Squeezing his eyes shut, feeling the kicks and punches slamming into him, and he tried to curl up to block some of them. He heard the noises he was making, little cries and groans of pain but he couldn't stop. He couldn't control anything.
He barely noticed when it stopped, when his father stormed away, his footsteps heavy in the hall and on the stairs. He stayed on the floor, the rug was thick and comfortable. He could feel each and every injury, felt his body sending out those natural pain killers, endorphins, making him feel sleepy. And he didn't care, not anymore. This was how it was going to be. Nothing could change it. Nothing at all.
Sometime later, minutes or hours, he couldn't tell, he crawled into bed. Slept late the next day, it was Saturday. He didn't want to get out of bed.
When he went downstairs he could smell the breakfast smells, bacon and waffles and syrup. Fresh orange juice in the pitcher in the middle of the table, a plate of toast.
"Craigger," his dad said, and Craig looked at him warily. The food, the breakfast feast, his father's way of making things up. Cooking him food he liked, giving him money, renting videos, being nice. But it was temporary. It wouldn't last, Craig knew it now. And when it ended what would he find? The strap? The kicks and punches and being thrown down to the floor? Being scared, feeling worthless and helpless. He knew what he would find.
"Hey, dad," he said, sitting down slowly, feeling hurt, wincing. His father noticed the slow movements and the look of pain when he sat, and he tried not to see it. Albert shook his head and turned back to the stove.
Craig wasn't so hungry. His stomach felt shriveled. But he ate slowly and it did taste good. Sipped his juice and very carefully put the glass down on the coaster.
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School on Monday and his father drove him, like usual. He'd been nice all weekend. He was still nice, his look unreadable behind the dark glasses. But he gave Craig his slight smile and told him to have a good day.
"Yeah, I will," Craig said, getting out of the car, carrying his bag over his shoulder. He walked toward the school, not noticing the concerned stares of Manny and Emma behind him.
Toward the end of the day in Simpson's Media class, Craig almost falling asleep as he listened to the soothing tones of Snake's voice, there was a knock on the classroom door. Through the square glass window in the upper part of the door Craig could have sworn he saw Joey.
Simpson excused himself and went out in the hall for a minute, and it was Joey. Craig could hear their voices as they talked quietly. He couldn't make out the words, just the tones and inflections. He peered anxiously toward the hall, certain that they were discussing him.
Simpson came back in, the worry in his blue eyes like an easy map to read and he looked at Craig. Craig looked away.
"Craig," Simpson said, and Craig looked up.
"Joey's in the hall, he wants to talk to you,"
"Okay," Craig said, getting up slowly, trying not to look like he was in pain. But he was. He couldn't take deep breaths and everything ached.
In the hall, surrounded by the lockers and trophy cases, the sunlight falling on the hallway floor and shining everywhere, Craig looked down while Joey started talking.
