*****WARNING******

**THERE IS CHILD ABUSE AND CHILD NEGLECT AND PANIC ATTACKS AND MENTIONS OF PREVIOUS FAMILY DEATH. IF ANYTHING OF THIS SORT CAN TRIGGER YOU IN ANY WAY, PLEASE DON'T READ! YOUR SAFETY AND HAPPINESS ARE FAR MORE IMPORTANT! *******

Beyond that, I hope you enjoy!

...

Hercules works at the small grocery shop around the bend after school for three hours everyday on Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays.

(On Fridays, mom gets home early, so they head home early, too.)

He works there, and his brother Hugh does after school activities, and then after school tutoring, and at 6:30 PM on the dot, Hercules hangs up his apron, grabs whatever leftovers- the food about to be thrown out after being a dy after it's expiration and such- the old man who runs the shop will let him have, and shoves them into his tattered backpack. From there, it's a quick ten minute sprint to the school parking lot, where his brother's lonely sixth grade frame sits on a rickety faded bench, backpack in hand and fingers absentmindedly pulling on the zipper.

"Sorry for being late," Hercules always says, because he knows his brother gets out at 6:20 and he knows that the boy is always waiting ten minutes.

Hercules always makes up some ridiculous excuse as to why he's late, as well. It makes Hugh smile, even though they both know that Hercules is just shelving groceries.

Today, it's ninjas.

"Sorry for being late," he says, just as always, "I was held up fighting ninjas down on the sixteenth. Should have seen them, man. It was crazy. There I was, just minding my own business- and Boom! Ninjas. I had to fight for my life, I'm telling you-"

Hugh laughs and rolls his eyes, hefting up his backpack on his shoulder and starting the long walk home. Good. These days, Hugh doesn't laugh enough. The kid's starting to get lankier, puberty slowly creeping up on his unsuspecting frame, and Hercules wonders if Hugh will ever grow to be taller than him, reminds himself to fix the hole in his brother's jacket soon.

But he doesn't mention it. They just walk.

In another life, his dad would have been the one to walk them home. In another life, there wouldn't be any ten minutes waiting while Hercules got out of his shift because he wouldn't need a job. In another life, there would have been no threadbare jackets or worn down backpacks. In another life, the conversation would have been louder and more lively, and Hercules wouldn't be the one making all the jokes.

It's a good forty five minute walk to get home, but that's okay. They're used to it, really, and High doesn't even complain when Hercules stops and rummages through the free clothesbins behind a local youth shelter: he wants some more material to work with, and buying it isn't really… an option.

'Home' is a tiny two bedroom apartment on the ninth floor of a run down tenant building. The landlady is strict but kind, and the neighbors upstairs seem to be a bunch of drunk college students who are constantly throwing parties. The water pump often stops working and the electricity is only on half of the time, but there's a kitchen and a bathroom and a place to sit and a place to sleep, and the Mulligan family makes do with what they have.

When they arrive, Hugh wanders off to their shared room to get some homework done and Hercules shovels through the bags to try and find something to make dinner with. There are some sad looking vegetables and a loaf of half- stale bread, and he sighs and puts on a pot of water on the stove to boil: looks like they would be having soup for supper again.

Hercules makes it work.

His father had always liked soup, Hercules remembers. Said he could have it every night of the week and never grow tired of it. Hercules wishes he had the same resilience. Wishes that the man was there with them so that they didn't have to endure it at all, or at least so they could endure it with him.

He has his own homework to do, tenth grade Biology worksheets and an English exam to study for. He'll do it later tonight, or maybe in the morning tomorrow. For now, he takes the material taken from the bins and works at making it as flat as he can, cutting seams so that he can form his own later on while he lets the soup broil. The family laptop is in front of him, and old thing from better times that is roughed up around the edges and dies on you every time you pick it up from a flat surface or even breathe in its direction the wrong way.

There are college pages pulled up on the browser. Hercules is looking through them, and he's despairing. Everything is so expensive, and he has a small list of places he would love to go to study fashion and design, but that list seems to be more and more impossible with every passing day.

Still, Hercules thinks, we can make this work. His dad had said that they were going to get Hercules to a proper college, that they were gonna find his niche and help him pursue it in every way they could. Hercules had believed him, and still believes the words even though the man who said them was gone.

At around 9:00 PM, their mother finally comes wandering in. Her shoulders are slumped after a long day's work, heavy bags lingering under her eyes. Her hair had been tied up in a tight bun that morning, but now the hair falls in wispy, sweaty loose strands.

She's tired and worn, and she's still the most beautiful thing Hercules has ever seen. She's always going to be that awe-inspiring figure that raised him and loved him and seemed to know everything whenever he needed the answers. She's always going to be his mom.

They eat, they chatter. Hugh got an A on his most recent math test, Hercules thinks that he's found a place that'll offer him a job on the weekends, his mother's friend Trisha is having a baby. Small idle chatter that keeps the world spinning on its broken axis, even though the soup is a little bland and the stale bread is a little hard, even though their family is a little broken and their lives a little hard.

At one point, the lights go out.

They bring out the candles and light them, small flickering points of brightness in the dark.

Hugh goes to bed somewhere around ten, Hercules fumbles for his list of colleges in the inky blackness and goes to talk to his mom about it.

His mom is leaning over a tax warrant, her head in her hands, slim shoulders shaking. Hercules remembers when those shoulders were unbent and proud and bright. Hercules remembers the before, when his mother didn't sometimes insist that she wasn't hungry so that her children could have a second portion, when there had been no three jobs and no funeral and no pain. He remembers, and he sees those heavy limbs bowed by the weight of the world.

The costs add up, and Hercules knows they're running short.

He fingers the list in his hands, puts in it in his pocket.

Somewhere on the mantle, there's a picture of them all from three years ago. His dad in in that frame, strong and proud and bright. Hercules knows that the car accident had been random, a twist of cruel fate. He knows that it was no one's fault.

But sometimes he becomes so angry, because his dad left and now they're this, shoved together in a tin can apartment with too much to owe and to little to give, and he knows he knows he knows that he's disappointing, that he's the eldest and he should be able to help his mom more, and that he doesn't, that he can't.

They're stretched thin, like too little butter on too much bread, and their joy is stretched thinner.

(Their well worn copy of The Hobbit sits on the coffee table. It's one of the few non necessities they kept. His dad had loved the book, had read it to Hugh and Hercule every night despite the eldest child's complaints he was too old for it. Now, Hercules would give anything to be read to again.)

Hercules goes to bed, the paper in his pocket feeling like it weighs a thousand pounds, and even Hugh's soft breathing from across the room can not lull him to sleep.

Alex stares at his planner, heaves a breath, pretends he doesn't notice that his hands shake.

He's fine.

Really.

He's fine.

He looks up at the computer screen in front of him, at the email his Calculus teacher had sent him about the test being moved to this Friday instead of the next, looks down at his planner and carefully, carefully jots down in tiny little words the new arrangements.

He knows he's running out of room. Knows that he's going to have to start another page. Knows that it's going to be another late night.

Something wet drips from his eye. He blinks, stares as the liquid spreads across the page and blurs some of the colors together He's so tired.

He's still shaking.

He takes a breath, runs a hand through his hair.

Holds it.

Releases.

Again and again and again.

Rinse and repeat.

He's heard somewhere that it's supposed to help, but it doesn't feel like it's doing anything.

He wants to sleep. He wants to go home. He wants to run away and never come back. He wants to vanish into thin air.

He needs to do his work.

He needs to do his work, doesn't want to do his work. Doesn't want to have to write a stupid English essay about stupid Shakespeare analysis when he could be doing things that would actually play a role in his future, where he could be studying for his AP exams or filling out college applications or applying to scholarships. The work is stupid and pointless and busy work in its truest form, and he hates to do it and he has to do it and he has to do it well.

But he has to do it. If he doesn't do it, he loses his scholarship and his grades drop and the family he's living with dumps him. If he doesn't do it, he may as well kiss high school goodbye, and even the distant idea of college will be utterly demolished and ruined.

Alex places his fingers back onto the keyboard of the library computer, pauses to form a fist when they just keep trembling.

He's fine. He's just tired, is all.

He heaves a breath.

He writes.

(He's not fine.)

Two hours later, Alexander wakes up to the librarian shaking his shoulder and telling him to get going or he'll miss the late bus, and he's realizing that he's missed Debate and that he fell asleep and that he just wasted two whole hours of work time. His breath wants to hitch, his hand keeps shaking, and he shoves everything into his backpack and smiles and salutes at the librarian anyways, rushing out the door and out into the world beyond as her laughter echoes in his ears.

His stomach cramps. When was the last time he ate?

He can't remember.

Eating's not that important anyways.

He needs- he needs to edit his essay and turn it in. He needs to apply for financial aid. He needs to complete his history homework and write an apology for Mr. Washington for missing debate. He needs to do his Spanish vocab sheet and do a concept map for his psychology unit and-

He smashes headfirst into a solid wall of muscle, looks up and sees Mr. Washington.

He's supposed to do something with Mr. Washington, he's pretty sure. His brain is scrambled and he's tired and there's something he's supposed to do.

(There's a million things he has to do.)

"m' sorry, bout the meeting. Lost track of time."

Oh, right. That.

Everything shakes, or maybe he's just the one shaking.

Washington says something, but Alex doesn't hear it. He asks for the man to say it again, and he does, but his voice is still just as garbled and Alex doesn't want to have to ask again, so he just nods, hauling up his million pound bag a little higher on his shoulder.

He doesn't expect for Washington to start guiding him to his office. He stumbles, grinds his shoes into the floor. He can't-

He's got too much to do to have a chat with Washington.

"I - The bus. I'm gonna miss the bus-"

But the teacher is shaking his head, his brows furrowing in concern. At least, when he speaks, his voice finally comes clear.

"Alex, I've already told you, you've missed it."

Shit. Shitshitshitshit. He was going to have to get a taxi then, or call his foster parents and beg them to pick him up, which they'll probably not do, so taxi it is. He wonders if he has enough unused lunch money saved up in spare pockets of his backpack to pay the fare.

"I- can I use your phone to call a taxi?"

"Alex," says Washington again, his voice slow and worried and clear, "I've already said I'd give you a ride. Are you sure you're alright?"

He's vibrating, he's vibrating and his homework sits heavy on his shoulders and there's million things he hasn't done and not enough time to do it. He needs to get going, can't stop, doesn't have the time to stop, he has work to do-

His brain hurts and his heart hurts and everything is wrong, and he hates the whole world and he hates himself most of all, and Washington is looking at him with soft concern in his eyes and Alexander just sort of wants to cry.

"F-fine," he breathes, and he feels his eyes well up. "I-I'm fine."

Maybe, if he says it enough, it'll come true.

"I- I- I'm fine."

His voice cracks. His head hurts. He can't feel his fingers.

Washington guides him into his office, looks at him for maybe three seconds all soft and concerned and safe and comforting and Alex lasts maybe one of those three seconds before he buries his head into his hands and clenches his eyes tight, trying desperately not to cry.

He can't cry. He's cried far too much these past few weeks, months, years, he doesn't know anymore. Everything seems drawn out and long and painful, the past and the present and everything to come. It doesn't feel like it's ever gonna end, and he shakes and he shakes and he shakes and his head pounds.

He's slipping, he's slipping, and he's crying and Washington is making another soft sound and hugging him and it's just making it so much worse.

His breath hitches on a sob, and there's not enough air, and Alexander is fine.

He's muttering it, saying it, Washington isn't hearing him. Why isn't he hearing him!? He's fine. He's fine- He's fi-

He's shaking and he's shaking and he's shaking and the whole world is falling apart, and Washington is asking him, "What's wrong, Alex? What's wrong?" and for once in his life he feels like he can't find the words to even try to explain.

"It's too much," he says instead, "it's too much, it's too much, it's too much it's too much, I cant, I- I can't-"

His breathing picks up again, but his throat is clogged and his head is clogged and his eyes sting, and there's not enough air.

"What's too much?" says Washington, in a land far away where people are calm and things are okay, and Alex wonders how the man got there.

"Everything."

Because Alex doesn't think he'll ever be able to.

He shakes, and Washington holds him, and everything falls apart.

John tentatively pokes at the bruise quickly forming all over his arm, hisses a painful breath when it throbs angrily in response.

He closes his eyes, presses his face against the mirror.

He's fine. Really. It's not that bad.

(The movement makes the tiny bloody cuts on his back sting- beer bottles hurt- and he breathes and breathes and breathes and tries to ignore them.)

It could have been so much worse.

His siblings are safe. They're safe and whole and tucked away in their rooms. Dad is passed out downstairs, and John's head is ringing from where the man smashed it against the kitchen countertop, and it could have been so much worse.)

He opens his eyes, looks at the reflection of the LED clock that's steadily flashing on one of the shelves behind him. It takes him a moment to decipher the backward numbers- and he's too tired and sore to turn around- but he eventually recognizes the shining 3:27 AM.

3:27 isn't that late. John can deal with that. He'll tend to his bruises and cuts as best as he can- thank god dad didn't hit him in the face, those are always the hardest to explain- maybe sneak something from the fridge, sleep for a couple hours, and then wake up and get everyone ready for school while his dad is still passed out, and they'll slip out the door and everyone will be okay and no one will get hurt.

He'll have to finish his homework during morning break, but that's okay. That's normal. He can handle it.

The first aid kit is low on supplies, but he tentatively gets in the shower and leans against the wall as he feels the blood and grime wash away before drying off, smearing on the last of the antiseptic cream and slapping bandages on all the gashes he can reach. They're not bleeding too much. He doesn't need stitches. He's fine.

Everything aches and John hauls himself out of the bathroom and sits down on the bed. He just wants to sleep, but his stomach is contracting because of the lack of food and he's so hungry because he hasn't eatenall day, or even much yesterday .

His dad had started coming downstairs before he had a chance to have breakfast, so he had had to rush everyone out the door, and the money he had taken from his dad's wallet a couple of weeks ago was running out, and there was only enough to buy lunches for his four younger siblings.

And he was being punished for 'not addressing his father properly' three nights ago, whatever that means, so that meant no dinner.

John slips on a shirt and slowly creeps across the hall and down the stairs. His shoulder keeps twinging painfully, but he ignores it. He's dealt with worse.

He skips the creaky stairs and places each foot down as gently as he can, each step followed by a held breath and attentive ears, but the quiet snores never falter, and he keeps going.

He slips past the dining table in the center of the room, where his father is passed out with a bottle of beer in hand, six more lingered around his heavy set frame. John doesn't know how the mess before him somehow manages to also be the bright and charismatic political figure that the Republicans know and love, but he doesn't question it.

Silently, he cracks the door of the fridge open and pulls out a tupperware of leftover lasagna he had made two nights ago. There's already a fork inside, he knows, because he put it there in preparation for this very thing. It will be cold, but John can deal with that, as long as he gets some food.

He makes his noiseless way back out of the kitchen, prize in hand, when suddenly there's the sound of wood creaking loudly under the weight of someone's foot.

He freezes, heart stopping in his throat. Looks up at the stairs.

Henry looks back at him, eyes wide and terrified.

Both of their gazes turn to the figure slouched over the table, just as the man snorts and seems to wake up, body suddenly flinging upright.

Shit, shit shit shit shit-

Henry is looking at him, still frozen, still scared, and he's so small and he doesn't deserve this- none of his little siblings deserve this- and their dad is standing up and time is running out and John-

John gestures frantically, waves his hand in short sharp jerks- Go! Go! Go!- and Henry turns tail and runs .

Good boy, John thinks frantically, even as his heart pounds loud and scared and terrified. Dad is turning towards the stairs, he's going to spot him, going to spot Henry, and John can't let that happen. Won't let that happen. None of his little siblings are going to hurt, not at the hands of their father, not if he can't help it.

He does the only thing he can think to do.

He lets go of the lasagna, and watches as the sounds of the glass container shattering against the ground in a million tiny pieces attracts the lumbering frame in his direction.

"H-Hey, Dad," he says, and his voice cracks.

"You-" his dad slurs, voice angry and loud and drunk, "You- you're tryna steal from me! After all I do for you! How dare you. How dare you-"

"Dad! Dad- I'm sorry, I'm sorry- I wasn't trying to- to steal from you. I was just- just-"

He's getting closer. He's getting closer, and John is staring, and John can't seem to move.

(Can't move. Won't move. If Dad is paying attention to him then he's not paying attention to Henry. Or James, or Martha, or Mary. If Dad is paying attention to him, then that means they're safe.)

"Shut up! Shut up! Don' talk back to me- You- ya goddamn faggot, don't ya fuckin' dare talk back to me-"

John scrambles back a couple of steps, hisses at the feeling of glass cutting the heels of his feet. The words sting. Everything stings. His eyes are wet and his heart is pounding and his eyes are wet but he refuses to cry, won't cry, he's not going to cry-

It's dark, he can't see well and it's dark and he doesn't realize his dad is right there until he suddenly spots the half mad look reflecting from his father's eyes from the light leaking out of the small buttons on the microwave.

John raises his arms up to block his face- face bruises are always hardest to hide- and says, "Dad, please-"

And then he's being shoved roughly into a wall, head cracking against hard surface for the second time that day, and everything goes white and painful and distant and he's sinking to the ground.

There's no reprieve. No break. Something starts kicking him, again and again and again, and he grunts and loses his breath and he's curling up tight on the kitchen floor as the drunken insults start raining down above him.

The cuts on his back are screaming at him and his head has started pounding again in earnest, making everything seem like too much and too far away all at once, and his dad just keeps kicking and kicking and kicking until he gets bored of it and starts using the buckle of his belt instead.

John curls up tighter, hands over his head, trembles and keeps his eyes shut tight.

He's not going to cry. He refuses to cry. His dad can have his blood and sweat and bruises and pride and everything else, but he doesn't get John's tears.

This could have been Henry, he thinks, thoughts blurry, This could have been Henry. Hold out a little longer. Don't let this be Henry. He's going to stop soon, just hold out a little longer-

He doesn't get John's tears, and he doesn't get John's siblings.

Another whip with the belt, and John lets loose a sharp gasping yelp of pain, even though there doesn't feel like there's any air to breathe.

Blackness wavers at the edges of his vision, he's reaching his limit, knows he is.

Can't admit it.

Could be so much worse, he thinks, thoughts quiet, Could have been Henry. Could have been Martha or James or little Mary.

The belt keeps coming, and John keeps holding on.

After all, he's dealt with so much worse.

He's fine.

This is fine.

Everything's fine.

Lafayette sits on the couch in the middle of a grand living room. His hands are clasped in front of him, his hair is tied up in a bun, his clothes are clean and pressed and neat and tidy, and his foot taps along on the soft carpet in time with the quiet noises of the grandfather clock.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

He's waiting.

His online schooling is done, and has been done for hours. His room is clean, and everything else is too. His outside of school English class has gone well and he has done some painting on one of the canvases. He has some movies cued up in the theatre, and everything is ready.

The only sound is the clock, a steady metronome that Lafayette just taps, taps, taps along to.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

He shifts on the cushion seats, the first movement in what feels like hours. Not much longer, he tells himself. They're coming.

His parents had called ahead a week ago, had said that they were coming home from their latest business trip, that they would be actually staying for a few days before leaving on their next cruise.

He's excited. Terribly, horribly excited. It's been so long since he's last seen them in more than parting- three months, sixteen days- been so long since they had all gotten a chance to sit together and spend time with one another like a family. He even spent spent a few extra dollars of his spending money to get Piers, the nice delivery man that stopped by every three weeks with new groceries, to deliver some ingredients to make dinner with, along with some ice cream and chocolates.

(Piers had given him that concerned look again, that one that has been growing more and more common as the months have slowly leaked past since the man has joined the food catering service, the one where he asks Lafayette where his parents are, the one that makes Lafayette taste something strange and sour in his stomach and then quickly give an excuse.)

(He doesn't know why he lies. Three months isn't even that long. He's eleven, and there isn't any need to be petty.)

(He's fine.)

Dinner is in the oven, keeping everything warm. It had been a little strange, making something new out of his usual schedule of simple hearty meals, but it was also fun. He took down one of the old cookbooks and followed the recipe, American music blasting from the radio that Lafayette half understood and half did not. It felt good, filling up the big house with noise, and he had danced around the kitchen and he had laughed, taking the broom as an imaginary partner and dramatically swirling it around.

(He knew how to entertain himself, after all.)

The table, however, is set. Lafayette had been sure to put out the nice plates and cutlery, to organize everything just so in neat lines and placements. All it needs is the food, and they'll be set.

Well, the food, and the parents themselves.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

But that's okay. They'll be here soon.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The house is very quiet. He wonders if he should put some music on again, but quickly shakes the idea away. His parents wouldn't deem it very respectable, and Lafayette needs to make the best impression he can. Maybe, if he's good enough, if he's polite and charming and respectable enough, his parents might actually take him with them next time...

Maybe.

It's worth a try.

(It hasn't worked the last twenty times, but still…)

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

The loud ringing of the telephone line echoes throughout the house, making Lafayette jump. He looks up, and something in his stomach is turning sour again, but he ignores it. Maybe, it's Piers. Maybe, his parents are calling to ask him to let them in. Maybe, it's a car dealership owner trying to make a sale. He doesn't know. Maybe, it's not what he thinks it is.

He stands, walks over to the pristine kitchen counter, fumbles with the phone and presses it against his ear.

"H-Hello?"

"Gilbert, darling!"

"Maman! It is good to hear your voice. I have everything set up here for your arrival-"

"Ah- that is why we called…"

Lafayette feels his smile falling off his face, feels his stomach turn to lead.

"Oh?"

His grip on the phone is too tight, he knows this, but he also can't seem to stop.

"Yes. I'm afraid the cruise is leaving a bit early and you know how it is- your father and I decided it would be best to hop on right away. We'll see you in a couple of months, alright?"

Lafayette wants to say, "I painted a picture for you. It's of the sea, took me days to finish. Maybe, next time you visit a beach you can take me with you? "

"Your father is adding more money to your spending budget as we speak, and we'll arrange for the delivery system to continue dropping off food."

Lafayette wants to say, "I got all top marks in my classes again this semester. The English teacher says that I'm really improving and she will have to find some harder coursework for me soon. Maybe we can practice our English together?"

"Bye, sweetheart! We have to go. Your dad says hi!"

Lafayette wants to say, "This house is too big and too quiet when I'm all by myself. I'm lonely. I miss you. Please come home. Please don't leave me alone again. I'm sorry, whatever I did to make you leave me, I'm sorry, I'm sorry -"

But those words don't come out. Can't come out. Instead, he heaves a breath, says, "Of course, Maman. I'll see you in a few months. Bye- I- I love you."

But the dial tone is already ringing in his ears, and he knows that there hadn't been anyone on the other end even trying to listen.

He puts the phone down. Stares at it.

The house is so big, it's so big and it's pressing down on him, and Lafayette sort of wants to curl up and cry.

He doesn't.

He changes his clothes into his pajamas, takes the meal he made out of the oven and serves himself some on a cheap plastic plate. He grabs a blanket, goes to the theatre.

Sits down, presses play on the cue of movies.

The food tastes like sand in his mouth, and the scenes happening on the screen above him pas by in a blur that he hardly understands and definitely won't remember.

He doesn't realize that he's crying until he wipes his eyes from tiredness and his fingers come away wet.

He stares at the long, thin appendages, curls them into a fist and tucks the blanket around himself, closes his eyes.

Pretends, just for a moment, that he's not alone. Pretends the man's booming voice on the screen is his Father's. Pretends that the tinkling laughter coming through the speakers is his Mother's. It's not hard: he can't really remember their voices normally anyways.

The tears don't stop, and he keeps his eyes tightly clenched shut until he drifts off to sleep.

He's only a little disappointed when he wakes up in the morning and no one has come to carry him off to bed.

Tiredly, he stumbles upstairs and deposits his blankets. He considers changing into a new pair of clothes, but it's not like anyone is going to be there to see him anyways, so he ends up just staying in his loose t-shirt and sleeping shorts.

He goes through his daily routine in a half aware blur, everything seeming rather colourless and dull after the fever of yesterday's excitement.

First, he cleans the house from top to bottom. There isn't much to do, but he dusts and he puts away the fancy dishes and makes sure that the couch cushions look neat and tidy. Before, there had been a kind old lady who had stopped by once a week to clean around the house. She had stopped coming after Lafayette- desperate to win his parents' approval- had mentioned how he had learned how to handle all the cleaning supplies and work.

Lafayette misses her. He hopes she's okay.

Next, he gets on his computer. His first step is to open the Skype page and hit call on his parent's page, watching the ringing icon as it vibrates, vibrates, vibrates, and then falls silent with the familiar message about the call not going through, to leave a message after the beep.

Lafayette does, his voice feeling hollow, and when he finishes he looks up at the string of missed calls that were never returned.

Maybe it'll be different this time.

(It's not.)

Then he sets to work. There's not much available to him on his computer due to all the child locks that his parents had set up, but he can do schoolwork and he can take his English and he's fine.

He finishes.

The clock keeps ticking.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

It's like he can feel the walls of the house closing in on him, getting closer and closer, trying to squish him flat, trying to make him disappear, and Lafayette lasts maybe fifteen minutes before he's running out of the house and into the grounds beyond, taking the well worn path he has created through the woods one step at a time, wandering, wandering, wandering until the sky doesn't feel like it's about to fall.

By the time he gets back, the day has slipped into the evening, and he slides inside the front door and locks it behind him, another day gone by.

He makes dinner. He reads a book.

He checks his calendar, flipping to the beginning of a new month, starts when he realizes that it's his birthday.

He'd forgotten. There hadn't been anyone there to remind him.

Lafayette stares, remembering how excited he had been, how he had thought that his parents would actually be there, remembering how he had thought of cake and ice cream and smiles and laughter.

His fists clench on the calendar paper, and he throws it across the room, eyes burning.

It lands with a pathetic thump on the soft carpeted floor, and he glares at it, trembling, because it's not fair , it's not fair and just once he had wanted them to be there. Just once he had wished that he wouldn't have to be alone-

He crumples to the ground, buries his head in his hand, shakes and shakes and shakes, the pounding of his heart seemingly echoing in the too big too quiet house.

Ba bump. Ba bump. Ba bump. Ba bump.

A sob heaves in his throat, and as he falls apart, he can't help wish that there was anyone out there in the world who cared enough to try and put him together.

Don't You Know That The Kids Aren't All, Kids Aren't Alright?

- Fall Out Boy

...

There will probably be another chapter in which the kids work through their issues, so you can look forward to that!

Thanks for reading!