The swing let out a creak as the boy sitting in hit pushed himself back and forth. He sat alone, his eyes sad and downcast, while the other children ran around, chasing after a shiny red ball in the wide space. Every now and again, they would pause and glance over at him warily, as if they expected him to attack at any moment. On the rare occasion that the ball would roll by the swing set a collective gasp would fill the air and the children would stop playing. They would spend a few seconds with their heads together before sending a reluctant child after it. The child would retrieve the ball as fast as he or she could, refusing to make eye contact with him. He had tried several times to join in their games, but they would stop and stare at him until he returned to his swing. And when he stood up to leave, they froze, eyes growing wide, and they remained that way until he left the room.

"Come out you worthless shit!"

The boy shied away from the angry man, retreating into the darkest corner of his room. But that only made the man angrier as he grabbed the boy by the hair and dragged him out into the living room.

"You're a piece of filth, you know that?" the man shouted, tossing the boy onto the floor.

"I'm sorry, Daddy," the little boy murmured.

"Sorry? Sorry doesn't bring your mother back, you scumbag."

"Don't hit me," the boy begged.

The man laughed. "You don't want me to hit you? Well, there's a nice thought."

The little boy started to cry as the man continued to laugh. His cry quickly turned to one of pain as the man drilled the tip of his boot into the boy's stomach.

"What does it matter if I beat you senseless?" the man asked, kicking the boy again, "Your injuries always heal within a day. Nobody asks questions about the bruises they never see, why should you worry?"

The boy wanted to tell the man that he felt unloved and unwanted every time his father took his anger out on him, but he knew that would make the beatings worse, so he closed his eyes and tried not to cry has is father's fists started raining down on him.

"Come on out, you little brat, Daddy wants to play."

The boy once again hid in his corner, trying to blend in with the wall behind him. He knew that his hiding wouldn't protect him and that soon his father would find him hiding in the closet and the beatings would start up again. He knew that, once again, no one would know what was happening. He also knew that no one would care.

The closet door flew open and the boy shrank back. Something glinted in his father's hand and on closer inspection the boy realized that it was a knife.

"No, Daddy," the boy murmured.

"Oh yes," his father replied with a maniacal grin.

The knife arched high in the sky before being swung down. The boy cried out and threw up his arms to protect himself. The blade slashed across his wrists, leaving deep gashes, causing him to scream and clutch his wrists to his chest. His father stated laughing and he raised the knife again. But the boy was no longer looking at his father; he was looking at his blood. It was the first time he had ever seen it flowing; his father had always been careful not to break the skin to avoid leaving any scars. As the blood ran down his wrists and dripped onto the ground, thin trails of smoke rose up and the ground began to burn away.

The boy then lifted his eyes slowly to his father. He wanted to do it, more than anything, he wanted to fight back, but he was scared. Even though his father was mean to him, he at least had a home and a bed to sleep in. What would happen if his father were dead? What would happen to him then? He didn't have time to think as his father raised the blade once again. The boy lifted his arms quickly, momentarily forgetting about his bloody wrists, and a few drops of blood flew off his wrists and hit his father on the chest.

His father screamed and jerked back as the spot where the drops landed started sizzling. He tried to pull his shirt off, but it was too late, the blood had begun to eat away at his flesh. He panicked and backed up further, but couldn't hold his footing and fell. The hand with the knife went out behind him as he tried to break his fall. He gave a chocked gasp as the point of the knife went up through his back, then he lay still. The boy moved forward.

"Daddy?" he asked.

He placed his hand on his father's chest where the blood was pumping out. He heard the sound of hurried footsteps, his father's screaming must have been heard. He looked up as the door flew open and two men ran in…

"Devon!"

Devon blinked, the sound of Ali's angry voice snapping him back to reality. He looked out from his hiding place to see a young girl running toward him. He had done it again; he had drifted off in thought instead of watching for the victim Ali was leading toward him. He quickly stepped out in front of the young girl's path just as she came up alongside his hiding spot. The girl screamed and tried to spin past him, but Devon's arm whipped out and wrapped around the girl's shoulder, holding her tight.

"Great job," Ali said sarcastically, jogging to a stop by Devon's side, "She almost got away. Just like the other two on our last two hunts."

Devon was unable to answer Ali as he had to focus on holding on to the struggling girl. Ali rolled her eyes.

"Give her to me," Ali said and ripped the girl out of Devon's arms, wrapping her arm around the girl's throat, holding her tight.

"What's with you?" Ali asked.

"Nothing," Devon said, looking into Ali's eyes.

Ali squinted, meeting his gaze, before huffing and turning around, dragging the girl alongside her.