Prologue
He was coming back. You could hear the crashes from him throwing the furniture downstairs. He was angry, extremely angry. Shouts carried up to the little golden haired boy who's hiding in the bedrooms crammed closet. It was just big enough to accommodate his size, and no bigger.
"Look at me!" he yelled from downstairs, the snaps of the belt an echo to his words. The woman's cries became louder with each bite. "Useless! Trash!"
The boy stuffed his fingers in his ears, and squeezed his eyes shut. He brought his knees up to his chin and ducked his head down, trying to make himself as small as possible.
Time passed. The sounds stop, everything became quiet. Then heavy boots came stomping up the creaky old stairs with a new purpose.
He's looking for me, the boy said to himself.
Slowly, thunderous footsteps grew nearer and nearer to his hiding spot. He closed his mouth with a snap, holding his breath and not even daring to blink. He tried to be brave. He really tried. But the burning in his chest intensified with each step the man took closer. The scars melted into his skin were hot because he knew he was about to get more. He didn't want any more.
The boy remembered what his mother used to tell him. Being scared will just make you more vulnerable. Count to four, then let the fear go. Let everything go.
One.
He could see his boots through the crack in the door, the black ones with the silver buckles; The ones he liked to step on his fingers with. The snake-like belt dangled from one of his clenched fists, his knuckles white with red rage.
Two.
The smell of smoke and death radiated off him, suffocating everything living in the room. He spat a few times on the dirty tan carpet. His leering, blood-red eyes sent a chill down the boy's spine, eyes that said, "I know exactly what scares you, and it's me."
Three.
The black and gold snake tattoo turned its slim neck to grin at the boy with those awful yellow slits. The boots came to a stop just outside the bedrooms closet.
Four.
He leaned down and grinned wickedly, yellow rotted teeth clashing against his pale spotted skin. "There you are," he purred, reaching a hand forward through the crack. "C'mere, you little shit." He gripped the boy tightly by his hair and yanked him forward.
He woke with a start, drenched in sweat. His heart pounded like a jackhammer in his chest. Christ. They're back. He sat up in bed and put his head in his hands. Taking deep breaths, he tried to calm himself from the childhood hell-mare he just relived. The smell of cheap cigarettes and bourbon swirled like smoke in his head, clouding out everything else, making it impossible to think about anything other than the dream.
He blindly made his way over to the bathroom, switched on the faucet, and splashed a handful of water onto his overheated face. The cool spray was welcoming and soothing as it dripped down his strained jaw, his nose, down his neck. His eyes moved to his dog tags around his neck that clinked together, then to the scars on his chest. Small yet seeming impossibly large, faded yet striking as ever. Forever a reminder of his colorful fucked up past. He frowned. Did they look more grotesque than usual?
Then it came to him fast and sharp, flashing painfully into his mind like a dozen photographs being shot at once. Her thug boyfriend leaned over him, holding him down flat on his back as he burned right through his shirt and into his skin. The pain, it was everywhere, it was everything. It was too much to handle. He tried to fight against his hold but it just made him press the burning cigarette down harder against his flesh. He could hear his mother yelling from somewhere behind him and all the man did was grin and laugh that raspy cackle that sent a cold shiver down his spine. Then, as abruptly as it had come, it ended. Leaving him once again alone and in a cold sweat. He ran both hands through his hair, cursing to himself under his breath.
"Shit," he whispered.
Pull yourself together, Matt. This isn't the time to break down like a child. You've got a job to do, don't fuck it up.
A job, he snickered. What the hell is Anderson thinking having me here? Hoping to have me collared by the Citadel Council for "humanity's best interest", no different than a dog.
He shook his head, pushed away from the sink. Pulling the thick, military issue garment on over his head he strode out his door and up to the cockpit. Though it was still well into the night cycle, the thought of staying in his overly heated room with nothing but his own demons to keep him company was unbearable to even consider. Instead he settled for watching space fly by him, absorbed in his own thoughts. Wondering what awaited them tomorrow. Undoubtedly preparing himself for the worst, as usual.