Chapters 1-4 of snfan's: The Guardian with MINOR tweaking. Enjoy

The Guardian

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August 1991

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Bradley Michael Taylor, Randall William Taylor, and Marcus Timothy Taylor all hid in Brad's bedroom. Ten-year-old Brad put a chair under the doorknob and backed away from the door to crouch down next to his nine-year-old brother, Randy, and his seven-year-old brother Mark. Mark was crying, had his little hands over his ears so he wouldn't hear the yelling and the threats.

"Will you shut up, Mark?" Brad hissed. "He'll find us if you keep crying that loud."

Mark tried to quiet down. Randy looked at his older brother and whispered, "I can hear him coming up the stairs, Brad."

"Shh, shh…" Brad said softly when Mark cried a little louder. "Shh, Mark…"

"BOYS!"

"He's comin'." Mark sobbed quietly. He brought his knees to his chest and let his face rest on them with his arms wrapped around his head protectively.

"He can't get us," Randy whispered to Mark. "We're safe."

"BOYS!"

"B-Brad?" Randy said in a small voice so Mark couldn't hear. "He-he can't get us, right?"

"He can't open the door," Brad said. "We can just wait until he passes out like last night."

"I want Mom." Mark whimpered.

"So do I, but Mom's not here," Randy whispered. "Neither's Dad…Just him."

"He's getting closer, shut up," Brad whispered. The Taylor boys could hear the footsteps thundering down the hallway.

"BOYS! GODDAMMIT! GET OUT HERE!"

Randy felt himself start to shake a little but he sunk lower on the floor beside the bed. Brad had Mark sink down so if, God Forbid, their new guardian stormed into the room; they would have a few extra seconds of a pain-free body.

"YOUR GUNNA GET IT! ALL THREE OF YA!" The drunken slur screamed. Mark shuddered and cried harder when the doorknob began jiggling.

"He's comin', he's gunna kill us." Mark moaned.

"No, he's not, Mark," Brad said. "Be quiet, okay?"

Brad closed his eyes and knew then the door was going to break down. He turned to Randy and Mark and said softly, "Get under the bed. Roll under. Go!"

Mark rolled under the bed even though he was quivering. Randy followed and Brad went last. Ever since his parents died a few months ago and they moved to live with their new guardian, his little brothers became his number one priority. He had to protect them.

The door was being kicked at. Mark moaned and Brad could feel Randy shudder against him. Brad took a deep breath. All three jumped, bumping their heads on the metal of the under-side of the bed, when the door was kicked open.

"YOU LITTLE SOBS ARE GUNNA GET IT NOW!" Brad's eyes widened when a beer bottle was thrown across the room and smashed into a bunch of pieces.

"AWW!" Brad yelped when a fist grabbed his blonde hair. He was dragged out like that and soon looked into the drunken face of his guardian.

"You, son-of-a-bitch. You little bastard. You're gunna get it, you little piece of shit." The man raised his hand and Brad shuddered, saying a quick prayer that he wouldn't find Randy and Mark.

"No, Uncle Jeff…"

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The Guardian

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This chapter is dedicated to my new baby cousin, Taylor Jack.

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August 1991

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Brad gingerly touched his blacked eye. His Uncle Jeff Taylor had bruised him up pretty good. After Jeff got Brad weakened and nearly out, Jeff got a hold of Randy and Mark. Brad felt horrible that he let that bastard get a hold of his younger brothers.

"My back hurts." Mark whimpered. He was sitting on the full bed all three boys had to share.

"He hit you there I don't know how many times," Brad sighed. He gently lifted the back of Mark's shirt to take a look. Mark's back was bruised and a variety of colors from Jeff's fists. He hadn't taken a belt or a stick to the boys. Yet.

"Randy, let me take a look." Brad said after putting Mark's shirt back down.

Randy Taylor had taken a few harsh blows in his chest, near his lungs Brad guessed. Being an asthmatic the blows impacted his breathing a little.

Randy coughed and rubbed softly at his pained chest before saying, "I'm okay, Brad. Really."

Brad didn't listen to that. He gently pried Randy's hands away and undid one of Randy's overall straps. He lowered the neck of Randy's white t-shirt. He winced. Randy's upper chest was worse than Mark's back. The upper chest, near the neck, was bruised black and blue.

"I said I'm okay, Brad." Randy said and pushed Brad's hands away. He clipped his overall strap back on.

"Just making sure. He'll be back any minute. Uncle Jeff just went to get a drink."

"He's gunna kill us." Mark moaned and laid down on the bed.

"No he's not. Just be cool, guys. All we can do is not cry and try not to scream when he hits us. He'll get bored if we do that."

"Mark, that means stop bawling." Randy snapped.

"Randy, don't be harsh." Brad said. "Damn…I think he's coming back."

"Where are we gunna hide?" Mark whispered.

"He knows all of the hiding places." Randy said. "We might as well just wait for him. Beating will get over faster, anyway."

Jeff Taylor stumbled into the small bedroom he had his three nephews share.

"Blondie," He pointed to Brad. "C'mere."

"U-Uncle Jeff…"

"Get over here, Blondie." Jeff said. "Or I'll come over there."

"Don't do it, Brad." Mark whimpered.

"Stay here, guys." Brad whispered and walked forward. Jeff grabbed Brad's arm and slammed the door, locking Randy and Mark in the bedroom.

"What are you gunna do?" Brad asked as his uncle dragged him down the hallway.

"Shut up, Blondie." Jeff snapped. "I hate you boys, you know that? I hate all three of yas. I'll make sure you three pay for havin' to take yas in."

"You could have denied custody." Brad said and then he was thrown into a different room. He stumbled and gained balance.

"I hate you, Blondie. You and your brothers." Jeff was loosening his belt. Brad stared as his uncle did so. "Little sons of bitches…Take off your shirt, Blondie."

"N-no…Please…"

"I said take your shirt off!" Jeff yelled and cracked his belt at Brad. The folded leather his Brad in the head. Brad fought the urge to yell. He obeyed and took off his shirt. He was thrown to the floor and the belt came whipping down. Brad covered his head and fought tears. He felt like crying out and fighting back. Fighting back wouldn't only get him hurt, but his two brothers. Brad couldn't risk his little brothers.

To show when he was done, Jeff kicked Brad and put his belt on.

"You're the oldest, right, Blondie?" Jeff said to Brad as Brad continued to lay on the floor, barebacked and hurt. Brad felt like if he talked, he would cry, so he just nodded.

"Go get the second one. After him, get the third one."

"I'll take theirs." Brad said in small tone and forced himself to sit up. "I'll take their beatings."

"Doesn't work like that. Go get whichever one of you is the second Taylor boy."

"Please…"

"Do as I say or I'll beat you again and cripple one of your brothers!" Jeff screamed. "Which will it be? Shorty or Crybaby? Your pick, Blondie. I'd take the easy way and get the second Taylor boy."

"Yes, sir." Brad whispered and stood on wobbly feet. He wiped at his teary eyes after he passed his uncle.

Jeff ended up following Brad to the room. He unlocked the door, pushed Brad in and said, "Who is the second born?"

Randy said a small, "I am."

"Move over here, Shorty. It's your turn." Jeff said.

"But…"

"Randy, it's the easy way. Don't argue, please." Brad begged his nine-year-old brother.

"Crybaby, your next." Jeff said as he took Randy by the arm.

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The Guardian

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August 1991

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"Please, Uncle Jeff, I'm sorry for whatever I did." Randy Taylor begged. He dragged his feet every step of the way to the bedroom.

"Begging will make this hurt more, Shorty." Jeff Taylor said and threw Randy into the room. Randy stumbled to the floor, face down, and covered his head with his hands. The belt came down. Randy could hear it whistle wildly and then the sharp pain entered his body.

Randy yelped and felt a few tears escape from his eyes.

"Stop! I'm sorry! I…"

"Begging will only make it worse, Shorty! I'd shut up if I was you!" Jeff screamed.

Randy yelped again. After a while he felt his uncle's foot cram into his chest and flip him to his back. Randy covered his face with his arms and the belt crashed into his ribcage.

"I-I…" Randy didn't finish his sentence. It would only hurt him more.

"You, of the three of you, are the worst! I hate you the most, boy, hear me?"

"Y-Yes." Randy sobbed. He couldn't stop now.

"You are a worthless piece of shit," Jeff threw the belt on the floor and grabbed Randy up by the hair. "Stop your crying, Shorty. I can guarantee you right now that you'll get it harder if you screw up. Go back to your room right now and get Crybaby."

"I-I…"

Jeff slapped Randy. Randy flinched and trembled.

"Do as I say." Jeff said. "Or else."

Randy stumbled out of them room, wiping at the blood and tears on his face. Jeff was right behind him.

"Stop the hell crying, you little fuckin' baby. I oughta call you Crybaby." Jeff said.

"Sorry." Randy said.

They entered the bedroom where Brad and Mark were. Brad stood when he saw Randy.

"Crybaby, lets go," Jeff grabbed Mark and hauled him out. The door slammed.

"Let me go!" Mark screamed.

"Shut up!" Jeff shoved Mark into the wall and then shoved him into the bedroom. Mark screamed each time he got hit with the belt, causing Jeff to beat him longer. Jeff's arm got tired after half an hour so he dragged the sobbing Mark back to the bedroom and locked all three boys in there.

"He didn't hit you that bad, did he, Mark?" Brad asked quietly, trying to calm his youngest brother down.

"I hate it here. I wanna go home. I want Mom and Dad." Mark sobbed.

"They're not here anymore, Mark ,so shut up about it." Randy snapped as he pressed his face into a pillow to soften the pain.

"Shut up, both of you." Brad snapped. "We're all we got now. Don't fight or we don't have anything. We gotta beat this guy."

"H-How?" Mark cried, drying his face with his sleeve.

"I don't know yet. We can do it, though. He's too dumb to know that much." Brad said.

"It's hopeless, Brad. We'll be stuck here until we're 18." Randy said.

"Don't be so negative," Brad said. "You're not helping anything."

"Just being realistic." The nine-year-old replied.

"We could leave when he's wasted," Brad said. "We'll pick the lock on the door or climb out the window. Not now, though. We have to wait until he's drunk as hell."

"That won't take long. And then when he realizes we're leaving, he'll beat us until we're dead." Randy said. That made Mark cry all over again.

Brad went up to Randy and shoved him down on the bed, causing the younger boy to wince at the pain in his back and chest.

"Shut up all ready. We have to try. Stop and think before you say stuff like that. This isn't like before when we lived in Michigan with Mom and Dad and had a good life. Stop making things worse. What's the matter with you?"

Randy shrugged. "Don't know, Brad." He wiped at his face and turned on the bed. "I'm going to sleep."

"Maybe you'll think next time before opening your mouth." Brad snapped. He understood why his mother and father were stressed about their attitudes, now.

"And maybe we'll go back home, Brad," Randy said softly. "Either way chances are slim."

Brad ignored Rand and went to Mark. "C'mon, Mark, don't cry. Everything's all right…"

And that's how everything was, how everyone acted. After that day, the boys didn't question each other or their uncle. For several months after that day, Brad thought of an escape plan…

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The Guardian

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January 1992

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"DAMMIT!" Jeff Taylor screamed. Randy dodged his uncle's flying fists and ran up to the bedroom. Brad picked his head up when the screaming continued. Mark just covered his ears. He didn't cry that much anymore. There wasn't a point.

"Hide me, Brad!" Randy gasped when he slammed the door. "He's gunna kill me this time."

"What'd you do now?" Brad asked and went up to his brother. "You're always pissing him off, Randy. Its pretty much common sense if you don't want to get your ass beat, don't piss him off!"

"I-I was getting a drink. I-It wasn't my fault." Randy panted. He put a hand to his chest. "Br-Brad, I think I need my inhaler."

"You don't have much medicine in it left," Mark said. "You need a refill."

"We'll, its not like we're gunna get one."

"OPEN UP THE DOOR!" Jeff pounded on the door. Randy panted and gasped. Jeff Taylor whipped the door open and grabbed Randy by the shirt collar.

"Wait! Uncle Jeff, please," Brad went in front of his uncle's path. "Randy's sick. I'll take it. I'll take his punishment."

"That's not the way it works, Blondie," Jeff tried to brush by Brad but the boy managed to stand his ground.

"He's sick. I'll take his punishment, Un…" Brad was backhanded and pushed to the floor.

"You do as I say, boy, and Shorty won't be hurt more," Jeff said. "Let's go, Shorty, you little son-of-a-bitch."

"Don't hurt Randy!" Mark yelled.

"Shut it, Crybaby!" Jeff screamed. "Or your next! MOVE!" He shoved Randy into the hallway. Brad got back up to lunge for Randy but was shoved back by Jeff. The bedroom door shut and was locked.

"NO!" Brad screamed. He banged on the door. Mark and Brad could hear Jeff screaming, a belt swinging and Randy coughing and gagging and wheezing.

It all ended half an hour later. Jeff whipped open the bedroom door and threw Randy in. Randy hit the floor just as Jeff slammed the door.

"Randy," Brad got down on his knees and patted his little brother's face. Randy was out cold but still breathing, at least, very lightly.

"Mark, get me his inhaler." Brad said. "Hurry up!"

"I all ready got it." Mark got down on his knees as well and gave Brad the inhaler.

"Hold up his head," Brad said and helped move Randy so his head was resting on Mark's lap. "Good…Hang in there, Randy."

Brad put the mouthpiece of the inhaler in his brother's mouth and pressed down on the piece. Randy gave a little cough.

"That's it," Brad whispered. "Wake up, Randy."

"Give him another hit off it," Mark said. "He's breathing a lot stronger."

"One more puff, Randy." Brad said softly. Another puff entered Randy's mouth and the nine-year-old boy coughed more. He opened his swollen eyes very slowly.

"B-Brad?" Randy whispered. "I'm sorry. I-I didn't mean it."

Brad sat Randy up and hugged him. Randy hugged his only older brother back, confused by this. The three Taylor boys never did stuff like this.

"I'm sorry I've been a jerk," Brad said. "To you and Mark," Brad looked at Mark, who edged closer to be part of the embrace. "If we want to escape here, we need to work together. Randy, you need more medicine."

"I know," Randy said softly. "Mom always had a back-up inhaler for me. I don't have one now. I-I couldn't find the back-up one when we had to pack up and come here."

"Mom did everything right," Mark said. "She was perfect."

"Accept for cooking." Brad said which put small smiles on Randy and Mark's faces.

"And Dad was just funny," Mark said. "He could always make me laugh." Mark wiped wetness from his young bright eyes.

"He could make anyone laugh," Randy said. "Dad as always blowing stuff up and getting himself in the emergency room."

Brad let go of Randy and Mark and said, "Hopefully we'll all be able to cook and not kill ourselves by the time we're mom and dad's age."

"Yea." Randy sniffed back and wiped at his eyes. Mark hid his face. Brad took a few deep breaths before looking at Randy.

"Where did he hit you the most? I'll clean up the blood." Brad whispered. He helped Randy stand up and gently helped him on the bed. The boys didn't discuss Tim and Jill Taylor any further.

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