A/N Here's a one shot, Disclaimer; it belongs to S.E. Hinton

Keep still, keep quiet. Maybe he won't know you're in here. Maybe he won't look. The door opens to your bedroom, but maybe he won't come in. You know if he comes in, and looks under the bed, he will find you. You hear his footsteps but you can't tell if they are getting closer or farther away. His hand is on your leg, pulling you out. It's over, you're in for it.

"You think you can hide from me you little bastard!" He shouts, his words slurring. He pulls you up by your hair, and you struggling to keep your feet under you as he pulls you out of your room. You lose your footing on the stairs, and he lets you tumble and crash down them. You stay at the bottom of the stairs in a heap, trying to determine if your hurt. Maybe if you are he won't beat you. His foot connects with your stomach before you can protect yourself. Again and again his work boot meets your stomach.

And then he is pulling you up, maybe it's over. His hand is wrapped around the back of your head as your face slams into the wall. A cracking sound, and your nose is broken, bleeding onto your shirt and the floor. Another hit to the wall and you can't really see anymore, everything is blurry. He might be saying something, but there is only a buzzing sound.

You're on the floor again, but you don't know how you get there. His boot is now focusing on your back, slamming and stepping.

He's never been this rough. He normally stops by now. But he isn't stopping. He keeps hitting, and kicking and shouting. The pain is more than anything you can remember and you just want it to stop. He picks you up again, his hand wrapping easily around your neck. You bring your hands up, trying to make a gap between his hand and your neck. He squeezes and it gets harder to breath. He keeps squeezing, and your lungs are burning. He keeps squeezing until your eyes shut and it doesn't hurt anymore. Nothing hurts anymore.

"Honey have you seen this?" Mr. Curtis asks, showing his wife the newspaper.

"No, what is it?" Mrs. Curtis asks, leaning over her husband's shoulder. It was a weekend and their oldest son was at football practice, while their two youngest were playing in the backyard.

"It says here that some guy beat his child to death last night, just a few streets over."

"I wonder if we knew them."

"I don't recognize the name, Cade, they probably kept to themselves."

"Probably," Mrs. Curtis agrees. "How old was the boy."

"The same age as Soda, eight."

"What a shame."

A/N don't hate me, instead leave some reviews