Disclaimer: Not mine, don't sue. Characters and High School Musical belong to Disney.

A/N: This is the true beginning of the story. This first chapter contains small glimpses into Jason's life from age 4 until age 14, with later chapters detailing his final years at home, and the reasons he decides to run, as well as his life on the streets.

WARNING: This chapter involves intense images, pretty graphic descriptions of child abuse, cutting language, and general angsty-hurt/comfort goodness.

Enjoy!

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Screams. The first thing that greeted the scores of police and paramedics that reached the scene of the two car accident on the highway were the screams of a four year old boy trapped in the back of the smaller of the two cars. The small child was wailing without abandon, blood dripping lazily down his cheek from a cut on his temple, his little arms flailing about as he cried for his mother.

It took three medics to free the child from the car, to subdue him long enough to ready him for the trip to the ER. His mother, however, received no such treatment. The first medic to the car had reached through the shattered window, and finding no pulse beneath his fingers, left her temporarily to tend to her young son.

Several hours later, little Jason Cross slept peacefully in a hospital bed, dwarfed by the tubes and wires surrounding him. His father, Andrew, had yet to be in to see him, apparently too busy with the arrangements for his wife's body to spare a moment for his desperately wounded son.

Jason's nurse sighed, reaching to brush the little boy's bangs from his forehead. Jason had suffered severe internal bleeding, which had taken a pediatric surgeon three hours to locate and fix. Now, Jason merely lay, pale and still, upon the bed, drawing every nurse in the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit to his side by his adorable face.

"It's terrible, isn't it?" a quiet voice at the door broke the young nurse, Kelly, from her thoughts. The on-call resident was leaning against the doorframe, gazing sadly at his patient.

"His mother's dead, isn't she? And his father hasn't even been up to see him."

"It was a bit of a nasty scene down in the ER, I've heard," the resident, Dr. James, replied. "The guy completely lost it. Went mental after he saw his wife. They had to sedate him."

"I hardly blame him," Kelly breathed, tears filling her eyes. "He's lost his wife, and now he could very well lose his son."

"I'm going to make sure that doesn't happen," Dr. James replied. "This kid has enough to deal with. He's going to make it, and he's going to be okay."

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Six year old Jason Cross sat by himself in the corner of his kindergarten classroom, hugging his knees to his chest and watching the other children play happily. Jason was easily the oldest in the room; after the accident that took his mother's life and so very nearly his own, Jason had spent months in the hospital, recovering, and months at home with his father, desperately avoiding Andrew Cross' increasingly violent temper. As a result, he'd missed the entrance date for kindergarten, and was forced to wait a year before enrolling in school.

Two years without his mother had affected Jason badly, and it showed. He was quiet and withdrawn, no longer the happy, bouncing little boy he'd been before. Very few noticed the change, as Jason had been too young to have many serious friends, and his father had been too upset to allow Jason to see his mother's friends and their children.

As Jason watched, a small, shaggy haired boy was whispering to his darker-skinned best friend, the two occasionally glancing in his direction. Scooting further from their glances, Jason picked up the blocks resting on the shelves, busying himself with building a tower.

Barely a minute later, he turned, finding himself looking directly into the smiling face of the boy, his best friend standing at his shoulder.

"Hi!" he greeted Jason energetically, holding out his hand. "My name's Troy. This is Chad. You're Jason, aren't you?"

"Yes," Jason whispered quietly, terrified by this sudden change in his situation.

"You walk home by yourself every day, don't you?"

Jason nodded.

"Well, where's your mommy? Why doesn't she pick you up? Or your daddy?"

"My-" Jason began, looking at the floor. "My mommy's gone. She went to heaven when I was four."

Troy's smile faded, though he clearly did not appreciate the deep sadness behind Jason's words.

"Well, where's your daddy then?"

"He's busy. He-he works a lot," Jason whispered quickly, knowing how much trouble he'd be in if he revealed what his father truly did, that he wasted away the day, drowning his despair in alcohol.

"Ohhh." Troy nodded, looking at Chad. "Well, me and Chad were thinking that you could come with us today. My mommy said she'd be taking us for ice cream, and we thought maybe, because you always look so sad-"

"Okay," Jason whispered, a small smile beginning to creep onto his face. This was the first time in two years that anyone had reached out to him, expressing an interest in him.

"Great! Listen, Jason, come play with us. Me and Chad are practicing our hoops, you know, cause one day, we're gonna be stars in the NBA!"

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By seven, Jason's life had seriously taken a turn for the worse. His father had begun to come home drunk, using more than words to scold his only child, often leaving Jason sobbing on the floor in pain, clutching his side painfully and struggling to breathe.

It was hard to hide this fact from his friends, particularly from Troy, who seemed to want to pry into every detail of everyone's life, but Jason did his best. He knew that if his friends found out what he went through at home, that they'd tell someone. And Jason knew that would not be a good thing. His daddy was mean enough as it was, he didn't think Andrew would take kindly to Jason spreading stories about him.

He made sure never to show his bruises to Troy or to Chad, to hide any pain when they accidentally bumped him, to politely decline when they asked him to come over after school. He didn't think they suspected anything, and it made him happy to know he at least could control that one aspect of what was happening to him-he could hide everything from his friends.

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By his eighth birthday, Jason knew the difference between cracked and broken ribs, the quickest way to stop bleeding, and the most efficient way to bind a broken finger. He knew how to wrap sprains, treat dehydration, and that the easiest way to avoid a coma after a concussion is to stay awake. He'd been in and out of free clinics and doctor's offices more times than he could count, but never staying longer than it took to bind his ribs, set his broken bones, and whisk him away before Child Protective Services could be called, and never returning to the same place twice.

He'd already suffered two dislocated shoulders, a broken wrist, a fractured ankle, and broken his nose three times. It had even gotten to the point where Jason thought he might have to learn to stitch himself up, in order to avoid the awkward questions that always arose when they went for medical treatment.

Through it all, Andrew Cross got meaner, and his drinking grew even further out of control. The only explanation he offered his son came in the form of blame and anger, always directed at Jason, always involving Carrie.

Jason didn't understand why his dad blamed him for his mom's death. After all, he'd only been four. He barely even remembered it himself. He really didn't think that he'd had anything to do with it, but that hardly stopped Andrew's ranting tirades, now always accompanied by flying fists, and more often than not, broken beer bottles.

It was the hardest nights, when Jason lay curled on his bed, nursing a fresh batch of broken ribs and a freely bleeding cut or two that he let himself cry. Jason cried for himself, he cried for his mother, and he cried for his father. He cried because he couldn't understand what he'd done. He cried because sometimes, it felt like this was the only release he'd ever get.

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On his tenth birthday, Jason received something he'd never thought he'd get from his father: a gift. Granted, his father's form of a birthday present didn't come wrapped in paper and a bow, nor was it something he could take to school and show his friends, but Jason would take whatever he could get.

Andrew Cross's idea of a birthday present involved fists, a bat, and a flight of stairs. When Jason woke nearly four hours, crumpled on the basement floor, unable to move his left arm, he'd been overcome with the most severe pain he'd ever felt in his life. It was another two hours before Andrew had sobered enough to go looking for his son, and three more on top of that, in which Andrew had unceremoniously dragged Jason up the stairs to avoid awkward questioning, before he'd decided Jason's condition warranted the ER.

After hours of sheer agony, Jason welcomed the drug-induced sleep the doctor offered him. It was only two days later that Jason woke again, to find himself in a world of pain and stiffness, in unfamiliar surroundings.

"You're awake, then?" a soft voice to his right asked, a gentle hand reaching for his wrist, taking his pulse.

"What-?"

"Happened? Don't you remember?" The man's face came into focus, and Jason realized it must be his doctor.

"I-I don't-"

"It's alright Jason, you suffered quite the fall. My name is Doctor Wilkinson. You've been under my care for the past few days."

"What?"

"Your dad called 911 when he found you outside. The fall fractured your collarbone, and sprained your ankle. Also gave you a rather tricky concussion, which is why you've been asleep for two days now. You've also got some broken ribs, and a lot of cuts and bruises. The most worrisome injury, though, was that you ruptured your spleen. We had to remove it during surgery."

"Oh," Jason breathed, the sling holding up his left arm becoming clear to him, a wave of pain washing over him. "My-my dad?"

"He went back to work, but he sat with you all night. He's very worried, Jason."

Jason couldn't keep the snort of disbelief that escaped him at that statement, and it was clear the doctor picked up on it.

"Jason, your dad said that you fell out of a tree. That wasn't what really happened, was it? On your x-rays-"

"I-uh-I mean-yes," Jason interrupted, knowing that his face was flushing even as he stumbled over his lies. His father had beaten the stories into him countless times, but Jason had always found that, when it really came down to it, he was an awful liar.

"Jason, you can tell me if your dad is hurting you. You can trust me."

"I-I mean, you-we-"

"Jason, if you can't talk to me, I can have someone else-"

"No! No, please, I really-I really did fall. Honestly." Jason rushed through his story, terrified at what his father's reaction would be if CPS were called.

Dr. Wilkinson seemed to pause for a moment, clearly wanting to press the issue, but the utter terror in Jason's eyes stopped him.

"You'll have to be in hospital for at least another three weeks. We can call your school for you, have your work sent over so that you don't fall behind. I'll be back in a few hours to check on you, okay, Jason?"

Jason nodded, and the doctor left, taking Jason's chart with him. Signing off on it, he handed it to the charge nurse on the pediatric ward, who took it and flipped through his notes, frowning.

"Dr. Wilkinson, why do you have Jason Cross down for a three week stay? He's only got a broken collarbone and a concussion, he'll be ready to go by tomorrow."

"Just trust me on this one, Linda. I think Jason will heal better here, than at home. Just let it be."

"If he's being abused-"

"Linda, there's just something about this kid, okay? Let it go."

So for his tenth birthday, Jason got a three-week stay in the hospital at the hands of a benevolent doctor, three weeks in which he was free from his father's fists, free to heal fully for once, and free to enjoy himself.

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Three years passed, and Jason had grown into a handsome teenager, the horrors of his past merely something he dealt with every day, much the way his classmates dealt with relationship issues and their increasing homework load.

"Jason! Jason, man, you don't look good," Troy Bolton called to his friend, watching as Jason slowed to a crawl on his fourth lap around the gym. Normally, the other boy would be at the front of the class, with Troy and Chad next to him, the three of them easily lapping the others and heading straight for the basketball hoops.

Troy watched his friend anxiously, his worry ratcheting up a notch when Jason stumbled, reaching out to brace himself against the wall. It was as Jason started to slide down the wall that Troy started running, and he was at his friend's side in a heartbeat, dropping to his knees. Chad wasn't far behind, hovering behind Troy, clutching the hem of his gym shirt.

"Jason?" Troy asked, reaching out to touch his friend's shoulder. Jason shrunk away from his touch, his arms curled around his ribs, his breath coming in short gasps. "Jason?"

"Can't-breathe-" Jason managed to choke out, his lips beginning to show a tinge of blue even as Troy watched.

"Oh my god," Troy breathed, his hands shaking as he flew into full-blown panic mode. "Oh god, um, Chad-go-go get Ms. Walters, like now!"

Troy was barely aware of Chad running away behind him, of the rest of their class gathering in a circle, of their teacher's shouts as she pushed her way through the students to reach them. All Troy was aware of were Jason's shuddering gasps for breath, and the gradually increasing blue tinge of his lips.

Angela Walters knelt next to Jason, her fingers instantly finding his carotid artery, taking his pulse.

"I've called an ambulance, Jason. What is it? What's wrong?"

"He can't breathe!" Troy cried, his voice betraying his panic. Couldn't she see what the problem was?

"Are you hurt, Jason? Is it your ribs? Your ribs hurt?"

Jason nodded weakly, his breathing becoming even more labored as tears started to stream down his cheeks. Angela noticed, and gently helped Jason lay back, brushing his hair from his face.

"You'll be alright, Jason. Just try and breathe, sweetie, the paramedics will be here soon."

As if on cue, an pair of medics pushed through the doors to the gym, a gurney between them bearing their medical supplies.

"What's going on?"

"This is Jason, Jason Cross. He's having trouble breathing."

"Jason, my name is Alex. Can you tell me where you're hurting?"

Jason didn't speak, but merely gestured vaguely at his chest, unable to speak as his weak gasps became more and more difficult.

Alex nodded, reaching behind him to grab a pair of scissors from his bag, motioning for his partner to start setting up an IV line and EKG leads.

"I'm just going to cut your shirt off, okay, Jason? So we can get a better look at your chest."

Jason's eyes widened as Alex started at the hem of his gym shirt, and Jason weakly tried to slide away, shaking his head.

"Jason, what is it?" Alex asked, momentarily stopping his progress. He followed Jason's eyes to the crowd around them, resting on Troy, who stood nervously next to Chad, both boys wearing a mask of fear.

"Can we clear this area out?" Alex asked the gym teacher, gesturing at the kids gaping at Jason on the floor. "Give him some room?"

"Of-of course," Angela agreed, nodding. She started herding the kids into the adjacent hallway, making sure that Jason was free from prying eyes. By then, the assistant principal had arrived in the gym, and Angela felt safe leaving the kids in the hallway while she returned to Jason.

"Kid, go outside, okay? Your friend is sick, we need to be able to work here."

Troy remained rooted to the spot, his eyes glued to Jason's face. It was Jason's silent plea that sent him into the hallway, though, sliding to a spot on the floor next to Chad, his face buried in his hands.

"Is that better, Jason? Would it be okay if we kept going?"

Jason nodded hesitantly, shifting his eyes to the ceiling as Alex finished cutting away his shirt. He didn't need to hear the gasp from the few adults left to know that they'd seen what he was trying to hide.

"Holy god," Alex breathed, his hands stilling as he looked at Jason's chest. The teenager's torso was mottled black and blue, several of his ribs visible clearly, pressing against the skin.

"Jason, did someone do this to you?"

"I got-" Jason started, breaking off weakly to catch his breath. "Mugged. Yesterday. Beat me up."

"Why didn't you go to the hospital, Jason? You've obviously sustained severely broken ribs-"

"Thought-was-okay. Didn't hurt."

Alex looked at his patient appraisingly, before deciding that the true nature of Jason's injuries wasn't as important as fixing those injuries. After working quickly to stabilize his breathing, the two medics loaded Jason into the ambulance, quickly carting him away to relative safety.

Several hours later, Jason was in surgical intensive care, after surgery to repair his punctured lung and badly damaged ribs. It had been another close call with his teacher and the doctors, but Jason thought he'd bluffed his way out of another vicious beating from his father. Andrew Cross himself had dropped in for ten minutes on his son, long enough to warn him of the consequences Jason would face if CPS were called, and to ask how long he'd have to be here this time.

Troy, however, had not been to see his friend, but had spent the afternoon sitting in his dad's office at the high school, thinking over everything that had happened. He had a sinking feeling that something just wasn't right with Jason, but he couldn't put his finger on it. After all, Jason hadn't missed more than a day of school since fifth grade, so whatever it was couldn't be that bad, right?

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By age fourteen, Jason had found a second release to augment his few-and-far between bouts of crying. He'd become an accomplished cutter, having found that self-inflicted pain always made him feel in control, that it gave him something to hold onto, to make his own.

He never cut deeply, and never in the same spot twice. Always on his upper arms, or on his thighs, where no one would think to look. He could wear short sleeves when his dad hadn't bruised up his arms, and no one ever thought to look twice when he had on a sweater, even in the middle of the summer.

If Jason noticed Troy's increasingly worried glances in his direction, he didn't let on. If he noticed that Troy walked as if on eggshells around him, he ignored it. He knew deep down that Troy suspected something, but he hoped-and prayed-that Troy wasn't close to discovering his true secret.

It had become much harder as he grew older to hide from his teachers, but especially from his friends. They'd been playing basketball more often, trying out for the East High team, all of their dreams coming true before their eyes. Yet as he watched Coach Bolton interact with his son, teaching him the correct way to line up a three-pointer, Jason couldn't help but feel sad.

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The summer between his freshmen and sophomore years of high school was the hardest for Jason. Troy and Chad were increasingly spending time playing basketball, in the park, the backyard, the street, the driveway-anywhere they could find a hope and enough space. Jason, however, was stuck inside, nearly bedridden by the latest injury his father had doled out to him.

At the beginning of the summer, Andrew had told Jason to let Troy and Chad know that he would be away all summer, on vacation. It was really Andrew's way of making sure that no suspicions could be raised if Jason happened to end up in the hospital, as he did barely a week into the summer holiday.

A particularly violent bout involving a baseball bat had left Jason comatose for three days, a subdural hematoma putting pressure on his brain and needing emergency surgery to relieve. He'd spent two more weeks in the hospital, only to return home to what he assumed was a brief respite from Andrew's "affections."

This latest injury left Jason with debilitating headaches, and dizzy spells that sent him to his knees, the room spinning violently before him. He was almost glad for his father's insistence on total isolation, as it meant that neither Troy nor Chad could see him in his current state.

Jason spent that summer in utter misery, especially when Andrew decided that Jason was well enough to help out around the house again. It was with a new sense of depression that Jason went back to school in the fall, knowing in his heart that he would not be able to keep it up much longer. Eleven years of suffering had been enough. He was nearing the end of his quickly fraying rope, and feared what would happen when the rope finally snapped.

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A/N: So that was quick, and rather jumpy. It was just flashes into Jason's life from age 4 until age 15. The next two or so chapters will detail his life from 15-16, and the reasons and motivations he has for running. I'm also going to go more into Andrew's character, and definitely show some interactions between father and son.

Also, as this is rather personal for me: I do not condone cutting, nor do I condone child abuse. If you think someone you know is cutting or is a victim of abuse, please try and get help. Seek out someone who can help you. It's never too late.

Until we meet again,

jetsfanforlyfe