Burgeoning laughter comes from behind the stately mansion as a carefree bleached blond boy of four barrels out from behind the house. He runs as fast as his short legs can pump checking behind as he giggles helplessly. It is this boy who cannot contain his laughter, a few seconds later two other boys come running out. It is evident they are chasing the first boy. A strained voice from the backyard can be heard yelling "wait for me". The three boys in front do not slow.

Now it is a six year olds laughter heard in the yard. Cops and robbers, the timeless game played out in epic proportion. It is a typical childhood scene, three friends playing in the yard together, three boys as close as brothers. A joyful and harmless expression of energy; better than being underfoot their mothers say. This is the memories of these three boys, but the memory of the fourth is not such an idyllic scene.

He squats in the backyard hands behind his back, tied together. His hands are slowly turning red as he waits for them to come back, his legs cramping from the way he is sitting. He begged them to let him play, he asked to play any part- so they tied him up- he was to be the hostage. Six year olds knots tied as tightly as they can be. His only desire was to be included, to not be the 'baby'. He was only a few months younger, but at the tender age of six a few months seems years.

Baby. He was always the baby. Excluded from every situation they disregarded him. The only way he was allowed to play was as the victim. They didn't want him around, he ruined the game.

Eight years in the future, at the tender, or not so tender, age of 13 he has still not escaped the stigma of youngest. They used on him, they used on family. He could not fight back, he was the baby, he had no power. Their black eyes surround him, chill him to his bones. He is helpless, he has no way to fight back. Once more he is the victim, but this time it is real. Their mocking laughter and hurled words are like lashes into his skin. And then they take it farther, not aware of the pain they are inflicting, unknowing of the amount of power they are unleashing. They abuse one who should be brother. They laugh.

He begins to feel a deep anger. Not the anger of a friend forgotten, but the anger that burns deep inside and festers. He feels anger that he does not know how to control. It becomes an infinite well of anger from which he draws his strength. As he trades his ability to forgive, for the power to no longer be hurt the hate starts to take over. He hides behind the mask of being quiet, of being unseen. He gains his power at 13, but he allows himself to continue to look weak, to look less powerful than the others. He holds his power in, conserves it. He will be ready to make them sorry. He will be ready to make them the victim. He will laugh.