A/N: Okay, so. This is going to be my first multi-chapter story that I will actually continue, and yes, I know the summary is completely lame. But if you have managed to get past that and still want to read, then yay! I just really, really, beg you to give this a chance? Please don't just read the first couple of lines and go, because I worked very hard on this and yeah. I'm supppppper excited about it because I have loads of awesome ideas and stuff, so I plan it to be quite epic.

Dark themes, and stuff, language, um, yeah. I'm not going to be precise with what 'dark themes' are in this, because that would kind of ruin it. Rated M because I'm super paranoid and for up coming chapters. HURP DERP.

Okay. Alright. I'm working on the second chapter, I aim to have it done by maybe next Sunday? DON'T SHOOT ME IF IT'S NOT. I like to write long chapters, k?

Oh, and I was really indesicive if I wanted Carlos and Kendall in this chapter or not. I was going to, but then it would be like, twice as long. Didn't want it to drag. Not to worry they get their own lovely angsty chapter about them next time.

IMPORTANT: I warn you that things will get worse for the boys. You might be like, oh, it's not that bad...But I wanted to start of kind of small, then get on to the big stuff later. Because, y'know. That's how books go.

I'll let you get on with it now. PLEASE review, tell me what you think? THANK-YOU!


And they scream, the worst things in life come free to us.- (The A Team, Ed Sheeran.)


Tick…Tock…Tick…Tock…

Why did time insist on passing ever so slowly whenever he wanted it to hurry up?

Tick…Tock…

Light brown eyes glared daggers at it. How dare it defy him? Move faster damn it.

T-tick….T-t-t-ick….

"No!" He cried out, staring at the mechanism with pleading eyes. "C'mon, not now…"

But it was too late. The clock was broken. Thefuckingclockfuckingbroke. He let out one big sigh, and ran a hand hastily through his soft sandy hair, gripping it tightly at the roots. Now what was he supposed to do? Count the time until he was aloud of there himself?

One Mississippi, two missi-T-t-ick.

He tried again.

One Mississip-T-t-ick.

"Now you're just being unfair. Ha-ha, real funny. Stupid clock…" He trailed off, throwing it one last glare for good measure.

"Talking to clocks again boy?"

"Eeeeeeek!" James wasn't going to lie. He jumped a mile high. He just wished that he could of contained his girly yelp. Holy shit, when did he get here?

He turned around to face the newcomer, letting out a nervous laugh. "Haha, um, no, 'course not," he said, giving him a shiny white grin. It quickly slid off of his face seeing the expression the man wore. "I mean, no sir."

"That's more like it," He growled out. Mr. Peters glared at him with his small beady eyes, studying him up and down. James couldn't help but to squirm uncomfortably, feeling unusually small and dirty. "Well?"

"Um…I-"

"Save your excuses boy. Why ain't you working?" He spat out, easily picking up James by the collar of his shirt.

"I just-"

"I ain't paying you to stand here lollygagging about! Get to it! Them fields needs a good plough," He added, dropping the sixteen year old to the floor and watched him struggle to find his footing, offering no help what-so-ever.

A hard thump on the head from the fat old man reminded him to quicken his pace as he raced out of the small barn house to the shed out back to fetch the plough.

Mr. Peters was a 55 year old overweight slob, with tiny eyes and a huge nose and not that much hair left. He walked with a limp that he claimed to have received during his army days, but James had never seen the man move more than the distance to the fridge and back to get a beer. He never married, which wasn't all that much of surprise.

He also happened to own a some crop fields, that never really made it to being crops. But the point was, due to his leg, or laziness, or whatever, he needed someone to do all the work for him.

And so here James was. Working his goddamn hardest tugging the metal death trap along in the cold, being reminding every two seconds, "Walk straighter you stupid boy! Put some muscle into it!"

He fucking hated ploughing. He hated working for the sour old man full stop, but especially ploughing. Hell, even cleaning his gutters was better than this.

Just as James was about to tell the old man to shut the fuck up right now or I will chop your leg off and ram it down your throat he heard him say something that stopped him.

"Someone clearly doesn't want their money at the end of the month…" Mr. Peters snorted.

Money. No. He couldn't afford to lose out another pay check just because he opened his stupid mouth to make some comment. Not again.

So he gritted his teeth and bit his tongue so hard it drew blood to keep his mouth shut. Left foot, right foot, left foot. Straight line. Okay. He had this.

But man, it was heavy. Sweat stuck to him despite the fact his hands felt like they were going to fall off, and his eyes watered from the biting wind as he panted for breath.

Normally people had tractors and machines to do things like this, but since Mr. Peters couldn't afford it and was stuck in the dark ages, it was his job. He could of at least got a animal to do it! But no, since he couldn't even keep some plants alive for more than a day, James doubted that he could manage a horse for more than a hour.

Despite the fact that the plough was considerably lighter than any other animal-pulled ones, it was still unbearably heavy. His muscles screamed at him to stop, and little black dots were beginning to dance around his vision. He had been pulling it for at least a hour already. Or so his mind justified as he felt himself stumble, creating a squiggly and uneven line.

Oh, fuck.

"Boy! What the hell do you think you're doing?" The man raged, but James couldn't hear past his madly beating heart or quick breaths. He really needed to sit down.

"Answer me!"

Thwack.

The world was madly tilted to one side as the rough hand came in contact with the back of James' head once more. Wow. The old man sure knew how to land a hit when he wanted to.

Not that James needed reminding.

The force of the blow sent the pretty teenager tumbling towards the dirt, as he lay in the field, still panting.

"S-sorry…"

A sharp pain suddenly flared in his side as Mr. Peter's boot was rammed into his ribs. He curled up on himself, unable to stop the slightly vain thought run through his head like a broken record, please not the face, oh God, not the face…

Thankfully, it was just the one kick. A very strong kick, but still just one. James let out a breath he didn't know he was holding.

"Get the fuck up. You're doing this field all over again."

Immediately, James sat up (and winced in the process). "But it's five o'clock!" He shouted before he could stop himself. His eyes widened as he clamped a hand over his mouth. "I'm sorry!…Sir!" Where was his mouth break today?

Another two kicks, in the same spot, harder. He muffled a cry and choked back the tears that welled in his eyes at the pain. Defiantly bruised, yep. Mr. Peters was always spot on with getting the bruises such a lovely shade of purple.

He heard the stout mans joints and bones creak and pop in protest as he knelt down next to him, and looked him straight in the eye.

"When I tell you to do something, you do it." He whispered, only getting back up after a rapid nod of the head from the dirt covered teenager, who still had a hand clamped firmly over his mouth.

Looks like he was doing overtime tonight.


"I'm home!" He called out, as James removed his key from the door, and kicked off his old sneakers. He shook off the few flakes of snow that had decided to nest on top of his sandy hair.

When he received no reply, he frowned and wandered into the kitchen.

"Mum?" He ventured, looking around the practically empty house. He checked the cupboards, searching for his dinner. No such luck. Empty, mouldy, spider webs. Nope, no, and defiantly no.

He let out a sigh yet again. Alright. No food tonight either. That's okay, he guessed, wasn't that hungry anyway, he tried to convince his grumbling stomach.

He shuffled into the living room, rubbing his face tiredly. A quick glance at the clock told him it almost 2 in the morning. He groaned. He had to get back up for school in roughly five hours. He vaguely wondered how much of that time he would actually spend sleeping instead of tossing and turning trying to fall into a dreamless blank.

"Mum?" James found his mother on a dirty torn up green sofa, still in her pyjama's. She hadn't moved from that spot from when he left her in the morning, unconscious from a combination of drugs and alcohol. And now here she was again, still knocked out from what seemed like another healthy dose of drugs and alcohol, judging by the bottles and stench all around her.

He gazed on sadly at the pathetic looking sight.

His mother wasn't a bad person. She tried to do her best for James, or at least, she used to. But somewhere along the line, possibly at the point where her husband left her for a much younger woman and she went through a not-so-civil divorce, she went off the rails a bit.

She was fired from work for coming in drunk one day, and ever since then, had been lying on the sofa, drinking, getting high, and drinking. James tried to drown out her loud wails and echoing sobs every time she woke up from unconsciousness to be reminded that her husband wasn't lying asleep next to her.

The same old wounds, just continuously re-opened. James was starting to think that maybe she'd have to bleed herself dry before she could stitch herself up.

She'd find her way back on track, Brooke Diamond was a strong woman deep down. Back working, earning money, re-stocking the food cupboards, paying the bills… But until then, it was his job.

James exited the room briefly, and came back with a blanket. Sure, it had a few holes in it, but oh well, it was his from his bed and the only one he could find that didn't have a iffy smell to it. He'd survive without it. He lay it over her gently and kissed her on the cheek.

"Night mum," He whispered, lingering by the door for a few moments of silence to see whether he was going to a goodnight back.

Nothing. She didn't even stir.

James shut his eyes and let his imagination create all the words she would of said.

"Where the hell have you been? Do you know what the time is James Diamond? Two, almost two in the morning! Who do you think you are? I'm going to choke that pretty little neck of yours if you don't get to bed in three seconds flat," She would scream in his ear, but not the bad screams that kept him up at night.

And he would start to say something, probably some lame excuse he had just thought of on the spot, "But, mum-"

But he would never get to finish, because right then he'd have the air knocked out of his lungs and be pulled into a bone crushing hug. And then, James' favourite part, she'd tell him-

"Oh my God, don't you ever, ever do that again. I love you so much, promise me, James. Promise you won't ever make me worry like that again."

And he'd tell her he loved her too, and that he was sorry and he promised to never do it again. And then, with her beautiful laughter echoing after him, he'd race up the stairs to his room as fast as he could, because his mum was serious about the three seconds flat thing.

Those were the things she would of said.

If.

If his dad hadn't of left.

He practically crawled back upstairs to his room, tripping over trash and broken glass every now and again. Finally making it to his bed, the tall framed teenager shivered when he noticed the window had been left open all day. Making his way over to it with chattering teeth, he looked at it in tired confusion.

Could of sworn I didn't open it…Just as he was about to close it, the smell hit him. He gagged, and tried to hold down his breakfast. Peering out of his window, he cringed when he saw vomit sprayed all down the wall of his house.

Lush. Nice one mum.

Well at least now he knew that his mum did in fact move today. To projectile vomit out of his window. That was…reassuring.

He thawed out the frozen hinge of his window with his keys and used all of his remaining strength to jam it shut. The shivers still wracked his worn out body, as he watched whisperers of his own breath swirl around his room in a cloudy fog. He bit down on his already abused tongue once more to stop his teeth from clanking together.

And he had no blanket. He was half tempted to go downstairs and tug it off of his mum, but he was just too tired and his legs were about to collapse. So instead, he just pulled another hoodie on, clamped his mouth down, and fell into his bed.

As soon as he shut his eyes, he tried to imagine his mothers arms wrapped around him, protecting him from the cold world outside, as she held him so tight that he could feel her heartbeat. He tried to imagine her laughter, and the way it use chimed and floated around the room. He tried to imagine the spark in her eye when they had a argument, the way she would always keep in him inline and out of trouble, the way she constantly worried about him.

It was sad that he could barely remember those things anymore.


Head down. Eyes on the floor. Oh, God. Not today, please, not today.

His hood is up, head downcast to the pavement, concealing strangers from catching a glimpse of his face. He doesn't dare risk looking up. He walks in a quick pace, body rigid, as he hurries through the snow, hoping to get to school without anyone seeing him.

His breath is coming out in short, quick pants, and his heart is beating so fast, he can hear it ringing through his ears, and he absentmindedly wonders if is actually possible for your heart to beat this fast without having some sort of heart attack.

He saw a pair of feet approaching and panics, momentarily forgetting to breathe, and oh Christ they were coming closer and-

Walked straight past.

Oh, thank-you, thank-you, so much! Logan remembered to exhale, letting the cold air whoosh out of his lungs. He let the wind blow down his hood, revealing short spiked brunette hair and intelligent chocolate eyes.

A smile spread across his face as he kicked a mound of snow up with his sneakers, turning the last corner before he reached school-

And then all at once, the world stopped spinning for him. He felt a hand on his shoulder. A rough, large hand, with broad knuckles.

Oh God.

"Don't you think it's a bit rude to just walk past one your friends without saying hello, eh Logie?" A deep voice chuckled out, and right at that moment, blind terror seized him as he froze up, feeling himself shake.

"Um, a-actually, I was, um, j-just on my way to, err, school, Brad…" He stuttered out, shrugging the hand off of his shoulder but feeling the imprint of it burn his skin through his clothes like a brand. He walked as fast as he possibly could without breaking into a run.

Suddenly, the air was stolen from his lungs, as his backpack was yanked backwards in one powerful tug, sending his much smaller body crashing into Brads massive one. Logan let out a small yelp as he looked up to the giant teens grinning face.

"School don't start for another half hour. Whatcha say we hang out for a bit, gotta lot of catching up to do, huh? I missed you over the weekend Logie, did you miss me?"

His teeth were crooked, and he had a big gap where one of his canines were missing. At 6ft 4ins, Brad towered over Logan, and was the tallest and biggest kid in their school. Nobody, at all, messed with him. He also had a wonky nose where it had been broken numerous times (most likely in fights), and short black hair.

"Um-"

Next thing Logan knew, he was making full body contact with the icy pavement. He couldn't breathe, each inhale making his lungs tighter and jolted across his ribs, as he tried to catch his breathe. He had literally been picked up and thrown to the floor.

Another thing about Brad? He was strong. Really strong.

"Oh, so you didn't miss me?" He practically screamed down at him. "Well, let me give you a reminder so you don't go forgetting me anytime soon," He spat, mood instantly changing and picked the much weaker brunette up, only to let his fist fly straight into Logan's face.

He let out a piercing scream at the pain (why was he so weak?), and once again slammed into the cold pavement. For a few moments, Logan was confused and disorientated, blinking down at the white below him. Slowly, he became aware of the cold seeping through his many layers of clothes and weighing him down. However, it also numbed the searing pain in his right shoulder, that had bore the brunt of the attack.

Logan kind of liked being numb. It was weird, funny feeling, almost as if his body wasn't his own. Like he was just floating outside of it, but not actually in it, where he couldn't feel the bruises and cuts and many broken things that were so wrong and unfixable.

He would of liked to have lay there for a while, in the snow, just watching tiny specks of pure white flutter down to meet him, as a warm trail of blood slowly dribbled out of the corner of his mouth. Would of liked maybe to let his limbs go so numb he couldn't move them, just so he could feel like someone else, anyone else, than Logan Mitchell. Would of liked to have just closed his eyes, and let everything and everyone just go away.

Unfortunately, it seemed life had other plans.

Once again, he was lifted by the scruff of his shirt, as Brad pulled his him so their faces were mere inched apart. His face was pulled into a inhuman snarl, and the shorter teen wondered if Brad knew he absolutely stank of weed.

"Listen up, buddy, I'm in a good mood, so I'm going to let you off easy this time. But the next time you try to avoid me like that…"

A glint of metal peaked out from underneath Brads jacket, silently promising a thousand things. "Well, we wouldn't want poor Mrs. Mitchell to have to collect up little pieces of her son now would we?" Then, he leaned in closer, and whispered in Logan's ear, voice dangerously quiet.

"That is, if they find you."

A gasp snuck its way out of his lips, as he violently shook his head. He wouldn't. He…He couldn't!

…Could he?

A quick shove from the towering 16-year-old sent Logan stumbling back towards the ground again. He gazed fearfully up to Brad, flinching whenever the other so much as moved a muscle.

With a satisfied smirk, Brad stared down at Logan's small form shivering below him.

"Meet me after school behind the bike sheds."

Slowly, the smart teenager nodded. This seemed to be the right answer as Brads smirk widened, giving Logan one last look before turning around and heading for school. "Oh, and Logan?" He said in a low tone, back still turned away from him.

"Y-yeah?" He gulped.

"I wouldn't go telling those hockey head friends of yours about this. Wouldn't it be a shame if they were, say, involved in some sort of accident? Maybe, I don't know, a nasty trip down the stairs? Or a-"

"Please don't hurt them. I won't tell, I promise," Logan spoke softly from his spot on the ground, hands automatically curling by his sides at the thought of his friends being hurt because of him.

"There's a good Logie!" Brad chuckled out, as he began to walk away. "Better start thinking of some excuses quick then for that black eye of yours, school starts in ten minutes…" He trailed off as he turned the corner, leaving Logan alone in the cold.

He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, half tempted to just walk back home. No, he couldn't, his friends would be too suspicious about him missing a day, and besides, he'd just have to come back in to meet Brad anyway.

The Goosebumps that appeared on his pale skin weren't exactly due to the icy weather. Great. What a swell way to start off the school year. He hadn't even got to school yet and he'd already been beaten up and threatened, he thought to himself as he pushed himself off the ground, dusting himself off and grabbing his bag.

Taking in a deep breath of cold air into his lungs, the almost 17-year-old braced himself. He might as well get this over with.

And with that Logan Mitchell began his short trek to hell hole they called 'high school', hoping that no-one would notice the bruises.

Or maybe, just maybe, he thought with a glitter of hope that he desperately tried to smother, they might notice. Might say something and-

No.

There was no point. He knew he'd just lie anyway.

Because if there was one thing Logan was good at, it was pretending that everything was okay.


A/N: Oh God. GAH. I'm so nervous. Review because I know you're such a lovely nice person?

Anyway, like I said, CARLOS AND KENDALL NEXT TIME. With some interactions with the guuuuuuuuuys ;D

Oh, and the OC's are just there because I need evil people in my fic. DON'T THEY HAVE SUCH CREATIVE NAMES? I don't even count them as OC's because they will just be purely there to mess the guys lives up a bit more, not have their own story and take over. Yeah, minor things really.

Ok, THANK-YOU SO MUCH FOR READING!