Jackson was ten when the new neighbours moved in.

He didn't think much of it, people were always coming and going from his neighbourhood, he never thought he'd ever care about one of them, after all, they're just the people you live by, there doesn't have to be any kind of involvement.

These were the exact kind of arguments Jackson tried to give to his parents, but they wouldn't have it, Jackson would have to go over and introduce himself.

And that's how Jackson found himself knocking on the neighbour's front door Saturday afternoon. He stood outside for a few minutes, knocking on the door every thirty seconds. Eventually, Jackson heard noises from inside and then the door cracked open.

"What?" A scratchy voice came from inside.

"Hi, I'm Jackson Whittemore, from next door, my parents wanted me to come and say hi and-" The door was slammed in Jackson's face before he could finish his sentence.

Jackson stood staring at the closed door for a moment before huffing and walking back across the street to his own house.

He slammed the door as he got home.

"What happened, sweetie?" His mother asked, approaching him with a concerned look on her face.

"Nothing," Jackson grumbled, pushing past her to go up the stairs. "I wouldn't go over there though, they're not very friendly."

Jackson was in the front yard of his house, throwing lacrosse balls into the net he had set up. He was already playing for an elementary team, but he was striving to be captain as soon as he got to Beacon Hills High.

Suddenly, there was a loud clatter, throwing Jackson off balance and making him miss his shot. He watched the ball fly past the net and down the street, and cursed under his breath.

He looked to see where the disturbance had come from; of course, the new neighbours.

Jackson wondered if an animal had gotten into their bins, but no, the noise came again, it was from inside the house.

Inside? Jackson wondered, maybe they were playing a game and a few vases were being smashed. Yes, that's what was happening.

Jackson turned back to his practise, grabbing another lacrosse ball from the lawn. But, once again, he was cut short, luckily not losing the ball this time.

He turned back towards the house. Except, there was a kid on the ground, a mop of dirty blond curls, clouded his face. He couldn't have been much younger than Jackson, but he looked about as strong as a pre-schooler. Jackson wanted to ignore it, he really did, but something in his gut wouldn't let him.

"Are you alright?" Jackson called across the street. The kid in question pulled himself up from the ground. His hair went with him as he stood up, and Jackson noticed his face right away, there was a gash across his forehead and blood was running down his face into his right eye.

"M'fine," The boy mumbled, rushing to cover the wound. He immediately realised his mistake as he cried out loud when his hand slammed into the mess of blood, hair, and…glass? Was that what the crashing sounds had been?

"You're obviously not fine, I'll get you a…Band-Aid…or water?" Jackson realised he had no idea how to help a ten year old whose head was profoundly bleeding. Why did he want to help anyway? Neighbours are just people who live next to you, not people you have to be involved with. Still, Jackson felt compelled to help the small, bleeding boy standing across the street.

Jackson waved the boy over, and he came limping across, walking as slow as humanly possible. Jackson threw the stick down, realising he was still holding it, and ran inside to fetch a glass of water. He came stumbling out of the house, handing the glass to the boy, now sitting in the lawn, ripping up grass in tuffs.

"What's your name?" Jackson immediately regretted asking; neighbours, not friends, he felt as if he had to keep reminding himself. But then again, it was just a name, he knew plenty of names he didn't care for.

"Isaac…Lahey," He squeaked out the words, as if he were unsure of his own name.

"Are you sure?" Isaac eyes grew wider and he looked terrified. "I'm joking! Never heard a joke before?" Isaac looked down at his lap, pulling at more grass. "Get up, let me see your head."

"It's fine, really, I've had worse," Isaac still talked in a small voice, barely audible at some times. Worse? Your head looks as if its been stabbed and you're saying you've had worse? Jackson wanted to yell. Instead, he chose the calmer route.

"Uh, yeah, same here…still it wouldn't hurt to, you know…wipe the blood off your face." Isaac stared up at him and Jackson avoided his eyes. What was he saying? The kid didn't want help, he made that perfectly clear, so why did Jackson still offer?

"Sure," Isaac mumbled, pulling himself up and shaking grass blades from his baggy clothes. They walked inside Jackson's house, Isaac falling behind with his limp.

"What's with the limp?" No, don't get involved; Jackson was growing frustrated with his own mouth, why couldn't he shut up? Thankfully, Isaac ignored the question.

"Are your parents not home?"

"Uh, yeah they're out a lot…" Jackson noticed Isaac hadn't touched the water. "Drink it," he motioned to the cup. He went to the sink and wet some paper towels. Isaac snatched them from Jackson's hands, as he didn't want to be handled like a baby.

"I'm not a kid, you know. I'm ten." Isaac said this with a little more confidence in his voice, but Jackson still heard the scared kid.

"Cool, I'm ten too."

They spent the rest of the time in silence, Isaac blotting at the wound with the mess of paper towels, Jackson sitting on the counter, watching. Isaac winced in pain every time the pressure hit right on the gash.

"Um, maybe you should get that looked at…there's glass in there." Jackson wanted to help, so he sat on his hands.

"I have to go," Isaac muttered. He bawled up the paper towels in his fist and then limped out the front door, Jackson just sat, watching.

The scene carried on for a few months, Jackson would hear yells or bangs coming from across the street, Isaac would either end up outside, or the house would get dark and quiet. Jackson always got a weird feeling in his gut when Isaac didn't show up. Eventually, he got accustomed to it. Isaac would come over after Jackson noticing him in his yard. Covered in new cuts or bruises, Jackson wouldn't ask, he didn't want to be too involved. He would always get Isaac a glass of water, but Isaac would never drink it.

One day, during the weekly visit to Jackson's house, Isaac fell asleep on the couch. Jackson grabbed a blanket and threw it over Isaac's small body, shivering in his sleep. Jackson sat on the floor and turned on the TV, careful to keep it as quiet as possible, something told him Isaac never got much sleep.

The next thing Jackson remembered was a loud banging on his front door. He rushed to answer it, noticing Isaac was still asleep. He pulled the door open, and behind it stood a man. His face was contorted into one of fury and rage, it made Jackson shrink back.

"Where is he?" The man spat.

"D-do I know you?" Jackson's voice faltered, he recognised the voice from a year ago when he first knocked on Isaac's door. The man grunted and pushed past Jackson, forcing him to the ground. Jackson stayed where he fell, frozen in shock. Adults weren't supposed to treat kids like that, were they? Sure his gym teacher had been rough, but certainly not like this.

Shouting emerged from the lounge room and Jackson jumped to his feet, but before he could take a step, the man stormed back out into the hall, dragging Isaac by the ear. Isaac was whimpering and Jackson watched in terror as the man dropped him to the ground. He approached Jackson, inches away from his face, eyes lit in flames.

"You didn't see nothin', boy." The words were enough to frighten Jackson for life. The man turned away and pulled Isaac, forcefully, back up and out the door.

As the door slammed after the man, Jackson threw himself to the window. He watched as Isaac was drug across the gravel of the road and thrown into the doorway of the other house. Jackson didn't see him for a year.