The Things One Doesn't Expect

Part One

I… didn't do anything wrong…

I'm sorry…

Please stop hurting me…

All the boy can do is plead silently that today's torture will end soon. He prays that their feet will stop striking him and that their punches stop flying at him. He doesn't understand what they have against him. He doesn't get why nearly every day now, these other boys decide to hurt him.

This boy is Owen. He is only fourteen, a cute little brunette with green eyes so bright and vibrant that one would thing they were radioactive. And Owen never lets them become dim with sadness, not even when these jerks decide to beat the living crap out of him.

He silently waits for the kicking and punching and hitting to stop, for them to walk away and move on. They eventually do, which makes Owen sigh in relief. He picks himself up, wipes the blood from the corner of his mouth, and drags his yet again sore body home.

But no one there cares very much. His father disappeared without a trace when he was only five, and his mother has become addicted to drugs, making her nearly completely oblivious to her son's pain and agony. She greets him with only a wave as he enters the small, smoke-smelling house, for she is too absorbed in whatever it is she's watching on the television to pay attention to Owen's fresh wounds. He sighs and trudges down the hall, to the bathroom.

Once there, he takes off his shirt and inspects what damage has been done to him today. He sees at least four new bruises forming on his abnormally skinny abdomen, another near his collar bone, and a scrape on his left cheek. Not too bad… he thinks as he pulls out the first aid kit which he has stashed in the medicine cabinet, top shelf.

He pulls out a square, white bandage and attaches it to his face with medical tape, now covering the cut. And since there's not much one can do for bruises, he simply shuts the case and replaces it back in the cabinet.

Sadly, this has become a daily routine for Owen. School ends, gets beat up, goes home, bandages wounds. He doubts he can even feel that much pain anymore, after all that he's gone through with the bullies at school (but, if one were to look on the bright side, which Owen tries to do, he now knows how to affectively bandage every wound from tiny scrapes to large holes in one's forearm).

But he knows that's not true.

There was a time when he accidently pissed off one of the kids that usually beats on him. He had said something along the lines of "I don't really care about your opinion" when the boy had said that Owen's sweatshirt made him look like a hobo, and that really set the guy off. He dragged poor little Owen, who was only thirteen at the time, behind the school building, and began ruthlessly kicking him, over and over and over again. To our little brunette, it seemed to go on for hours, like the pain would just never end.

But finally, the boy got bored and walked away, leaving Owen lying still on the pavement; for all the other kid knew, Owen could have been dead.

But no, this boy does not go down that easily. He waited until he was absolutely sure the mean boy had left, and then sat up, but immediately wished he hadn't.

His ribs hurt.

They hurt like hell.

His breath hitched in his throat, for even the simple act of breathing sent more and more spikes of pain through his ribs. One or two of them have got to be broken, if it hurts this much… he had thought then, one hand now clutching at his chest.

He never found out of he was correct. Of course his mother never took him to the hospital; she had said "Just suck it up, you big baby." And Owen had no one else to help him.

The ribs eventually healed, but most definitely in the wrong position, and they still throb with a dull ache sometimes, mainly after he moves a lot (gym class is real torture for him, and everyone knows it).

In fact, just thinking about it is making the pain flare up again, and suddenly, breathing became a bit harder in the already smoky area. He coughs a bit, then stands and heads for his room, stumbling quite a lot as he walks.

Owen is rather fond of his room, surprisingly. It is small with only one window and a lamp on the bedside table for light, but the brunette never does need much light to see. A simple braided rug covers most of the floor and a regular sized bureau stands against the wall next to the door. His closet is a simple, one-door-ed space for his shirts; and there is one bookshelf, which is almost filled with books that Owen cherishes. His bed is a normal sized twin bed that his father had found at the dump and fixed up for him a year before he disappeared. Owen always treasures this bed because one, his father had basically made it for him, and two, there are some very important memories with it, both good and bad.

There is one time he remembers, back when his mother had first gotten high off of her drugs. That was also a day when Owen had come home late from school (of course because he'd been bullied again), and his mother was not happy about that. She screamed at her son in that kind of slurred speech one gets and managed to scare poor little Owen out of his wits. And that's when she'd hit him.

He had tried to tell her what happened, that it wasn't his fault, that he'd actually been hurt by other kids at school. But she wouldn't hear it. And to get him to stop talking, she'd slapped him. Hard.

He'd then run crying to his room and buried his face in his pillow, his cheek stinging like hell. But the cool, smooth sheets of the bed and the soft case of the pillow had made him feel better. They caressed his bruised and battered skin as he relaxed into the bed, slowly feeling more and more at ease. And there he had stayed for the rest of the night, in his bed, thinking about the softness and comfort of his bed which his father had made for him. He kept coming back to the thought that maybe my father's spirit is here… maybe some of him entered the bed as he made it… and maybe he's the one making me feel better…

And as Owen remembers this sad but also quite fond memory, he climbs into that same bed, though it has grown a bit small for him now. He curls up into a tight ball and sighs, for his bruises hurt and the cut on his face stings almost like that horrid slap. He wishes for this day to end, for it has been filled with too many unpleasant memories and saddening events. He just wants it to be over….

He then hears a crash from the kitchen, and knows it's his mother. Should I check on her…? She's usually okay, he thinks as he contemplates his options. But he can't control himself as he rolls out of his welcoming bed and trudges to the kitchen.

When he gets there, he realizes that his mother has dropped another glass because of her ever shaky hands. "You really must be more careful, mother…" he says quietly as he bends down to pick up the broken glass.

"Filthy mutt…" she mutters back, and then takes another drag of whatever it is she's smoking today. "Just pick that up and leave me."

Filthy mutt, huh? She must be feeling particularly spiteful today… he notes, for that is one of her choice insults and uses it whenever she's in an extremely bad mood. But a simple "Yes, ma'am" is all he replies with.

But she seems even more set off by that. Making an annoyed noise, she states, "You dirty mongrel. I don't care how much you suck up to me; you'll never be the man my husband was."

"My husband"… She never refers to him as "your father". Not once. Though Owen never could figure out why. "I'm sorry, mother," he mumbles.

"I thought I told you not to suck up to me!" she suddenly screams. "And never call me that horrid name, you scum!" her leg then goes flying out and connects with Owen's right shoulder, which send him into one of the lower kitchen cabinets.

He winces a bit and drops the glass shards. He realizes that he accidently clenched his fist down on them when he'd been kicked and they have sliced his palm open. He whimpers, and then makes a mad dash for the bathroom. "Tha's right! Run, ya dirty rat!" she yells after him, her speech becoming more slurred.

Owen ignores her as usual and clamps down on his hand to stop the bleeding. He yanks the first aid kit down and immediately pulls out the peroxide, then dumps some on the wound. It stings, of course, but it's nothing that Owen isn't used to. He has much haste while wrapping the slice in clean bandages, and uses another piece of medical tape to seal it. Sighing, he washes off the blood from his uninjured hand, returns the medical kit, and shuffles off down the hall and to his room.

He makes sure to close the door after he enters, then flops down onto the bed in a tired manner. His freshly beaten body begins to protest against the simplest of movements and Owen knows that he is going to be very sore in the morning; but again, nothing he hasn't dealt with before.

And it's at these times, the times when he's just lying there, staring blankly at the ceiling, that any normal kid in his situation would rant about how they hate their life or how the world would be better off without him. But not Owen, he's different.

He lets his thoughts drift off into the world of the unknown, where he can daydream and think and just do whatever he wishes. He loves this little world he's made in his head, and loves that it's always there when it needs to be. It'll never leave him in his time of need, his time of escape.

And his thoughts here are always so positive. He thinks about the future, what he could do as a career, or a job, or what kind of family he might have. He also daydreams abut fantastic lands and makes up characters who can live there, and almost makes a movie in his head. With his imagination, he can do anything.

He never thinks of anything such as people in his situation might. Not once has a thought of cutting himself or doing some kind of delinquent activity crossed his mind, for he doesn't see a point in it. He knows that something good always happens to those who wait, and to those who deserve it.

And all of this always makes Owen so incredibly happy. It reminds him that there's more to the world than what he sees on a daily basis; he knows there's some good out there.

He just has to find it.

Ah, well, not today, I suppose, he thinks as he starts to drift into sleep. But… maybe tomorrow… maybe something will happen… tomorrow…

END PART ONE

A/N: Hey guys! So this is my first original story (even though I've got tons of ideas) and yeah hoped you like the first part C: second one's done and probably gonna be uploaded soon~

And btw, this is only under misc. books because I couldn't find anywhere else to put it XD