Author's Name: Rae Prite

Title of Story: Remembering the Years

Type of Story: AU

Rating of Story: PG-15

Characters in Story: Joe, Frank, OC's Beth Hardy, Tim Taylor

Warnings: Child abuse, intense situations, language, blood, angst… extreme angst (You have been warned!)

Plot Blurb: One day a year, Beth takes some time to remember everything about her life. She does it so she will never forget the lessons she has learned, no matter how cruel. She prefers to do it alone, to remember in peace, but who's going to convince Frank and Joe?

Splash Page: None.

Special Notes: Takes place two weeks after "The Unsolved Case" and acts as a filler story between it and the next adventure. If you can't stand to read of child abuse in any form then I give you this warning: this isn't the story for you.

Chapter 1

Beth sat with her arms around her bent knees on the steps of the back porch, watching butterflies, bees and dragonflies lazily drift through the yard. The hot sun warmed the back of her t-shirt, and she wished – not for the first time – that she could wear a tank top or a bikini again. A light breeze brushed past her, playfully ruffling her wavy brown locks.

She sighed. The day was beautiful – there was no doubt about that – but her current line of thought was anything but peaceful. She didn't do this often, and she wasn't sure why she chose today to do it, but it was too late to stop the process.

She was remembering.

Beth normally kept the memories buried deep inside her head, filed away in a forgotten cabinet that gathered more dust with every year that passed. But once a year, just for one day a year, she let herself remember everything about her life – the good, the bad and the ugly.

She did it methodically, like she was reviewing an essay before its submission. But she also let herself feel the emotions associated with the memories, not letting the tradition become robotic in nature.

It was a painful process, and took a whole day to complete. It was one whole day of misery in a year full of amnesia – surely she could do that? It was the least she could do. She spent a day wallowing in the pain, when somewhere out there, someone else was stuck in pain forever. She owed them that much.

Beth started with her earliest, fuzziest memories, the ones that she sometimes questioned whether they were real or if they were half-remembered dreams. She didn't fight the memories; just let them play out before her eyes like a movie, pretending all the while that her eyes were smarting from pollen.

After all, she didn't and wouldn't cry – she was tough, no matter what anyone said... especially him.

She was three, wearing a shirt, jean overalls and tiny sneakers with Beauty and the Beast on them. She was coloring, bent over the paper seriously. Her then curly, short brown hair was tickling her ears and the nape of her neck, the bangs falling over her forehead.

A door somewhere slammed open and shut, and she looked up to see Tim come in, three days of stubble growing on his face and his hair disheveled. He looked tired – she could see that much at three – but it wouldn't be for a long time before she would realize that on that day, he also had dark bruises on his arms, and a bit of dried blood at the corner of his mouth.

Tim opened the fridge and grabbed one of the glass bottles that she'd been told never to touch, because they were for grown-ups. He twisted off the cap, tossed it in the trash and took a long swig. He sighed afterwards.

He caught her eye, and gave her a long sad look. "Hey little girl," he greeted quietly. Beth never understood why he hardly ever used her name when he talked with her. He always called her 'kid', or 'little girl' or something else. Later she would know he was trying to distance himself from her… but not now. Now she was too innocent to wonder for long on the subject.

"Hi Uncle Tim," She answered, brightly. She smiled very widely at him, "I made you something!"

He snorted and walked over. She didn't see at the time that he was limping. "What's that?"

She held up her drawing proudly, her dark blue eyes desperately seeking approval. "Here!"

Tim took the picture from her small hands, eyes roving over the scene tiredly. "What is it?" He asked, trying to keep the patience in his voice.

"It's us!" Beth chirped in her high soprano. "We're at the park. I'm on the swings, and you're pushing me."

His eyes got an odd light in them. "Who's the woman on the left? The one with the, uh, wings?"

A solemn look came onto the toddler's face. "That's mommy. She's an angel – so we can't see her, but she's there."

Tim pressed his lips into a tight line. "Where did you hear that?"

"Mrs. Willson at Sunday school told me," Beth frowned, her tone uncertain. She could feel her uncle's anger and it frightened her.

He gave her a hard look, before crumpling the picture into a ball. "Your mother is not an angel! She's not in heaven, and you're not going back to that Sunday school again!"

Her lip trembled as he threw the picture into the trash. "But –?"

"Go to your room!" He nearly snarled.

Beth sniffled and ran quickly out of the living room. She stopped by the trash can for a moment, and looked back. Tim was sitting in his easy chair, his back to her, already engrossed in a sports show. She darted her eyes between the picture and her uncle for a moment, then grabbed the crumbled picture and ran on to her room.

She closed the door softly, and then spread the creased paper out on the bed, smoothing the wrinkles carefully. She stared at the angel on the paper, the one with her eyes and hair.

"If you're not in heaven, mommy, where are you?" She sniffed and let the big tears fall, carefully holding back the wails that would make Uncle Tim angry as she buried her face in her pillow. He always said he hated to hear her cry…

Beth frowned at the bright green grass, noting her vision was blurring the blades together into one mound of green mush. For once, she didn't wipe the tears away. She understood now why Tim had treated her like an alien – he couldn't get close, it would've made it harder to try and kill her.

She still wasn't clear on why Tim had been trying to kill her, but she suspected it had to do with the phone call she was never supposed to hear, as well as why he would sometimes come home bloodied and bruised and more pissed off than usual. Someone obviously wanted her dead, and had been using Tim to do it, but it remained a mystery for now as to who and why.

Without consciously thinking about it, she felt herself drifting into the next memory. Her brain wasn't done torturing her just yet…

Today was her birthday. She was five years old today. She knew this because her kindergarten teacher had made a batch of cupcakes for her and her class, they'd sung "Happy Birthday" to her and she got to pick out the book for story time. It had been a good day, but it had made her wonder.

Uncle Tim hadn't told her it was her birthday – in fact, he'd said nothing at all, because he'd left for work before she was up.

She'd had to make a bowl of cereal all by herself, which had been hard because the cereal was kept in a higher cabinet, and the milk had been heavy. She'd done it though, and packed her lunch and gotten on the school bus all by herself. She guessed that that was what being five meant – taking care of yourself without help.

When she came in the door, she saw Tim slumped over at the table, a shot glass and a half-empty bottle filled with a brown liquid next to him. She frowned.

That was the bottle of smelly juice that was for grown-ups – it was more forbidden to touch than the glass bottles of beer; she could read enough now to know their name.

Beth also knew that when adults drank too much of either, they started acting funny. They couldn't walk, or talk right, and they sometimes giggled a lot about silly things, or they got angry easily. She really didn't want to stick around to find out which of these her uncle would display, so she quietly shut the door, locked it and tiptoed to her room.

She was halfway there when her uncle stirred. He blearily blinked open his eyes and sat up, looking around the kitchen/dining room dazedly. His dark eyes finally focused on his niece and he frowned.

"What are you doing home?" He demanded his voice slurred and gruff with sleep and alcohol.

Beth swallowed back the lump she felt rising in her throat. "School's over, Uncle Tim, and I came home on the school bus." She replied timidly.

Tim blinked again, and in slow motion swiveled his head to the clock on the wall. It took him another several moments to read the time, and then he sighed and ran a hand over his face and through his hair. "Why didn't you wait for me to pick you up?" He asked.

She frowned, "I did." She said voice hesitant, "I waited an hour, but you didn't come. I had a quarter in my pocket, so I took the city bus home, 'cause the school buses were all gone."

That statement, quietly done as it was, certainly got his attention. He bolted upright and stared at her with such a fierce look that she felt herself shrinking back towards the peeling papered walls in fear. "You took the CITY bus?" He shouted.

Tears welled in Beth's sapphire eyes. "Y-yes. I sat up front by the driver, and got off at the closest stop to here, but I-I had to walk a bit. I'm, I'm sorry. I just wanted to get home." Her voice was watery.

"Do you have any idea what could've happened to you? You could've been killed, you stupid brat!" Tim yelled, standing erect from the table abruptly, and towering over her quivering form.

"I-I just," She stuttered.

"Just what? Just thought you could go and get yourself killed, is that it? Do you have any damn idea what would happen to me if you got abducted or murdered? I'D be dead – that's what!" Tim screamed.

Suddenly, too fast for her to register what had happened, he backhanded her violently. Her head whipped around and her cheek exploded with pain.

Beth screamed, tearing running full force down her face. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" She cried, cowering in fear, sobbing in pain-filled delirium as she begged silently for the pain to go away.

Tim huffed loudly and sneered, "You are pathetic! No wonder your father didn't want you! I can't even stand the sight of you!" That said he turned swiftly around, or as swiftly as you can when you're still slightly drunk, grabbed his keys from the hook and left the apartment, slamming the door so hard it shook the thin walls.

She ran and stumbled up the stairs, eyes blinking furiously to be able to see through the wall of water. Finding her door, she opened and closed it swiftly, then threw herself on the bed and cried her little heart out.

Today, Bethany Taylor turned five, and today her nightmares truly became her reality.

Fifteen year old Beth Hardy touched her cheek gently, as if she could still feel the sting of the slap. That had been the first time Tim had raised a hand against her, but it most certainly hadn't been the last.

Just as another pair of tears fell from her eyes and soaked her jeans, the sound of the back French doors opening reminded her that she wasn't completely alone today. Her dad was meeting with the police again, still trying to track down which hole Tim had crawled into. Her mom was at the library, doing her volunteer shift behind the catalogue desk.

That had left Beth home with just her brothers, both of who – she'd assumed – would be distracted and busy with last minute essays (Frank) and graduation preparations (Joe) all day. She'd thought that meant she would be left to entertain herself for the day – or more accurately to be able to be moody and a crying mess in peace... apparently not though.

"Hey Beth, it's getting to be lunch time. You want me to make you something, Kiddo?" Joe asked, poking his head out.

Beth swallowed, hoping her voice sounded normal as she shook her head. "Not right now, thanks. I'll make something later."

Evidently, the tears had made enough of an impact on her vocal chords that Joe noticed. Then again, Joe seemed notice everything. "You okay, Kiddo? You sound like you've got a frog in your throat or something."

The door creaked opened further before shutting, and Joe's bare feet padded across the wooden deck to stand next to her.

Beth tucked her head down and away from him, hugging her knees tighter and swallowing thickly. "I'm fine Joe." She lied, "I think it's just allergies or something."

Joe stood there for a second frowning. He sat down next to her on the deck stairs and put a tentative hand on her shoulder. "Look at me, Beth."

Beth ignored the request while setting her jaw and silently wishing that her brother would lose interest and leave. No such luck.

"Beth," His baritone was more demanding this time. "C'mon, look at me."

Sighing, Beth picked up her head and slowly swiveled it to meet his gaze. "Happy?" She snapped quietly, angry that anyone was seeing her like this.

Joe only gaped at her for a moment, before his gaze melted into genuine concern and worry. "Allergies my ass, what's wrong?" There was an edge of frustration in his voice that she had lied to him.

She turned away and glared at the trees on the edge of the Hardy property, "Doesn't matter."

"How can it not matter?" He demanded.

She rolled her eyes, "I'm just in a crappy mood today, alright? Not anything to do with you or anyone else, just something I gotta work through on my own." She expected him to drop it after that, but the universe was being stubborn today.

"What do you have to work through?" He asked a bit incredulous. Then in a gentler tone, "Can't I help you?"

Beth looked down at her grubby sneakers as she shook her head. "No. I have to do it on my own. Just give me some space, okay? I'll be right as rain by tomorrow." Done with the conversation, she got up and wandered off the porch towards the old tree house in the giant tree in their yard.

Joe watched her climb the ancient wood rungs nailed into the tree until she disappeared through the trap door. There was a deck you could step out on from the tree house itself, but the younger teen had apparently ignored it to sit inside the small building.

He frowned. What was that about? He shook his head and stood, half thinking of following her, before he got an idea. He took one more look at the tree house, where through the cutout window he could see just the top of a brown head, before dashing back inside the house.

This bore serious investigation.

HBxBH

"You're sure she's not just worried about Dad finding Tim Taylor?" Frank asked from his seat at the desk, laptop open in front of him with an essay in the process of being edited visible on the screen.

Joe frowned. He was sitting with his back against the wall on Frank's bed, fingering the afghan he was sitting on absently. "I really don't think so. Beth didn't look worried – she looked almost like she was in pain."

"Did she have any scrapes or cuts on her?" Frank asked reasonably.

Joe half glared, "dude, does our sister seem like the type of girl who'd freak out over a broken nail?"

Frank had the decency to blush. "Well, perhaps not, it was just a thought."

The boys were quiet for a moment.

"What do we do?" Joe said eventually with a sigh.

Frank ran a hand through his hair and sighed as well, feeling at a loss. "I'm not sure, but I suppose the best option would be to try and get her to talk to us. It's not healthy for her to bottle up those emotions alone." He frowned. "Does it occur to you that she's never really talked about her life in Queens before – I mean not in detail, really?"

Joe rubbed the back of his neck. "Well, actually she had a nightmare her first night here. She said she dreamed that jackass," he spat, "was sitting on top of her beating her to a pulp, and mocking her. She said she'd lived in fear of that happening for years, but…"

"Love how you failed to mention that until now," Frank remarked, then sighed and raised an eyebrow. "But?"

The younger Hardy winced and frowned, "the inflection of her voice seemed to indicate that he'd beat her before… a lot. I'm sure you saw that split lip and the bruises on her arms two weeks ago?"

Frank nodded slowly. The mysterious girl's lip had healed significantly since her arrival, and her bruises were healing, though more slowly. "You're thinking this has to do with Beth's home life with Tim?"

Joe shrugged uncomfortably. "What else could it be?"

Frank nodded. His brother was making a lot of sense, "Abuse, especially from someone who's supposed to be family, can cause a lot of psychological scars. Maybe Beth is just dealing with some particular scar today – one that we can't see on her."

"So, what do we do?" Joe repeated impatiently. If his sister was going through emotional trauma, he would be damned if she had to go through it alone.

Frank swiveled around, clicked the save button on his document before shutting down his computer. He turned back to face Joe as he walked out of his room, "we play psychologists."