So, um, I don't know how to introduce this, but in every chapter there is going to be a short (or sometimes long) letter to Jonah. And they're kind of things that tell you more and more about the story. They're from the present, while the whole story is told in past tense. You'll figure out all the details (like who Jonah is and whose point of view this is) later. Just enjoy. Please? (:

Dear Jonah,

At this point, I am so sick of fairytales. If you were to open any book at this very moment, I bet I could tell you its plot, without even reading the title. I'm sure it goes something like this:

1. Main character is introduced as an average person, who never thought anything out of the ordinary would happen to them.

2. Main character's significant other is introduced.

3. Main character and love interest hit it off, and are suddenly inseparable.

4. Main character falls into some sort of plot-twister.

Then, comes the inevitable solution.

There is always a solution, whether it's a dangerous call to 9-1-1, or a simple apology, followed by a kiss-and-make-up scene. Someone always changes, and no matter what, everything ends okay.

Never is there an ending that isn't at the very least satisfying to the reader.

But life is no fairytale. No matter how many times we pick ourselves up, we will always fall. No matter how fast we look away, we will never be able to erase what are now nightmarish memories burned into our brains. No matter how hard we dream, we will always wake up to the same story, picking up from the same awful page that we had left off on the day before. And no matter how quick we want the pain to be, it follows us everywhere we go like the clothes on our backs, slowly killing us.

More times than not, our stories don't end in "happily ever after."

Joe

I sat outside on the front porch, studying the scenery around. The sun shone gloriously, and the bright, perky flowers seemed to beam up at me. I even saw a few birds happily chirping and flittering around in the air. It was as if nature was completely oblivious to the horrors and lethal nightmares that this world brought. If this were some page in a book, I was sure the clouds would be dark and ominous, and there would maybe even be a long since dead, decaying bird lying on the sidewalk, an eerie foreshadowing that mapped out the rest of my life.

As if my thoughts were painted upon my body, like anyone could believe them to be true if they just looked, his voice, broken and slurred, shouted at my back. Snapping quite literally out of my trance, I straightened up, and forced myself to turn and face him, failing to steady my trembling hands. It wasn't as if I hadn't expected him, though; I'd heard his bottle of who knows what distilled spirits smash against the wall. That always meant the same thing—he was angry. And when he was angry, you could be sure I was about to be beaten.

Over the years, one of the most important rules I'd learned about him was to never look into his eyes. When he called my name, and demanded that I come inside, or come downstairs, I always looked past him, hopefully into an alternate world that could distract me from this Hell, but usually not.

"What are you always doing out there, boy? How come you never come inside like a normal boy? You ain't never done nothing right, have you? You're just a worthless piece of shit. I should've named you Little Shit. Suits you, don't it? Come 'ere, Little Shit!" He smirked, spitting snickers at me. I only stared at him, or rather, past him, at his forehead. "Well, who do you think you are? I said get your ass over here, you dumb fuck!" I lifted my chin higher, and stepped closer to him, bracing myself inwardly for whatever was about to happen. As soon as I became within reach, close enough for his shadowed face to be revealed, he took me by the shoulders and threw me to the ground, my face and sides swiping the dingy linoleum floor. He took a few steps closer to me as I held up my wall of tolerance, and kicked me once in the gut, hard enough to knock the wind, and probably daylights, out of me. I didn't dare give him the satisfaction of a wince, or even a cry of pain. That might put him over the top. I'd never be the impossibly tough, bulky, imaginary son he'd hoped to raise, but claiming that I had any weaknesses at all could be the death of me. Then, he bent down next to me, and held my cheek, as if I were suddenly a delicate flower. "Now get outta my house, and get your ass to school. Do something worth doing, like making me proud for once. Go fuck a slut or something, you retarded faggot."

And there he left me on the tile floor of the kitchen, fresh bruises ripening beneath my clothes. He never touched my face. No, the old drunk was too smart for that. That was just another thing he had against me. There were several covers that he'd had—a string of lies the whole world seemed to be up to speed on, that kept him away from trouble.

I picked myself up, what little pride I had left, and returned to the outdoors—my own personal sanctuary, where I would wait for the school bus to come and pick me up, relieving me of the Hell behind my back. But where one Hell was left behind, another began.

So that's the first chapter, yeah?

Please tell me what you think. I really appreciate it.

With Love, Carlie :D