A/N: I'm really trying to keep this short, a couple chapters in total. I just found that I missed writing here and that some people had requested a story on this topic, so... yeah. Hi, I'm back.

This short story could tie into any of my other Hotch stories. It takes place after Aaron is freed from his abusive home situation. Some details, such as where and with whom he is living now, are left up to the reader. Sections in italics are memories.

—-

This time he knew he would make it all the way up the stairs.

He was wrong.

A thick hand seized Aaron's shoulder and spun him around. He had only climbed two steps, but once again he hadn't moved fast enough to make it to the top and get out of sight. Right away, he surrendered to what he could not prevent.

An open hand smacked across Aaron's face so hard he thought it might have broken the skin. His face became parallel to the ground, back bent almost double, until he steadied himself and straightened up. He tensed up, raised his hands to his face, cowered, waited. He may have looked afraid, but he really wasn't. He was used to this ritual and it no longer frightened him.

"Are you going to fess up now?" The man looked more frustrated than angry, as if tired of correcting Aaron's offenses. But Aaron said nothing, for he had no idea what he was being accused of now. He had lost track of his offenses—imaginary or not, they just kept piling up.

The hands tightened on his shirt.

"Can't you do anything right?" The man's breath carried a waft of smoke. "Can't you even admit when you've screwed up?"

His homework. His chores. His hair. Aaron desperately ran through the list of things he might have done wrong. Anything was suspect. His voice. His face. His life.

A savage jerk ripped Aaron's blue shirt and at the same time heaved him away from the stairs. He moved his feet, not wishing to be dragged into the kitchen. They approached the table, and the man flung him to the floor. The tile was merciless on his palms and chin.

"Get up, you clumsy animal!"

Aaron tried, and a fist swung down into his face to knock him over to his side.

Apparently, today he had done everything wrong.

—ooo—-

Aaron Hotchner couldn't settle the fluttering in his stomach. Five or six neckties with varying colors and designs lay draped over his dresser beside a modest, hand-picked bouquet. On the bed lay collared shirts and coats, some of which were still stiff from being packed away for years. Aaron tried to imagine every possible combination, every detail, that would make his outfit decent. Better than decent. Perfect.

He knew he was fantasizing. He wondered if he even owned a presentable shirt. The blue polo in his hands had tears in both shoulders and brownish stains on the back. He could clearly remember the night the damage was done. If he closed his eyes, he could even taste the tile.

But those days were over. He still couldn't comprehend the absence of violence in his life now. Violence had become routine, like eating breakfast everyday. To escape the violence was almost as jarring as going hungry every morning. Now that he lacked key reliable parts of his everyday life, he felt nervous and unbalanced—his life was suddenly unpredictable. What would he do with all the time he used to spend dispelling someone else's anger and preparing his mind and heart to die?

He wanted to move on, but he could not let go of the vivid reminders. This white shirt with the thin vertical stripes had burn marks on the sleeve. Aaron remembered emptying the vacuum cleaner before it was inflicted. This gray T-shirt with parallel tears across the shoulders—he remembered those fingernails just as clearly as he remembered the plate he'd been washing at the time. A white plate with blue trim and a single blue flower painted in the center. It was a miracle he didn't break it.

His clothes, his memories, his ordinary household actions—all were tied in with suffering. He couldn't separate it, not now, maybe not ever.

Aaron looked over his clothes again, trying to return to his present task. He had never dressed up before, and certainly never in front of his peers. He wondered what the other seniors would be wearing. He wondered what Haley would be wearing.

His first pair of jeans were out of the question. Aaron turned to the second pair and started rubbing out some spots.

Who would wear jeans to prom night?

Aaron sighed. He knew he would be ridiculed, but that was okay. He knew Haley wouldn't mind what he wore.

All the same, he wanted to look nice for her. He finally settled on the striped white shirt, deciding he could cover the burn marks with a dark jacket. Now for a tie.

A little round mirror balanced on the back of the dresser, and Aaron eyed himself closely as he looped each tie in turn under his collar and held it straight down his front. As he examined each option, he glanced back into his own eyes. They were the same eyes that used to glance back at him with purple lining and angry tears.

What was he thinking? All he ever knew was violence. He could not escape it, no matter how hard he tried. Violence was linked to his nature. But what did that mean for him now?

A brown and green tie hung loosely in his hands. He stared at himself, terrified. His greatest fear was looming over him and growing fast, despite all his efforts to deceive himself.

—ooo—-

He was finally allowed off the floor and now sat shaking with pain at the table. The man had beaten him soundly while holding a firm hand on the back of his neck to keep him from getting up. With his cheek pressed to the tile, Aaron had tried to keep his eyes level with an overturned bowl that lay fallen on the floor under the chair a few feet away, but every time a blow landed, his gaze jolted up and down from the impact. The bowl went fuzzy. Its colors inverted. Briefly it disappeared altogether, but he blinked the darkness away. The man had repeatedly landed blows to his head, his back, his head, his arms, and all the while Aaron could do nothing but gaze at the bowl.

Now it was over. Aaron hunched forward in his chair, clasping his hands under the table. He took long, quivering breaths and his shoulders shook, but he refused to cry. He tried to stop shaking and sit perfectly still so as not to use his back muscles, but the mere act of breathing was enough to make it hurt. Now he stared at a spoon on the table, unable to look up at the furious man nearby.

The man looked like a losing political candidate—outraged. He paced a little bit, only to keep ending up standing over Aaron. There he would bellow about all the boy's faults. Aaron didn't know such decibel levels existed. He winced at the shouts and tightened his entwined fingers, but he was not afraid. This treatment did not scare him.

"You're a disgrace!" yelled the man for perhaps the third time. "I can barely believe we let you appear in public. I can't even look at your miserable face without feeling disgusted."

Aaron nodded, hoping the man would hurry up with the tirade. He just wanted to lie on his face in the dark with bags of ice all over his back. He wouldn't get the chance until the man finished decimating his self esteem and insulting his image. But he would get through this. No fear.

A movement in the doorway caused Aaron to look up. He saw his mother standing there holding a terracotta pot brimming with wilted, flaking flowers. The man stopped shouting at the sight of her, but his scowl soured. Mother had the expression of one caught in a crossfire and obviously wanted to back out.

The man gestured for her to enter. "Glad you could join us."

Aaron gripped the table edge. Now he felt his heartbeat quickening and the hairs on the back of his neck standing up. Now he was afraid.

—ooo—-

Aaron turned a little to the left. Straightened his hair. He turned a little to the right. Unruffled his jacket sleeve. Lined up his red tie with the stripes of his shirt.

"You'll always be as ugly and unpresentable as your mother!"

The voice in his memory was like a steely hand on his shoulder, holding him back, making him question everything he wanted to do.

"Neither of you should ever leave this house! You're a stain on society."

Aaron took a deep breath. Was he fooling himself? Did Haley secretly think he was a lower form of human being, just like everybody else did? He didn't act like other high schoolers. Clearly there was something wrong with him.

Aaron sat down on the bed. Checked his watch. He was supposed to meet Haley at the school lobby in thirty minutes.

He sat there, immobile. Folded his hands. Hung his head.

He doubted he had the ability to go through with this event. He just knew he would stop functioning halfway through, when everyone realized his manners were coarse and his experience was nil. The man was right. He should stay home.

More than his own inadequacies, something else bothered Aaron. He couldn't kick the fear that reached around his heart, lingered there, nibbling his resolve. He stood up, trying to shake the dreaded feeling that came with the memories. Going out in public was a small potato next to his deepest held fear.

He walked back to the dresser, averting his eyes from his reflection. There he picked up the small bunch of flowers and held them to his face. He smelled them deeply and closed his eyes.

—ooo—-

Wilted flowers barely clung to clumps of dirt in the wet sink. Mother's flowers never lasted long. It was as if this home and its trouble had cursed every living thing. Mother emptied each pot with a silent detachment.

The man had stopped yelling at Aaron and now watched Mother as he gulped his beer. Aaron wiped his clammy hands on his lap, gaze shifting between the man and the woman. The thought of where his little brother was briefly crossed his mind, but it wasn't a big enough concern to steal his attention.

The scraping sound that he dreaded now resounded from the floor—the man's chair being scooted back. Aaron held his breath, praying to be delivered from his very worst fear.

—ooo—-

TO BE CONTINUED...

Please let me know what you think and stay with me. I promise only a few chapters max.