1995
Jon stepped down from the schoolbus and made his way down the sidewalk, dodging broken beer bottles and kicking aside disgarded cigarette butts. The chilly November wind seemed to go right through his well-worn and ripped jacket; he shivered violently. He walked quickly, keeping his eyes on the ground, avoiding anyone else he happened to pass on the street. His ugly little corner of Cincinatti was cold, and cruel, and dead-looking.
He made it to their ratty apartment without incident, pausing to bolt and lock the door behind him. He knew his mother would be gone all night, doing whatever it was that she did to pay their rent and put food on the table. Jon was old enough now to have an inkling what that was, but he didn't want to admit it to himself. Instead, he hung his jacket on his bedroom door, made himself a sandwich and sat cross-legged on the floor, digging his homework out of his pockets.
Jon didn't carry a backpack. He had learned the hard way that he would only have his backpack stolen, or ripped, his papers and books strewn about and stomped on. Just like everything else he'd had in his life, it would be taken from him and ruined. He kept his books in his locker at school, and carried his homework in his pockets, neatly folded. He did math equations off the top of his head, and wrote a book report on a book he'd read in bits and starts throughout the past week, whenever he could slip into the school library for a few minutes. His homework was then neatly folded and returned to his pockets; he'd wear these jeans again tomorrow. He only had a couple pairs of pants, and the jeans were the warmest. He wore them almost every day in the winter.
The apartment was small, dimly-lit, and the paint was peeling off the walls. Only one burner worked on the stove. They didn't have any furniture or a TV, not after his mom's ex-boyfriend had stolen it all a couple months back, after cracking Jon's mom over the head and knocking her out. All that was left was the couch, and Jon's mom slept on that. Jon slept on the mattress on the floor in the bedroom. He didn't mind so much, anyway it was better than her having guys around like she did sometimes. One of the girls in his class had five brothers and sisters, and they all shared one room, sleeping three to a bed. At least Jon didn't have to fight any siblings for food or clothes.
He took a bath, then brushed his teeth in the bathroom mirror, rubbing a circle into the steam on the mirror so he could check his reflection. Jon's dirty blond hair was getting longer; already some of the other boys at school had been taunting him, calling him a girl. Jon wasn't sure why being called a girl was such an insult, but he knew that they meant it that way, so he flew at them with his fists and knees. He used to get beat up all the time, but he had hit an early growth spurt, and was now the biggest boy in his grade. The other boys were warier of fighting him. Jon frowned at his reflection. He wasn't sure who his father was, but he decided he must've been an ugly guy. Jon didn't think he looked much like his mother, who was tall, and slender, and quite pretty even if she wore too much makeup. His arms and legs were all out of proportion with his body, and his forehead was too broad, and he decided his nose was funny-looking. He turned away from his reflection and climbed into bed. It wasn't that late, but his homework was all done and with no TV there was nothing else to do but go to sleep. He laid awake for some time, watching the shadows flicker on the ceiling as cars drove by on the street outside, hearing a police siren in the distance, and somewhere closer, maybe just down the street, the tinny sound of people arguing.
His mother woke him up as she came in. Jon listened to the sound of her heels clicking on the linoleum as she walked into the apartment. She crept into his room and knelt beside his mattress. He pretended to be asleep as she gently stroked his brow, her nails combing through his hair. She smelled like cheap perfume and something powdery - makeup, probably. "I love you, sweetheart," she whispered, and she kissed him, feather-soft, on the cheek. Jon kept his breathing perfectly even until he heard her walk back into the living room to her couch. He listened until the rustling sound of her clothes and blanket stopped, and then he rolled over and went back to sleep.
His name is Jon Moxley, and he is not yet ten years old.