A/N: I've been writing this story for months and finally convinced myself to post it! I was hesitant because I have quite a few unfinished stories, but then I realized that whether or not I post this, I'm going to write this anyway, so why not post? WARNING: I DO NOT WANT TO GET PEOPLE MAD, SO I'LL TELL YOU THAT THIS STORY HAS ABUSE MENTIONED (KINDA SEEN TOO) AND SOME LANGUAGE.

Once again, the poor girl was awoken by the sound of a glass bottle breaking over a hard surface, making a sickening cracking sound that assaulted her already-worn down ears for the thousandth time.

"You stupid bitch!" The vile greeting had become her usual wake up call. It wasn't offensive anymore. It simply served as a way to tell her that she had done something wrong again. Her exasperation was evident in the way she went about each day. What had she done wrong this time? Did she walk the wrong way? Did she breathe the wrong way? Clean the wrong way? Talk? Think? She never knew until it was too late to apologize.

Once again, she planted her thin arms on the hard, cold concrete in a pathetic attempt to lift herself off the dingy little mattress, one of the few things she was allowed to own anymore. However, the aching of her abdomen from her last 'mistake' made it an arduous task for the weak girl. The looming threat of another beating was her only motivation to push on and get up off the floor. She winced as she stood up fully, feeling the pressure on her sore legs, which had been tied up much too often.

"I'm coming," she called weakly in a cracking voice. Like every morning, she dreaded what lay ahead in the day. She knew nothing but pain and cruelty. It had been that way for so many years. Her hope was the only thing that she had not been stripped of yet, and she intended to hold onto it for the sake of her survival. Without it, what did she have?

Regaining some of her slowly fading strength, she scurried up the stairs and opened the door, all in the frightening dark of the musty basement. The light of the main floor hit her eyes before anything else, causing her to close them tightly in annoyance.

"Where in the hell have you been?" she heard his enraged voice yell. 'What did I do this time?' she thought. 'Maybe I accidentally forgot to clean a little corner in his crappy little house. Oh, or maybe I responded to him in two seconds instead of one.' Her mind was the only place in which she could afford to be bold and sarcastic. If she dared say anything of the sort out loud, she would regret it.

"Just in the basement, Sir," she answered meekly, being as obedient as humanly possible for a girl with so much spunk on the inside. She learned quickly that she had to learn how to hide her real self and put on the mask of a docile, well-behaved young girl. He waved his arm around at the response, obviously drunk already. The girl glanced at the clock. It was only 7:00 a.m. He usually didn't get this blindly drunk until later in the day, but she had learned to expect the unexpected with him.

"You lazy girl… I swear, if that check every month didn't help pay the bills, I would've gotten rid of ya a long time ago. Troublemaker…" He trailed off into mumbles of various insults and disapprovals as he went into the small living room to continue drinking his liver into failure. When the premises were finally clear of the nefarious man, the girl gathered her mop and a broom together, giving a resigned sigh as she did so.

Sometimes she wondered why he didn't give her the boot, just like all the other foster families. Why, if she was so horrible and the root of all his problems, as he claimed, did he not trade her in for a different foster child? She wished he would. Even that cold, depressing orphanage would be better than the hell she was living in at the moment. All her foster homes had been terrible, but this one topped them all. At least her former caregivers weren't this abusive and degrading. In one of the homes, she hadn't even been beaten at all. It was the happiest three months she ever had in her short life, even if that family wasn't the kindest. At least she didn't live in fear constantly like she did now.

She hadn't been to school since she came to the home a year ago, she spent her days being beaten and cleaning, and she constantly hurt somewhere on her body. Would life ever be worth living? She sincerely doubted it sometimes, but her happy reveries about a few lovely memories gave her some respite from her situation. Sometimes she believed the man when he told her how useless she was, how terrible and unlovable she was. How could she not believe it when she was showered in insults every day of her life?

Lugging the mop bucket, she headed for the back of the small home in order to clean the putrid tile floor. As soon as she reached it, she gagged in disgust. It was moldy, practically hopeless, but she needed to try if she wanted to be able to sit down that night without it hurting. The mop skidded across the floor with much force from the diminutive, weak girl. She gave herself a small smile and a mental praise for actually being able to lift the heavy mop in her state. Now, all she had to do was keep it up.

While she swept the mop all over the floor, she sang in her head a song she thought she heard on the man's beat-up radio. She couldn't remember all of it, but it was something. It was just another thing to occupy her mind besides her constant wondering on whether or not she and her foster sister would be eating that night. Though her foster sister was also a subject to the man's violent temper, staying with friends constantly kept her somewhat safe. The girl bore the brunt of the man's violent rages more often than not.

None of the mold was coming out, causing her to frown deeply.

'Well, I guess I should get prepared for another beating,' she thought sadly. It amazed even her sometimes about how normal it had become to be in both physical and mental pain. She wondered if this was how everyone lived. But she knew from watching some foster families interact with her natural kids that it probably wasn't. She'd never been 'normal'. She didn't even know how a 'normal' family operates. Sighing once again, she resumed mopping. Maybe she'd get some of the mold, just some. Maybe he'd be in a good mood that day…

Yelling hit her ears yet again, causing her to wince. She could tell it was not directed at her, though. It was just mindless screaming. He did that when he was drunk sometimes. He screamed insults at no one in particular, just drunken hallucinations. She continued to clean, ignoring the irksome sound. It rose in volume and violence. Soon, a second voice angrily joined the shouting.

She froze in fear. She guessed that one of his friends was over. When they visited, it never ended well. However, she couldn't reason to herself why they were shouting at each other like they were enraged. His friends were always good natured towards him and usually drunk too. When he got with his friends, he acted like a happy drunk instead of an ill-tempered one. The other voice sounded clear, not slurred. Her curiosity that she had tried so hard to repress over the years began to creep back into her system despite her mentally berating herself.

'It will only cause me trouble. It will only cause me trouble…' However, she still crept into the kitchen and then to the doorway to hear what was happening better. Even bolder, she peered into the room slightly.

In the middle of the living room, the man was fighting with another person whose face was concealed. The fighting was violent and loud, frightening the girl, yet interesting her.

She held her breath as she saw the man drunkenly move forward towards the stranger threateningly with his arm raised, like he was about to hit the person with his forearm. Just before his arm lowered to strike the strange visitor, a popping sound echoed throughout the entire house, making the girl jump. For some unknown reason, she didn't shy away from the doorway. Instead, she remained deathly still in her spot, entranced by the scene in front of her.

The man's arm was now still, along with the rest of his body. His face slowly fell and he looked down to his stomach, which was coated in dark red blood. His faced paled and his dark eyes glazed over. The girl gasped silently as the man who had been tormenting her for the past year was brought to his knees by the wound. She almost thought of him as an invincible threat. She thought he could never be defeated. Slowly, he started to lean forward until he fell on his face. The girl could tell that he was near dead, if not dead already.

The stranger was still in his place, watching in pleasure as the man died slowly and quietly. The girl knew immediately that the stranger must have had a vendetta against the man. Why else would he loom over his body and not leave the scene of the crime like most guilty men would? Quickly and quietly, she slipped back into the kitchen and opened one of the larger cabinets then climbed in. She had survived her constant torment so far. She didn't plan on dying now.

Her breathing evened out eventually when she forced it to so she would not be heard. She was used to being scared and lost. This was just another instance of it, but her future had never been this… unclear. Now that the man was dead, she had to make decisions. Those choices could wait, though. Now she knew that her life was possibly in immediate danger and she had to live. She just had to. She had never felt such a strong urge to live to see yet another tomorrow, but her survival instincts kicked in. She wasn't going to die at the hands of this strange man. She'd already had enough torment to last a lifetime, and it had only strengthened her will to survive. She knew she'd get through it. Hadn't she always?

"We have a call," Lisbon announces casually to the idly working team.

"There were gunshots heard at 5506 Hill Lane. They want us to check it out. Cho, you stay here and work. Van Pelt, Rigsby, Jane; come with me." Jane gets up off the couch he had been sleeping on slowly, lazily stretching out his arms.

"Aw, Lisbon, you know I get tired around this time of day," he jokes with her.

Lisbon shakes her head at him, which Jane cashes in his mind as a sign of success. He loves to annoy Lisbon and push her buttons sometimes. Well, all the time, really. It's his special hobby that gives him a strange satisfaction. Maybe because he knows she won't fire him. She just has to deal with it.

"I don't care when you are tired and when you are not. Get your worthless butt up. We have a case." Jane jumps up energetically, not at all tired as he claimed.

"Yes, Sir," he responds with fake seriousness. Lisbon, who has become used to his juvenile taunts after being burdened with him for quite a while, nods curtly.

"Damn straight."

Jane gives her a small smile as he starts walking to the door. Though teasing her is fun, it becomes a fun game when she responds to him in that way. Jane, being the curious fellow he is, begins to wonder what they are encountering this time around. Of course, whatever it was, he's sure he can handle it like always. 'No one seems to concerned,' he thinks. 'This case will be wrapped up in a week.'

They arrive at the residence quickly, without any interruptions or traffic. The house is not far from CBI headquarters. The day is bright and sunny, Jane observes. Looking around at the houses in the neighborhood, he sees no disturbances. Not even a blade of grass is out of place. All the gears in his head tell him that it is not a crime committed by anyone nearby. It was someone who was visiting the victim, or maybe robbing them. 'No, there's definitely nothing to steal at this house', Jane thinks. 'It was someone who knew him, probably through an undesirable connection.'

Lisbon, Van Pelt and Rigsby all pull out their guns and get them ready. Jane looks down at his empty jacket pocket longingly. 'It's times like these that make me wish I had a gun,' he thinks. He laughs sarcastically in his mind. 'Ah, who am I kidding; no I don't.' The team holds their guns in front of them, leaning backwards in case of someone firing back at them. Jane is the last in the line because of his lack of a weapon. He's also not at all concerned. He knows the killer is long gone by now. They came here to kill whoever was inside and nothing else.

Rigsby makes an attempt to open the door; no such luck. Jane smiles. It looks like the door will have to be kicked open if they want to get anywhere, much to Jane's enjoyment. Lisbon, like always, is in the front of the action to kick the door open. Jane watches her, amused by it. For some unknown reason, he enjoys seeing Lisbon use all the strength in her small body to forcefully kick the doors open during cases.

Everyone files in, their stances ridged and their eyes fixed in front of them. Jane, on the other hand, is more casual about it. There are no cars around that look suspicious or haphazardly parked. Nothing is tipping him off that someone is in the home currently, and the small, fresh tire mark on the dirt next to the driveway says someone had been there, but not anymore. The state of the house shows that whoever lived there didn't go out much; the paint job is at least 10-15 year old, the siding is chipping away, and the garage door handles are broken. The owner was probably a drunk based on the reflection of the sun bouncing off something in the poorly kept-up lawn. Jane guesses it is glass from a broken bottle.

The team searches the area with skill and care. No corner can be left unsearched, no piece of property untouched. They have learned that lesson before, the hard way. Van Pelt jumps slightly when she hits something soft; something soft and fleshy. Jane looks down at Van Pelt's feet and sees a body. Well, not just a body. It's a middle aged man, mid-forties to early fifties, specifically; dark brown, but graying hair and a drinker's body complete with the stereotypical stained tank top and torn up shorts. From his state, Jane guesses he's been drinking since he was a teen and got addicted, the son of alcoholic parents with a habit of addiction and substance abuse running in the family. There's no way he was ever sober after his first drink. He doesn't look like a man with much self-control.

He had suffered a single gunshot wound to the stomach that killed him.

"Based on our call and the freshness of the wound, I'm guessing the man died around an hour ago, maybe two," Rigsby estimates. Jane figures he agrees with that assumption. It's obvious. Jane grows bored with it. It isn't like some of the other crime scenes they have come across. There are barely any helpful clues popping out to him, and the crime scene is definitely less… interesting than some of the others they have encountered in the past.

Casually, and in perfect Jane-esque style, he steps over the body and goes forward into the dirty little kitchen, ignoring the imploring looks from the team. He dances over the moldy, grimy tile floor, wondering how anyone could live that way. Even he has standards. The room is small, to say the least, with a dingy little table and one fold-out chair placed on the side of it. That, and the fact that there is only one room on the end on the hallway, implies that the victim is the only person living in the house. However, the occasional clean spot in the room tells him differently. It looks like someone, and probably only one person, has made a half-hearted effort to clean the house, though it is hopeless at this point. It can't be the drunken man who was killed.

Jane looks around the walls of the kitchen and the cabinets. Most are completely open or partially open; a little detail showing what little care went into the cleanliness of the house. Jane's eyes go to one cabinet that is completely closed. It's large enough to hide things, even a person if need be. Jane doesn't wait any longer to find his answer to the question of who else is living in this house. He tiptoes over to the cabinet and kneels down, placing his hand on the knob and pulling it open slowly. The sight he comes across causes him to drop his jaw in shock and makes Lisbon's name catch in his throat pre-yell; he sees a teenage girl curled up in the cabinet, staring back at him.

A/N: Ooooooohhhhh, so, who's this girl from the beginning of the story and from the end? Well, that's for me to know and YOU to find out! Thanks for reading! And since I have nothing else to write... Ah, what the heck, I'll do it. Disclaimer: I do not own 'The Mentalist' or any of its characters, no matter how much I pretend that I do.