children of domestic violence went through. He had saved his younger brother, Gilbert, from their own mother when he had been in high school. Gilbert was probably no older than this boy was now when Ludwig had taken him and left the hell-hole they dared call home.

Two paramedics came into the room and carefully removed the boy.


At the funeral, Matthew's third, second, first, and Kindergarten teacher attended. His Uncle Francis cried silently. His cousins Zeke and Eric were also there. Their baby sister, Wy was too young to understand what everyone was crying about, but she cried too. And behind them all, Alfred stood with Arthur.

Matthew's mother was not there. She was being held in jail until her court date.

The small plaque on the ground read, "Matthew Williams – 1994 ~ 2002." A small angel sat above the engraving, looking up at the blue sky. Its hands were folded in a mock-prayer. There was a bouquet of lilies and roses on top of the mound of dirt – Matthew's favourite flowers.


The small crowd left after the service. The teachers all talking with solemn voices about their lost student. They talked about how they should have done something. They had seen the signs, but had brushed them off.

Francis kept blaming himself. "My dreadful sister never should have been graced with a child." He should have known when she hadn't allowed anyone to see Matthew that something was wrong.

Zeke was holding Wy in her arms as the child slept. Eric kept looking back, expecting his favourite cousin to come from behind the tree standing next to the mound of dirt, to come play with him agaian. Zeke had to pull him away.


The last to leave were Alfred and Arthur. Alfred sat at the mound of dirt. His blue eyes were now dull like Matthew's had been just the other day.

Alfred stood up after a few hours of silence. Arthur took his hand and they began walking up the hill in the cemetery. Alfred stopped walking for a moment though. He looked back at Matthew's grave.

The trees rustled their leaves in the wind and from behind the large oak tree next to his grave, Matthew walked out. He looked at his grave, at his plaque, and at his flowers. Then he looked at Alfred and Arthur.

The blue-eyed boy ran back down the hill and grabbed Matthew's hand and smiled softly. Matthew sniffed but smiled back.

"Come on," Alfred said as he brought Matthew back to Arthur.

The three walked up the rest of the hill into the golden light at the top. There, a small girl with brown pigtails was waiting for them. Another girl, with short blonde hair, was standing with her; a shy smile on her face.

"You'll like living with us. Arthur takes good care of us," Alfred explained to Matthew. "He was my father before we died."