Okay, so I decided to take a dare. Granted it was from hoolio (the second voice in my head). I originally said no, but he kept pushing me with that damn Irish accent of his! In the end I caved like the bit I am and decided to make a West Side Stories. Ever since I first watched this movie I was in love with the character Baby John. When you see him get surrounded my breathe stopped, and when he was held down and hit I couldn't stop the shudder that went through my body. Granted that makes me seem like I have a weird violence fetish (and I'm not denying anything) but right there and then I knew how he would fit into a perfect story.

I have looked to see the abused!Baby John stories, but they have done him no justice. So I'm going to try and see if I can satisfy myself with my own story. I don't know if this will be a slash story but we will see later. Oh and if you like it, you better comment. I have a meter on this thing and anyone who enjoys but doesn't comment will be getting a very angry letter and a broken window.

O~~~~~~~~~~O

Baby John walked slowly o his way home. They had just gotten into a fight with the Sharks and when the police broke it up Riff suggested that they all went home. Baby john stood outside of the dilapidated building that his family's apartment resided. It took him a moment to make his feet move and enter the building.

His opened the door without a sound, hoping silently that he could make it to his room without anybody noticing. He made it all the way to his door before he heard a bottle break, causing him to flinch.

"Boy," Baby John lifted his head to look at the drunken face of his father. The alcohol soaked breathe made him gag but he didn't move. "Where were you?" A fatty, sausage like finger poked him hard in the chest.

"Outside." He answered quietly. Suddenly his shirt we yanked and his body was forced closer to his father, making his not inched from his father.

"Speak up, you little shit." Baby John swallowed harshly. He had begun to shiver against his will, but he kept his face as expressionless as possible.

"I was outside." His shirt was dropped and he didn't have enough time to catch himself, so he crumpled to the floor.

"I know that you little smart ass. I wanted to know who you were with." His face had begun to get red, making him look even more menacing.

"I was just out with the guys."

"WHAT?" Baby john's father shouted. Suddenly a hand shot out and clipped Baby john in the side of the head. "Did I not tell you to stay away from them?" He kicked out, catching Baby john in the chest when he tried to stand.

"But I-" He tried to wheezed out. The meat paw backhanded him across the face, knocking him to the side. John rubbed his jaw, which he knew would bruise.

"I DON'T WANT YOU DAMN EXCUSES." The father yelled, shaking the walls. It was then when a woman entered the room.

"What did he do?" She said, rubbing her pregnant belly. She looked down at her son on the floor.

"He was with those damn gang people again." She sniffed with and air of dignity that didn't match the filth that she wore.

"Ungrateful, spoiled, disgusting child. Make sure he learns his lesson." She left, ignoring the sad, frightened eyes that followed her. Baby john tried not to look at his father as he stood slowly. He kept his back bowed and his face facing the floor, trying to ignore what was going to happen. What always happened.

"Get in your room." Baby john entered his room, still not ready to face his father. He winced when he heard his father's next command. "Get me a belt." But instead of running or protesting, he went to his dresser and picked up one of the worn brown belts. Without looking him in the eye, he placed the future weapon into his father's hands. "Shirt off."

When the older man left Baby John finally allowed himself sob. He dragged himself to the bed and placed himself down on his stomach. He didn't bother with a shirt because that would only irritate the welts more. He sighed and thought about the Jets. He knew everyone wondered why he made it in the gang. They thought he was wimpy and weak, and as he cried here he couldn't agree more with them. He was probably only allowed there because he could take a hit. He was always taking the hits. He fell asleep to the sound of his father's drunken laughter with tears in his eyes.

When he woke, he managed to get into his white shirt. He peered down the hallway, trying to see if the path to the door was clear. Baby John sighed when the hall was clear, stepping out of his room. Again, before he made it to the door a voice stopped him.

"Where do you think you're going brat?" The voice of his mother was gravely from years of smoking. He turned and saw her taking a drag from her cigarette. "You don't think you're going out today, do you? Because you have to stay and help with the house." She took another long breath from the burning stick.

"Mom, I . . ." Baby John searched for and excuse but found none. He just lowered his head in defeat. He would just have to apologize to the guys tomorrow.

"Now I want you to get into that kitchen and start cleaning." She pointed to the room. He went in, hoping for once it wasn't a disaster area and may be able to get out early. His hopes were dashed when he saw what waited for him. His mother had let the dishes piled up in this sink for days. The trash was overflowing onto the floor, filled with bottles and the cans that his mother made dinner from.

Baby John cleaned for five hours before everything was put away. The kitchen still looked bad, the room was abandoned for so long so many times that it always seemed permanently stained. He was placing the last for the dishes when his mother came in, lighting another cigarette. She peered around critically.

"I hope you're not done in here." She said snootily.

"But there is nothing else for me to do." Baby John said quietly, hoping that his comment didn't piss his mother off. Once again his held breathe was for nothing. She glared at him.

"Do you really think this disgusting place is clean? How ungrateful are you that you would leave a horrific mess like this to you pregnant mother! I have half a mind to tell your father."

"Please don't!"

"You have no right to tell me what I can't and can't do!" She shouted angrily. "You will learn to control your mouth boy, or there will be consequences. Now hand me your arm." Baby john cradled his left arm close to his body, not giving it to her. "Do not disobey me boy, give it to me NOW." The arm was out stretched to her.

She flipped it over to show the soft flesh on the underside. She pulled the cigarette out of her mouth and turned the burning end to the arm. Baby John bit his lip as to not scream and the burning nicotine seared into his skin. If his father woke up and saw him getting punished he would be in for a worse beating than what he was getting right now. Finally the last ember went out and she took the offending item off the raw, mutilated flesh. Baby john couldn't help but look at the shiny red mark that would soon scab over and join all the others on his arms. He remembered when the gang first saw them, she said they were from and accident when he was a kid. They never noticed when there were more.

"Stop crying you baby and get back to work, the living room needs cleaning and your father will wake up soon. You better have something for him to eat when he wakes up." Baby John wiped away the tears that he hadn't noticed had formed.

Silently he moved to the cupboards, pulling out a couple of cans of beans and the bag of rice. The pantry was nearly empty as usual, never fully stocked because his father could never hold a job down long enough to get them a proper meal. Quickly he stirred them together and heated them up. He heard a groan from the couch and he knew his father was waking up, along with his hangover. He placed the food on a paper plate and carried it to the room. Baby john placed it on the table and scurried away before his father's voice stopped him.

"Beer."

Back in the kitchen he grabbed a bottle from the fridge. Beer was the only thing in the fridge, the only this in this house that never ran out. Well almost never, but when it did baby John always was to blame. He opened the bottle, not caring that the sharp lid cut him a little before he walked it to his father.

"Get out of my sight."

Baby John ran to his room and shut the door quickly. Sure, he was supposed to clean the living room, but if he was there with his father it would be deadly.

Baby John had spent hours in the room, most of his life really. Before he joined the gang he would come immediately home and hole himself in this area. He only emerged when his father would drunkenly call for him to clean something up, get him a beer or to become his punching bag. Still he hated his room. He couldn't decorate it or put anything of value in there. He couldn't count the amount of times he had entered his room after school and found everything but the clothes he was wearing shredded or in pieces. So he kept everything to a minimum; a bed, a dresser and the few pairs of clothes he still had and managed to hide.

He waited for the rest of the night for either his mother or father to come in in a rage. Luckily neither of them came. He eventually fell asleep, curled in the fetal position. In his dreams he hoped that he wouldn't wake to the feelings of a fist or the burning of a cigarette, which was his mother's favorite way to punish. In his dreams he couldn't stop the tears that were always threatening him.

O~~~~~~~~~~~O

So decided to make this a chapter story. I'll be trying to write as often as I can. Hopefully I will get this done along with my other story. Hope you like it; give me suggestions if you have any. Who should find out about this horrible abuse? Hit me up :P