I'MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM BAAAAAAAAAAAAAACCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCKKKKKKKKKK!MUHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAH *COUGH*COUGH*GASPING FOR AIR*DRAMATIC BREATH INTAKE* HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

ENJOY!

-KaseyBeth

…..

Of course there are monsters in this world, and I just happen to be one of them.

…..

The 16-year-old sat there, twisting his sketchpad in his hands as he watched the Portland Police Department function around him. He ran a hand through his messy black hair and tried his best to scrape the blood off his mouth and knuckles with his shirt. How did everything come down to this? He wasn't a bad kid; he just saw things differently than everybody else; he saw things that weren't there, that couldn't be there. The boy closed his eyes, waiting to hear the verdict; waiting for someone to arrest him once again or force him back into another shitty foster home. He couldn't go back… he wouldn't go back, not after last time. His mind started racing as his body began to drift…

Blood. There was blood everywhere, and screams; cries piercing through the blackness like a knife cutting through cake. He heard laughter, cruel and dark laughter; taunting him, cursing him. Someone was talking, yelling at him, mocking him. Images of monsters danced around him drunkenly but he couldn't make out a single face. The voices grating through his brain like rushing water were unclear and fuzzy. What were they saying? More screams and laughter. Pain! Pain lit up his body… GRIMM!

He jerked awake nearly dropping his sketchbook. He was sweating, his pulse racing. He inhaled the heavy air and stared at the blood on his knuckles, trying to calm himself; trying to reassure himself. It was just a dream, it was just a dream, it was just a dream… right? He needed to get out of here; he needed to run; to hide; to be someone other than himself. He once again ran a shaky hand through his hair and grasped at the necklace his Aunt had given him a few days before she died. He took another deep breath ignoring the pounding inside his head. Get out! Get out! GET OUT!

"Nicholas Burkhardt?"

The teenager looked up feeling reality slipping back into view as his name was called. The officer smiled down at him warmly. It was off-putting and creepy. It made Nick feel uncomfortable and small. "We need to talk Nicholas." He said.

…

The brisk October air swept around him like a tornado as he pulled his torn black jacket closer, trying to keep warm. He stood on the sidewalk and eyed the house in front of him. Needless to say, it was unlike any foster home he'd seen before, and he glanced down at the address again to make sure he was at the right place. He looked around at the other houses in the neighborhood, waiting for someone to jump out and yell "Wrong place loser", before looking back at the house. The light blue house with gray trimming stood out as an eerie scene. Red and orange leaves scattered the ground as their naked predecessors stood peacefully still above them. The grass was beginning to lose its grassy green color and instead stood shortly as a pale yellow. The wind picked up slightly, shifting the leaves madly on the ground as the sky above him began to grey. He sighed and sat on the steps of the front porch, brushing the dirt off his worn black Converse's, and started mulling over the conversation from earlier…

"Well Nicholas, it seems you've really made a mess of things." The officer said flipping through Nick's file. "Kicked out of 4 schools in the past year; 9 different foster homes in the past 5 years; 3 institutions; 7 therapists, and not to mention, multiple arrests. Petty theft, vandalism, public obstruction, fights and one report of public intoxication." The officer looked up and cleared his throat, dropping his file on the table and leaning back into his metal chair. He sighed, crossing his arms and stared at Nick; waiting for him to explain, waiting for him to talk. Nick stared at the officer before him. He seemed like an ordinary guy. Black hair, brown eyes, tanned skin and white teeth. His uniform matched all the others within the precinct, as did his posture and composure, but there was something creepy, something dark about him that Nick couldn't place. He stared at his nametag, feeling a sense of familiarity and skepticism wash over him at such an odd name. Renard, such an unusual and harsh name but somehow fitting.

He felt burning in his stomach and dropped his gaze from the officer to the plate of bagels in front of him. His stomach lurched from hunger. He could hear it growl mercilessly and prayed to God it wasn't that loud. When was the last time he ate something? When was the last time he drank something? Fuck, when was the last time he slept? His stomach growled again. God, he was hungry but he wasn't willing to devour the bagels in front of him, at least not after his foster parents. Not after…

The officer tapped his pen on the table pulling Nick from his thoughts. He uncrossed his arms and leaned into the table, placing his elbows on the cold metal frame, "Do you wanna about it Nick?" he asked arching an eyebrow. The teenager swallowed, feeling a chill run down his spine. There was no way in hell he was going to talk about it, talk about them; especially to a creepy officer he just met. Nick shook his head slightly, looking down at his old sketchpad in his hands. He wasn't ready to talk about them, or the others before them. They were all the same; shitty foster home after shitty foster home; truth is, no one wanted a fucked up kid who saw shit that wasn't there, saw things that weren't real. Like he explained to every officer, therapist and Doctor before Renard, he wasn't a bad kid and he wasn't going crazy, but they never believed him, so what was the point.

He heard Renard sigh again and shuffle some papers around on the table. He heard the scrape of metal to cement and heard him get up. Nick looked up. Renard was staring into the reflective mirror and Nick could only imagine someone else standing behind it. How many foster kids sat in this chair? How many kids before him had been brought into this room and given the same speech? How many of them listened? How many of them were in jail? More importantly, how many of them were like him? Truly like him?

Nick glanced at his reflection in the mirror. He looked like shit. The stain of dried blood coated the cut on his lower lip accompanied by a nasty bruise. Another bruise outlined his right eye, making his eyes seem brighter, younger and bluer. Dirt covered his face and clothes, clinging to the old fabric like Velcro. His black hair was a mess, not only from dried blood and dirt, but because he haphazardly forgot to brush it this morning or at least run his fingers through it, like he did most mornings. Nick looked back down at his fingers. Blood and dirt was caked under them and despite washing them earlier, it was still there, reminding him.

Renard cleared his throat again and turned to face Nick. The kid looked so young and… so lost. He considered himself to be a tough man, especially given his family history but something about this kid made his heart break. Nick was way too young to have this kind of background and given what he was… well people… things… would be after him. He ran a hand through his hair and leaned against the mirror. What was he going to do with him? He couldn't detain him based on the current situation, especially since some of the evidence went "missing", nor "foster" him because that would look weird and he hated kids, besides he was expecting a promotion coming up and he couldn't have an odd kid hanging around him all the time. He couldn't just filter this kid into another institution or foster home either. If Nick truly is what the others say he is then Renard would need to keep him close, he would need to keep tabs on him… on the down low.

Nick scrapped his Converse against the ground causing a screeching sound as the rubber met the floor. He cringed at the sound and shifted in his seat, trying to find a more comfortable position in a hard-ass chair. He wanted the speech to be over with; he hated waiting; he hated the silence. Besides, he could basically quote the speech by heart. Every police station, case worker and hospital had the same "You're a troubled kid but we're here to help by sending you to a different home which will be different this time" speech; the words and faces might change here and there, but the message was always the same. "Alright, I have a proposition." Renard said, breaking the silence and once again sitting in the cold chair. He placed his hands on the table as if he was in an important business meeting. Nick stared at him, tightening his grip around his sketchpad, feeling his disappointing anticipation growing. "Every Monday, Wednesday and Friday, you will come here after school and help out with whatever we need; coffee runs, answering the phone, filing papers, sweeping, you get the jest… and in return, I won't arrest you and I'll see what I can do about some of your misdemeanors."

Nick stared at the officer. Not only was he confused but he was utterly shocked. This had to be the weirdest "You're a troubled kid but we're here to help" speech he had ever heard. Part of him was trying to figure out if this was a joke, while the other was looking for some type of hidden message behind his words. Nick rubbed one of his knuckles, still processing what Renard had said. "I- I got kicked out of my last school a few days ago." He stated quietly. His voice was scratchy and hoarse. He winced; he sounded so small and childish. Renard sat silent for a second, "Okay, so, 5 schools in the past year. Don't worry about it; I'll take care of it. Portland has some great public schools. As for your living arrangements, I'll also take care of that."

Nick felt his eyebrows scrunch together. What did he mean he would take care of it? Where was he going to school? Who was he expected to live with? Renard stood up and opened the interrogation door, holding it open for Nick. Nick sat there, feeling more confused than he'd like to be and questioning whether or not he should leave. He slid his chair out softly and stood up, pressing his right fingers against the metal tabletop, standing his ground. "Give me a few hours Nick; you can wait in the precinct lobby if you want. In the meantime, you should really get something to eat, I know you're hungry." Renard said. Nick let his fingers fall off the table and walked past Renard. "Nicholas," Renard whispered, grabbing the kid's arm, stopping him from leaving just yet, "remember what I said, every Monday, Wednesday and Friday after school until you've paid off your debt to society, until you've convinced me you're not just another troublemaker. If you skip a single day, any day, any week, any month, I will arrest you and you will be charged. Do you understand?" Nick stared at Renard. He seemed dead serious and part of that scared him. Renard let go of Nick's arm and continued to eye the teenager, looking for a final verdict. Nick nodded gently and headed back towards the lobby of the precinct still dazed in shock and confusion.

The sound of an engine rattling ripped Nick from his reminiscing. He stared at the car that was slowly making its way up the street and felt his lips part slightly in disbelief. Never in a million years would have guessed the owners of this house would be driving a 1973 yellow Volkswagen Bug. Nor would he have even thought that anyone in their right mind would own a Volkswagen Bug, much less a yellow one. He cleared his throat nervously and stood up as the car crawled up the driveway and came to a gentle stop. Nick fiddled childishly with his zipper at the bottom of his jacket. The gears shifted in place causing a small screeching sound to be heard from under the car. He felt his muscles tense as the car door creaked open and a tall man stepped out sporting a plaid button down. He hated this part. Meeting new people was not his forte, and given his past experiences with his other foster homes, no one really blamed him. He tried his best to relax; it'll be different, it'll be different, it'll be different.

The man grabbed his leather bag from the passenger seat and looked up as he closed the car door gently. Confusion settled over his face when he saw Nick. What the hell? Who was this kid? The man slowly made his way down the tiny sidewalk, "Um- hello there?" He said. He closed his eyes for a brief second taking in the awkward tone of his voice. The kid didn't move, he just stood there, messing with his jacket and tightening is grip around some book he had in his left hand. The man looked toward the front door then back at the kid, "Last time I checked there were only two people who lived here and I'm pretty sure you weren't that other person." The kid stopped messing with his zipper; he placed his hand out in front of him as if to shake hands. "I-I'm Nick." He said quietly but confidently. The man glanced down at Nick's hand, then back at the kid before shaking hands. "Well hello Nick, I'm Monroe…owner of this house…um… I don't mean for this to sound rude but, can I help you with something?" he asked skeptically. It wasn't every day that a muddy beat-up teenager showed up at his doorstep unannounced. Much less one that looked so lost. The kid reached into his pocket and pulled out a white crumpled up piece of paper and handed it to the man. Monroe grabbed the paper, opening it slowly while glancing at the awkward teen in front of him. Nick bit his bottom lip nervously and stared at Monroe. A small grin settled over Monroe's face as he continued to read the small cursive note Renard had written. He finished reading, folded the paper in half, and stuffed it gently in his coat pocket. "Well Nick," he said, walking past the teenager and unlocking the door, "it seems we have few hours to kill before Rosalee comes home. How do you feel about helping me decorate the house for Halloween?"

…

BAM! Hey bros, I know I've been gone F-O-R-E-V-E-R! Don't worry; I'm still continuing Once Upon A Time, Terra Nova and a few others along with this fanfic! Let me know what you think! I got into Grimm and had this idea in my head for a few weeks. Don't worry; I will try to keep true to the characters and story. Like I said feedback! Love y'all!

Auf Wiedersehen!

-KaseyBeth