New story! The summary of this was on my profile for what feels like years and I'm funally writing it :P be warned. There will be violence. There will be sex. There'll be drug and drink use, rape, murder. This is gang life guys :P this first chapter is some backstory for ya of the three main characters. Enjoy!

Jett Stetson was born to David and Cheryl Stetson.

David worked in a theatre, selling tickets and snacks and offering people special offers on the next play they might see. Cheryl was a lecturer in journalism, very bright but quite strict, much stricter than her husband. They balanced each other out. They had another son three years before Jett was born, named Alan. He loved sports and was a very clever kid. A dream child to anyone, really.

Jett played sports too from a young age, keeping fit to appease his parents. But really, he knew from his first homemade puppet show at age four that he wanted to be an actor. David was all for supporting him, cheering him on when he put on these little performances. When Jett was eight years old, for his birthday, David brought him to the theatre where he worked, getting him a great seat right close to the front. Of course, he made sure it was a ticket to something the kid would enjoy, and he certainly did. Since then, every month David would take him to the theatre. Sometimes he was sitting at the very back in an empty seat that hadn't been sold, but he still enjoyed it just as much. It only helped his dreams to grow. He wanted to be one of those performers more than anything.

"Do you think I can be a star too?" he asked his father once, as they drove home after a wonderful performance of Hairspray.

"Kid, I know you can," David chuckled. "And we're gonna make it happen, you and me. Alright?"

And Jett truly began to believe he could do it too. He played the lead in his elementary school play while Alan won a kiddie sports medal, again. David helped out with every rehearsal he could, and went to see the play both nights. Cheryl was too busy, Alan had a sports event she couldn't miss. Jett had never minded this absence too much.

It was when he turned eleven that David figured it was time they really begin to work at this acting thing. So he began to look around for acting jobs for children, in commercials or brief appearances in TV shows and movies. Jett did his first commercial for a new range of shiny bicycles, and they used the money to buy him a new CD player. It wasn't exactly the type of role that he'd been looking forward to playing, but as David reassured him, it was only the beginning.

Just after he turned twelve, they reached when they felt would really be his big break. David was sure Jett could get the part; it was for a new comedy TV series about some dysfunctional family. He'd be playing one of the sons if he was chosen. It was an amazing opportunity, and so he practiced like crazy every day leading up to the audition. David ran lines with him before school and in the evening, while Cheryl helped Alan with his homework.

On the day of the audition, David drove Jett to the studio and walked him to where the other boys were waiting. "I'm sorry I can't stay, kid," he said apologetically, giving him a hug. "I just have to cover an hour or two for Tony at the theatre." Not every boy there had a parent with them, but not all of them were alone either. Jett wasn't worried; he knew he would be fine.

"It's okay," Jett replied cheerfully, sitting down in one of the chairs. "You know what time to pick me up?"

"I'll be here. Break a leg!"

Jett read over his script three times, before deciding that he didn't want to psych himself out, and just sat and twiddled his thumbs for the rest of his waiting time. His knees were shaking, but he was so unbelievably excited that he was fighting to keep the smile off his face. He was the tenth boy to go on. He bounded in and stood on the mark on the floor, waving. "Hi!"

"Hi," one of the men behind the large table relied with a small smile, glancing over his paper. "Jett Stetson?"

"Yep!"

"Okay, nice to meet you Jett. Whenever you're ready."

He did pretty well, he felt. He projected his voice, he was witty, he was confident. He got all his lines right, and the producers were smiling when he finished. "Thank you, Jett," another said, this one a woman as she noted something in her book. "We'll call you by three tomorrow and let you know. Next!"

Jett hurried out of the room and sat back where he'd been waiting, and waited for his father to arrive. Other boys went into the audition room and came back out, some leaving immediately with their accompanying adult, others sitting and waiting like him. All the boys had auditioned, and he still sat there. There were only two left waiting to be picked up when his mother suddenly burst through the door, Alan at her heels.

He looked up, smiling but a little puzzled as he made his way over to them. "It went so well," he told them, grinning and hugging her. "I think I may have got a callback! Where's Dad?"

Cheryl gripped his shoulders tightly and took a deep breath, before saying in a low voice, "Jett, he was in an accident on his way here. We just got a call from the hospital."

It was after that that Jett's ears began to ring. Cheryl roughly tugged him out to the car and he got in the back, staring blankly ahead as she started the car. This was the first time he ever experienced road sickness.

When they got to the hospital, the doctors informed them that David would need emergency surgery, but they had time to see him before he went in. Jett was the first to run to the bed, eyes filling with tears as they met his father's barely open ones. He was cold and tired and battered all over. "Dad," he whimpered, trying not to cling to him too hard.

"Hey, don't cry . . ." David managed to hug him back, if very weakly. He smiled at him. "I'll be okay. We both will."

Jett had to let Alan and Cheryl say their few words to him, before he was wheeled away into the operation room. When he did come back out, his body and face were covered with a cold sheet.

The following afternoon, Jett was called and informed he got a callback. He didn't take it. He just couldn't.

From then on, he had only the confidence to stick to school productions and backstage assistance. When he started high school, he had to walk there, and passed the theatre every single day, on the way there and on the way home. He always tried to stay far away, tried not to look at it. For the first few weeks, he succeeded. But one day something changed, and he just couldn't take his eyes off it. His bottled up grief came spilling down his cheeks as he just kept standing and staring.

For the first few months after his father's death, Cheryl had shown only pure grief and despair, and Alan along with her. Alan, soon enough, began to move on. Maye not on the inside, but on the outside he began to give no indication that he even remembered he had a father. Cheryl wept to Jett one night that she knew he was just masking his depression, the poor boy, trying to hide his pain from her to make her feel better. It was Jett's fault he died, she said.

That was the first night she hit him, hard across the face. The smack rang out in the kitchen, and his ears began ringing again.

He'd heard some vague information at school about abusive relationships. Not all of it was accurate, he knew that. But one part he distinctly remembered; once the abuser started, that was it. They'd opened a whole new window and there was nothing to hold them back anymore. This was certainly true for Cheryl. Once she started, it seemed she couldn't stop.

Of course, he never told anybody. This weakness wasn't something he was proud of. And anyway, who would he tell? He didn't any close friends; he didn't have many friends in general. And as for Alan, well . . . the truth was, Jett had no idea if he knew or not. Cheryl still treated him like a king. Maybe he didn't want to lose that. Or maybe he was just fooled by her sugary, motherly exterior. Jett knew her better than that, and wished more than anything that he didn't.

His weakness made him angry. It filled him from head to toe with this unbearable hatred for the world, this searing pain, that he only felt a little relief from the first time he knocked another kid down in the hallway. He opened his own new window and had no intention of closing it. He could finally get some air.

He began to beat up smaller kids just because he could. Just because Cheryl could. Then he started picking fights with bigger kids. His anger gave him strength that they, despite their greater physical build, always lacked. He had a few talks with the principal, saying his parents were being called in to speak about his behaviour. Only Cheryl came, nodding and apologising and appearing very concerned. She didn't give a shit. She had Alan-related affairs to attend to. She always did.

As he grew older, one morning as he passed the theatre, he suddenly decided he wouldn't stand for this anymore. He thought about suicide. He thought about murder. But there was one option left that seemed much easier, much more manageable. A scary prospect, but the offer of freedom outweighed that completely. And so he put his plan into action.

When he was sixteen, he snuck into his mother's bedroom in the middle of the night. She kept money in an envelope in a shoebox in the back of her closet that she'd won in a contest months ago. He knew she hadn't spent it; she'd promised Alan that they could spend it on some great vacation soon. He slipped the envelope into his backpack, before filling it up with as many clothes as he could fit, his toothbrush and toothpaste, a comb and some hair gel, a bar of soap and some personal possession he still managed to hold dear. Just before he left the front yard, he got this sudden urge; he picked up one of the garden gnomes and flung it right through the window. The burglar alarm began to blare, but by the time Cheryl and Alan arrived to see what had happened, he had disappeared into the night.

He wasn't quite sure what to do with himself once he'd run far and fast enough and finally felt that he was safe. He hung around in the streets until morning, afraid to lie anywhere and sleep. He had to keep his money and himself safe.

He wasn't quite sure what to do with himself when morning came. He decided to go get breakfast in a nearby café, and stuffed himself until he was full. An hour later he found himself in a tattoo parlour, getting a dragon inked on his bicep. Cheryl hated tattoos.

He met an older man outside the parlour when he came out, smoking a cigarette. He was gruff, with a greying beard and shaved head, and a pierced eyebrow. He himself had two colourful sleeves. In the spur of the moment, Jett stopped beside him and said, "Spare me a cigarette?"

The man glanced over at him, eyeing the gauze bandage on his arm before nodding and handing him one, along with his shiny black lighter. "You look a little young to be getting that done," he said gruffly. "How old are you, fourteen?"

"Sixteen," Jett snapped indignantly, taking a drag and trying not to cough too loudly, back of his hand pressed to his mouth. "Hey, not my fault you didn't age well."

He was treading in dangerous territory, he knew that. But the stranger didn't hit or kick him, like he expected. He just laughed. "Witty, I like that."

"What are you doing standing outside here? Waiting for your turn?"

"Nah, one of my guys is in there. He's getting one of these." He flashed his forearm which had some kind of symbol on it. It had a flame in the middle. Jett, as he quickly wracked his brains, could only think of two instances where people would have matching tattoos. One, if they were a couple. But since he had said one of his 'guys', plural, that couldn't be the case. The only option left was a gang. This man was in a gang?

He voiced his question to the stranger, and he gave a chuckle. "Yep. Best in the city, I think. Sure, I've got a scrappy bunch and they're all like you. Kids off the street. But I manage 'em well and they make me proud. They're my own lost boys."

"Lost boys?"

"You know, Peter Pan? I guess you grew up in a cave."

Jett glanced away and scowled, taking another drag and finding he could handle this one better. However he'd had enough and tossed it onto the ground, stomping on it and putting it out. Then he picked up the cigarette and threw it away, before turning back to the man and forcing the words out before he could stop them, "Can I join?"

The stranger gaped at him, before frowning and pursing his lips. Finally he shrugged, gave a smile and a sigh and clapped Jett on the shoulder. "I can make an exception. But don't get on my bad side, or you're out. Got it?"

"Got it," Jett replied joyfully, shaking the man's hand. "Thank you. I'm Jett."

He nodded. "I'm Ray."

Jett sniggered. "As in the fish?"

"Jett, as in the plane?" Ray retorted sharply. But he was grinning.

"Fair enough. So should I be getting one of those tats too?"

"You've just been in there, let's wait a bit. You might change your mind and bail on me. Not that I'm recommending you even try. But that ink is a bitch to remove."

"I won't bail," Jett vowed. He had nothing else.

He met the other boys later that day; they all lived in one house together with Ray. There were five others, some younger and some older. He got along well with them, and especially with Ray. He became the older's right hand man, as he secretly put it to him, over time. He didn't want to be vocal about it though, for fear of angering the other guys. They did intimidate him. But he started to get braver, and he started to get tougher.

When Jett was twenty, Ray had a stroke. It hospitalised him, and only an hour later, it killed him. And that was it. The gang, now composed of a couple of originals, himself included, and some new members who had joined over the years, had no idea what to do. They'd lost the head and heart of their gang. They felt it was only a matter of time before it would dissolve into nothing. "No," Jett said suddenly, standing in the centre of their living room and catching his distraught friends' attention. "We can't just let this go. He wouldn't want that, alright? We're just gonna have to choose a new leader, and keep going. If anyone wants to leave, they can . . . but I know not all of you want to, if any. So this is our only option."

The boys were all quiet, glancing back and forth between one another, silent words passing between them. Finally one, named Wayne, that Jett had come to view as a close friend, said, "What about you?"

Jett froze, gaping at him. "M-me?"

"Well, why not?" Another boy agreed, folding his arms. "You know all Ray's meeting spots. You know all his contacts. He brought you along to everything, you know it all as well as he did."

It was true, he did. Jett thought long and hard to himself for a moment or two. It was a lot of responsibility, a lot of pressure . . . but somehow that didn't matter.

"Okay. I'll do it."

He met James four years later, in one of those meeting places unexpectedly passed on to him. Another new gang leader, starting out even younger than he had. They should've found that they had a lot in common, really. That didn't happen. James was a douchebag, he was childish and arrogant and ignorant as fuck. But according to James, so was he.

"Don't think you can just waltz in here acting like a fucking king," Jett was seething. "We're the best there is. Not you. You're wasting your time, kid."

"I'm not even that much younger than you? Fucktard."

And so their bitter rivalry began. And a year after that started was when he met Kendall, and finally found a solution to all that built up stress.

James Diamond was born to Joe and Brooke Diamond.

Because of this, it was natural that he would grow up in a home of fortune and endless comfort. His father was the owner of a massive company which specialised in the production of TVs and CD players. And his mother was the CEO of the legendary Diamond Cosmetics, a field of beauty and self-care that stretched from coast to coast, and even ventured abroad after many years of her hard work bad determination. She had always been a woman to be feared, one you could never say no to. So James never did.

Many would say that James lived a charmed life until he was seven years old. This of course wasn't true; sure, he lived in a wonderful house, a stable environment, was the son of two very successful parents and raised by some very kind-hearted nannies. And his dad still even found some time to play the occasional game or two with him. His mother sometimes let him bake cookies in the kitchen with the nanny while she offered a hand in putting the tray in the oven. It was better than nothing. It was certainly better than what was to come.

He'd been seven for about five months when this unbearable incident occurred. His nanny had briefly gone to the store only a few minutes away to buy some groceries, promising that she wouldn't be long and that he could jut watch cartoons until she came back. So he sat quietly in his playroom and watched Tom and Jerry, content as always. His mother was at work, his father was at work, but it was all okay. He had Rosalina and he loved her.

It turned out that his father came home rather early. James heard the front door slamming shut and some voices, two if he was correct. He didn't know who it was at first, assuming that one of them was Rosalina and just staying put, waiting for her to walk in and greet him. However, when she didn't, he hopped up off the couch and his little legs carried him off down the hallway to see where the voices were coming from.

They were coming from the good living room. He was forbidden to play in there or ever go in by himself; he'd get the expensive couches dirty and probably break an ornament or two. But he could hear his father's voice, he could hear him and his guest laughing, so couldn't he go in? He knew it was a lady's voice, but he didn't know who. So he shrugged, opened the door, and walked in.

His dad and this lady were lying on one of the expensive leather couches, kicking off their clothes and kissing each other. The woman knelt upright and took off her underwear just as his father suddenly spotted him in the doorway. "James, what are you doing in here?!"

"Who is that?" James squeaked, hand clinging onto the doorknob, knees trembling.

"It's nobody, just—"

"James, you can't be in here . . . oh good god." Rosalina immediately covered her eyes, screeching her apologies over and over as she picked James up in her arms and ran from the room, shutting the door hard behind her.

"Who was that lady?" James wailed, clinging to her and beginning to cry.

"No, James, dear, hush . . ." She cradled him in her arms and brought him into the kitchen, sitting down with him on her lap. "Don't cry."

"Do you know her?"

"You know, I think I do . . . I saw her at the last Christmas party, when I went to get us more snacks. But Jamie, I promise you I didn't know she would be here."

"What were they doing?" James whimpered. "What about Mommy?"

"I don't know." Rosalina said softly, cradling him and cursing Mr Diamond for causing this.

"Do we tell her?"

"I don't know," she repeated, because she really didn't.

James and Rosalina spent some time trying to decide if they would tell Brooke or not. However, it later turned out that they didn't have to. She found out on her own.

So when James was eight, his father and his things were gone, and his mother was filled with hurt and anger. She decided to use this as motivation for more work, to achieve more success. Less time at home, in other words.

It took James a lot of time to understand what had happened with his mom and dad. Rosalina told him it would, she said it was something for older boys. She said that all he really needed to know was that sometimes people just fall out of love, but it doesn't mean they love their child any less. This, of course, would be a comfort to any child with loving parents. But he wasn't one of those.

When he was ten, Rosalina was let go suddenly, because Brooke felt she needed a change of staff. She also didn't particularly like the old nanny's way of thinking. James pleaded and cried and clung to her as she left, and she cried too. But she still left, and he was given a new nanny. And another. And another.

When he was eleven, he learned that his father's new wife used to be his secretary, and was fifteen years younger than him. When he was thirteen and put into sex education class, all he could think of was when he saw his father and that woman writhing on the couch together, that day everything went wrong. Sometimes it was all he could think about, all that consumed him.

It was when he began high school that he began to think more about this style of life he could only guess his father had now. Money got you what you wanted, that much was obvious. James had money, sure, but he wasn't quite sure whether or not he'd be willing to share it with other people. But it did become clear to him as time passed that there were other strengths he had inherited from his bullshit dad.

He was blessed with good looks and natural charm as he grew older, and used it to his advantage everywhere he went. Essentially, he picked girls and guys up, and threw them down again once he'd had his fun. It was the kind of lifestyle his father probably had. Everyone wanted you, so you got laid, but you didn't have to keep on a single one of them. It was perfect, wasn't it? Any man's dream.

He continued to take advantage of this throughout his high school life. He coerced people into bed when him. He skipped classes with them, hooked up with then at parties, took them to his big fancy house, hung around at theirs. He was never rejected, he never failed. Not once.

When he was seventeen, he got caught having sex with Amy Finster in a janitor's closet and got sent to the principal's office. All she got was a detention but he talked back, argued, even hit on the vice principal, and so he began a three day suspension. His mother never answered the calls from the school, as far as he knew. She didn't talk to him much, if at all. He was still never rejected.

He had so much money, so much comfort in his life. But it was cold, and it was loveless. Being ignored by his mom was becoming unbearable.

When he was eighteen, he moved out. The day of his birthday, in fact; it was the best gift he could have given himself. He had plenty of money in his bank account and all his things packed into the trunk of his car. He moved into a small apartment in the city and settled down there, alone but no more miserable than he had been before.

He didn't contact his father. He never called his mother. Of course part of him did miss her, but the other part was sure that the woman he used to love had died long ago. His mother didn't exist anymore, CEO and divorcee Brooke Diamond did. Sometimes he just couldn't bear to accept it. It wouldn't kill him to drop by, just once.

Six months after he left, James decided to venture back to that elite housing estate, wandering past the immaculately trimmed lawns lined up with shop-bought flowers in the earth patches. Shiny sports cars in the driveways, and of course, no kids playing outside. They would get their clothes dirty.

He stopped outside Number 6, seeing that the grass was still perfectly trimmed,the same white roses in the front yard. But there was no car in the driveway. And there was a bright 'For Sale' sign stuck in the middle of the lawn.

Of course he could have called her to ask where she'd gone. But he didn't; he left the estate, and he never went back.

He wasn't entirely sure why exactly he got into street gangs, and that whole rough lifestyle. He supposed it was boredom more than anything; he wasn't in college and at that point, he'd never bothered applying for a job anywhere, as he had enough money to get by. He was nineteen when he became involved in his first gang. He was only twenty when he formed his own, leading it with a firm hand. He guessed that was all his mother had given him.

He met Jett when he was almost twenty three. The guy was an asshole; so arrogant, so rude, and definitely not better looking than him, whatever he might say. James wouldn't say they were enemies, per se. They didn't have wars, they didn't ambush one another. Sure, if a great opportunity arose to kill them all off, he'd do it. But if it didn't benefit him in anyway, he wasn't sure if he'd even bother. But they certainly didn't like each other. They weren't friends. They weren't allies.

About a year and a half later was when he met Kendall. Needless to say, he couldn't believe Jett had the idea before he did.

Kendall Knight was born to Andrew and Jennifer Knight.

Andrew married for the first time at a very young age; only twenty one. He and Jennifer were convinced that they were madly in love, that they were made for each other. For a while everything was just fun and games. They had frequent and crazy (and protected) sex, went on road trips together, hung out in bars and clubs with their friends when they weren't at their jobs.

However, suddenly, Jennifer wanted to settle down even more. She wanted to be mature. She started telling him off when he came home late from clubs. She started lecturing him and demanding to know what he wanted for their future. It began to turn into a situation when he wan't even sure if he saw a future with her anymore. She wasn't who she'd appeared to be back when they took that crazy trip to Vegas. And yet he was stuck.

Then, by chance, Andrew met a beautiful young woman named Kim. She was totally different to his wife; much prettier, much more fun, someone who could laugh at anything and everything. And she had a wonderful laugh.

He had some awareness that what he was doing was wrong. But Kim knew he was married, and she told him that she didn't care. She hoped to have a real relationship with him some day, but for now she was happy with what she had. She loved him, she said. He was sure he loved her too. When he went away on business trips, really he went to see her, spending all the time he could loving her and trying not to think about his wife back home, waiting for him. Whenever he returned to her, he felt a form of guilt, and strong endearment towards her too. He could never tell whom he loved more. It changed, depending on who he was with.

Then Kim called him one day, and told him she'd just taken a test and discovered she was pregnant. He was over the moon, praying it was a daughter, as he'd always wanted one. He and his wife, thus far, hadn't managed to have a child. He longed for one. He promised Kim that when she had the baby, as soon as he could, he would leave his wife and be with her. She was satisfied. Nine months later, Kim had a beautiful baby girl named Katie.

Seven days later, Jennifer, his wife, announced her own pregnancy to him. He was gobsmacked. And figured hey, karma was a bitch. He explained the situation to Kim. She was iffy, but seemed to accept it without much complaint. She'd waited this long, she told him. She could wait longer. She understood. He loved her so much.

Jennifer had a boy who looked just like him. It was unnerving. He didn't feel the same attachment to him as he felt to Katie; perhaps it was because he didn't feel the same urge to brush the mother's sweaty hair aside and kiss her forehead to let her know he loved her, and that he was here for her, always.

He managed to continue juggling these two lives for the next couple of years. Katie was always happy to see him. Kim was too, but occasionally asked him, when would it be permanent? He could never answer her. He didn't know how to.

Then when his son, Kendall, was three, Jennifer went to a high school reunion one night with friends. She never made it home. Something about a truck driver losing control, complete carnage on the roads. Kendall didn't understand what was happening. He just kept asking when Mommy was coming home. Andrew explained it to him again in a much less patient voice. His little mouth trembled and he began to cry. He wanted comfort. Andrew couldn't give it to him.

Kim was terribly sympathetic of course, when she heard about the death of his whole family, as he told her. But it meant he could be with her and Katie, and this she liked. He told her he'd move in once he had things sorted. She lived quite a way away at this point, having moved to a bigger place to make space for him. Just the three of them. There was no space for a fourth.

"I'll come back and get you, okay?" Andrew said, sitting Kendall down on the park bench. "Be sure to be careful on . . . you know, the swings and stuff. Yeah."

"Okay." He smiled, so trusting. "Bye, Daddy."

"Bye,"Andrew mumbled, turning and fleeing from the park.

He played on the swings and the jungle gym, and the slide. He looked around for his dad. He played some more. He cut his knee and looked around, hoping to be cuddled. But nobody was there. He got tired and gave up on playing. It wasn't fun anymore. And still nobody came back for him.

Later, Kendall was back sitting on the park bench and snivelling. The sun was setting, clouds overhead, and he was cold. Cold and miserable. He had a strong feeling now, though he was only a child, that his dad wasn't coming back. Wouldn't he be back by now? He wouldn't let Kendall be cold. He'd hug him and take him home. He was sleepy and hungry and thirsty and cold and he was all alone. Was that normal?

"Sweetie?"

Kendall looked up, eyes wide. A dark haired woman stood in front of him, holding the handle of a stroller in one hand. A little girl in a pink shirt stood beside her, sipping from a juice pouch. "Are you by yourself, sweetie? Where are your parents?" She'd been watching him for a few hours now, quietly observing how for a while he'd played on the swings and on the jungle gym. But now he sat alone, while normally, any child would sit with their parent. So where was his?

"Daddy left me," Kendall whimpered, lip quivering as he dried his eyes and gave a large sniffle. She immediately produced a tissue, dabbing at Kendall's flushed cheeks and encouraging him to blow his nose. "Don't cry, sweetie," she said sympathetically. "I . . . I'm sure he'll be back." But of course, she wasn't sure. Not even a little.

Kendall just clung to her, crying. She introduced herself to him as Kelly Wainwright. When the time came around for the park to close, and nobody had shown up for him, Kelly wrapped Kendall up in her red coat and took him home with her. It probably wasn't the best idea, of course. But she figured that if three year old Kendall Knight's parents did want to look for him, there would be a missing person's report published, and she could return him then.

Kendall stayed with her for three weeks, and no such report was ever made. He slept in the spare room in the gigantic double bed, so tiny and helpless and lonely. She found herself growing attached to him. He got along well with her daughter and he was very well-behaved. But she knew that it couldn't last. Her husband was away in another country for a few months. But he would be back soon; she didn't intend on telling him about Kendall until then. Truthfully, she was afraid to.

Kelly's husband returned eight months later, when Kendall was four. Instantly she was met with a tirade of abuse. She couldn't keep him, he wasn't theirs. Just some stranger's dumbass kid. "Get rid of him. I won't have him in my home, do you hear me?!"

She cried and pleaded and tried to appeal to his more sympathetic side, but it was no good. So with a heavy heart, she told Kendall she loved him very much, and she was sorry, and maybe they'd see each other again some day. But she had to give him up. And so a month later, Kendall found himself in his third home; a foster home run by a woman in her fifties named Rhonda. There were four other children in her home, whom she took care of like a mother; eight year old twin girls, a thirteen year old boy and a ten year old girl.

Rhonda was a cheery woman with dyed auburn hair, slightly overweight with permanent rosy cheeks. She smoked cigarettes, but only outside in the backyard. She said she would never dream of forcing her poor foster kids to inhale that poison. She called it a poison as she slowly drew it into her lungs again and again.

Rhonda was sweet to Kendall. She gave him baths and dried him off afterwards, ruffling his hair until it stuck up in crazy spikes and made him giggle. Because he was the youngest there, he naturally got the most attention but also the most jealousy directed towards him. The twins would often take the toys he liked the most from the playroom before he could play with them, so instead he would go and sit in the living room on the floor, watching television with the older children.

He grew comfortable there. He began to speak better, began to become a little less shy. He began to get along with the twins, and started to play with them on a regular basis. Rhonda was called one afternoon by the adoption agency; they had two parents looking to adopt. They'd heard about the twin girls. Kendall understood then that this home would never be permanent, as the twins packed up their things and disappeared. The eldest boy answered Kendall's questions first, propping the child up on his lap and telling him how he'd arrived here when he was nine, and since then, six children had come to the house, only to leave again some time later. "It's like a hotel when you think about it, kid," he said. "Except you don't really know when you're gonna check out."

They all checked out when Rhonda had her first, and last, heart attack. Kendall was eight years old then, and he cried for hours. He'd truly become attached to her. He was placed in a children's home; the kids in there called it a dumping ground. A place for children who weren't being adopted, or being fostered by loving parents. It was full of kids, all sharing rooms and eating each other's food and starting fights every other day. He grew to be like them so he wouldn't be eaten alive. He had to adapt, and he adapted.

The occasional sympathetic foster parent would show up. Most of them left without a child. And when they didn't, it was never him.

He got his first piercing when he was twelve, on his bottom lip. One of the older girls did it for him by the dirty bathroom sink. He could've cried, it hurt a lot. But he'd steeled himself up too much by then. Two months later, he got a little silver stud in the middle of his tongue, and felt no pain.

He got his first tattoo when he was fourteen. Along the side of his left hand, a series of little black X's. One of the other boys at the home cheekily asked him if it was because he expected his hands to be kissed. The kid came out of that with a black eye and a busted lip.

When he was fifteen, he lost his virginity in the backseat of a car. He'd first met this particular boyfriend in a coffe shop near his school. He claimed to be a junior, when in fact he'd graduated that previous summer. It made no difference to him. By now he had two tattoos; his second one was on his ankle. It was a butterfly, and the older's large hand covered it as he held his legs up and pounded into him, no gentleness about it. Gentleness had stopped affecting him, anyway. He felt no pain.

He knew when he was eighteen, he would be thrown out of the home. They were desperate to get rid of him, he knew that. So, when he was seventeen, he left. He packed up what he had, which wasn't much, nicked some food from the refrigerator and managed to track down where the mother of the house kept the money. For a moment he wanted to take it all. Some little sliver of conscience left in him stopped that, and he only took half. Which wasn't much. He didn't care; this time, he was leaving of his own free will. He would not be thrown aside again, he would not be abandoned again. He left a note, so he hoped nobody would look for him.

You never cared about me anyway. I don't blame you, it's not your job to. It's whatever. Go fuck yourselves xx

He bunked with a friend and found a job. It was a crappy one, night shifts waiting in a crappy diner that almost nobody ever went to. During the day he worked at a register that a lot of people stayed away from. He'd go outside and smoke when he knew nobody would dare check out at his till, slowly drawing the poison into his lungs.

He met Jett some few weeks later, outside a grocery store. He was sitting on the wall with a cigarette and a strawberry cupcake. Jett passed him, saw him smoking, asked to borrow his lighter. "So what's with the cupcake?" he asked gruffly as he lit up, sticking the cigarette between his lips and taking a long breath. "Looks a little too fairy princess for you."

Kendall scoffed, rolling his eyes. "It's my birthday. I'm eighteen."

"Huh." Swiping a dollop of frosting on his finger, Jett popped it into his mouth and winked. "Happy birthday."

Kendall grunted in annoyance, swatting him away. "Buy your own, dick. This is basically my monthly bonus."

"Hmm." Jett sat down on the wall next to him, watching him take a bite of his pathetic little cake. "Would you by any chance be interested in a well enough paid job that comes with free lodging as well as other paid expenses? And you get to spend a ton of personal time with yours truly, which is yet another reward."

Kendall rolled his eyes again, but he did take another drag before turning to him and asking, "You're serious? I'm not qualified in anything."

"Doesn't matter." Jett stood up and offered a hand. "Why don't we take a walk, and we can talk about it more. Sound good?"

"I have time," Kendall agreed, getting up and following the man down the street. "And give me back my lighter!"

Six months later, Kendall met James. Obviously he didn't know him very well, nor did he care to. But of course, that was only the beginning.