=Dave's POV

I'm not the same Dave Strider that everyone used to know back when me and Bro lived with our parents. I wasn't cool and being ironic did not matter to me. During that horrible time, my life was a living hell. Each day I woke up dreading school and what might happen to me if I went. I contended with bullies and my own personal demons. It was so bad that I sort of started to believe that the terrible things the obnoxious kids said about me were true. My brother knew something was wrong, but he never approached me about it until the situation had gone too far, and even though we've tried to get over the past, he continues to live with this guilt.

To be honest, I would be dead right now if Bro had not taken action. Instead of being the sarcastic asshole he usually was, he became the older brother I truly needed.

=Flashback

I grip my side and stumble over my own feet as another wave of pain nearly knocks me down. Black haze threatens to consume me, and it takes all my willpower to stay conscious. This time the bullies had gone too far. Usually it was only empty threats, and that I can handle, but I hadn't expected them to jump me after school. The injuries they had inflicted upon me now showed in black and blue bruises that were scattered across my body. They had been merciless until I finally passed out from the agony. Although I eventually came to, it took another thirty minutes just to stand up again. Now its only a matter of getting home. My older brother would be worried at this point. The moon has already risen and the streets are nearly vacant.

I slowly drag myself down the sidewalk, determined to make it home. Time seems to stand still. My entire body aches and I'm having a hard time staying upright. At last, I walk to the front door of my home and push it open in a trance. I'm so incredibly exhausted that I just want to curl onto the floor and never wake up. The house is deadly quiet, so I automatically assume that everyone is in bed. I limp up the stairs and try to avoid putting too much pressure on my throbbing ankle. I shut the door to my bedroom and collapse on the floor, my back supported against the dresser.

Silent sobs wracked my body, but I fight the tears. I weakly reach into my pocket and pull out a small pocket knife that Bro gave me for protection weeks ago. I scowl, flipping the blade open and staring at the red stain already on the blade. Instead of my attackers blood on the knife, it was my own. I hadn't used it against another person before; I never got the chance to, honestly.

I clutch the knife's handle in my hand. Tonight is my darkest hour, and I've been pushed to my limit. With trembling fingers I pull up one of my sleeves, revealing multiple scars. Most of them are still new, having just been inflicted the day before, but the rest are a variety of different colors from old wounds. I was just about to break the vulnerable skin on my wrist like I'd done a million times before, when a strong hand grasps my shoulder.

"Little man?" Bro's heavy voice makes me freeze. He flicks on a light switch, and the sudden brightness blinds me. He could clearly see all the past cuts on my wrists and the waterfall of tears running down my flustered cheeks. I feel like I'm under a microscope as he stops for a second to inspect my discolored face. Without a word, Bro crouches in front of me and caresses the hand holding the knife with his own. He gently pries my fingers away from it, and I let go willingly. After he put the offending object away, he sits in front of me.

"Dave," his voice is full of concern. "What happened?"

I don't know why, but something inside me just snaps. I can no longer hold back the gut wrenching sobs that I've been suppressing all night. I hang my head down in shame. I thought Bro was about to get mad at me, though he simply reaches forward and takes me into his arms. My tears soak his shirt. I cry for a very, very long time. I let everything out that I have been holding back over the last year. Every taunt, curse, and beat down from the kids at school that made me feel worthless rushed out of me in one emotional burst. We stay embraced like this until I finally manage to calm down.

Absently, I notice Bro's hand rubbing soothing circles on my back. A part of me is shocked to see him act so caring towards me. "Do you wanna talk about it?" He whispered.

I shake my head and pull away. I lean back on the dresser again, refusing to meet his eyes.

He sighs and crosses his legs in front of me. "Dave," his fingers force my chin up to look at him, and I realize that both of our shades had been removed while I was crying. "Please tell me."

I stare at his orange eyes, expecting to see something there that would indicate that this whole side of him is a just a sham, that he'd go back to being stoic and sarcastic again any minute now. However, the only response I see is distress for his little brother.

I cave under his attentive watch. "A bunch of shitheads jumped me after school."

Fury flicks across his face, but I know its not towards me. He breaths heavily for a moment, obviously struggling to compose himself for my sake.

"I was too weak to stop them, Bro." I say, my body shaking. "I tried to ignore the teasing. I really did. I-" I stopped the words from spilling out of me.

Bro locks eyes with me. "Hey, stop that." his voice is gentle, yet firm. "You're not weak, Dave."

"I couldn't handle it anymore." I admit. I hug myself, hands clutching at my mistreated wrists. "I was about to..."

"Shh," Bro moves to sit next to me, and I lean against him, thankful for his presence. His arm snakes around my shoulders and holds me tightly until I stop quivering. "Listen to me, Dave." I peer up at him, feeling like the most helpless person in the world. He shifts his weight and pulls the knife out of his pocket. Holding it eye level, he continues: "This isn't you, and this sure as hell isn't your fault. I wish I could have talked to you sooner, but I'm here now."

He tosses the knife onto the carpet. "I'm not gonna let this happen to you again."

"I-I didn't expect it to go this far." I utter, still staring at the knife, amazed at Bro's sudden audacity.

"How long has it been going on?" Bro asked.

I huddled deeper into his side. "About a year..."

He pauses for a moment. "And the cutting?"

"Six months."

We're both quiet as the horrifying reality of the situation sinks in for Bro. His grip on my shoulder tightens, like he's suddenly afraid I'll vanish if he doesn't hold me close enough.

"It doesn't matter anymore." he released an unsteady breath. Then, his tone strong and certain, he finally speaks. "They do not matter anymore. Although I'd love to go bash their fucking skulls into the ground, it wouldn't solve the problem at hand here."

I hesitate. "Bro, what exactly do you plan to do?"

He smirks, and I know that he's up to something big. "I'm gonna do something about it, little man."

0-0-0-0-0-0

After that night, Bro confronted our parents about the situation. I wasn't comfortable with it, but he insisted that it had to be done to convince them to act. Unfortunately, our parents have taken the grand prize of being the worst mom and dad in the world. They've always been distant and neglectful towards us. I can still remember being raised by Bro all the time; he tells me he even bottle fed me as a baby. I honestly believe that they didn't even want children. My mom's birth control probably failed or something. Regardless of what occurred, they always acted like they hated us. So, when Bro confessed to them about my problem, you can only imagine their vile reactions.

Anyway, stuff happened, and me and Bro moved out. He was able to take custody over me without so much of a peep from mom and dad. We both wanted to be miles away from our parents and all the painful memories that were spawned in that city. The day we left, my dad gave me back the pocket knife once we were alone. I recall wondering where he had found it at; I was positive Bro had taken it with him after my episode, yet here it was, presenting itself to me again under dad's scrutinizing glare. Dad had shoved it into my hand, as if daring me to relapse and harm myself for a second time. Like it was my fault that I was being harassed and that I was just too much of a wimp to stand up to them.

He turned away without a word, and I say good riddance. I wish I could tell you that I chucked the knife in the trash the first chance I got, but it still rests in my pocket to this day. However, I do not cut anymore. I've been clean for two weeks now. The scars will never fade, though I wear long sleeves to cover them up. The bruises eventually went away too, and my self confidence grew with each one that disappeared. Bro has been teaching me how to fight in case I need to protect myself from any bullies. Hopefully, I won't have that problem here.

"Dave?"

I blink, coming back from my daydream to see two bright blue eyes looking directly at me.

Oh, yeah. "Sorry, man. I must have spaced out."

John's questionable stare melts away and is promptly replaced with a small smile. "Is that some sort of ironic thing that Strider's do?"

I scoff at him. "Are you seriously doubting my coolness?"

He laughs, and its sort of like a chorus of angels are singing in my ears. I silently vow to be the cause of his joy more often. Seeing him happy over any little dumb thing always brightens my day. Maybe the delight he feels is contagious, because now I can't restrain a grin myself. We've been sitting together every day at lunch. I think we're actually becoming really good friends despite such a rough start. I've noticed a bit more cheerfulness beaming from him, rather than the somber way he used to act before. We both seem to enjoy each others company. Hell, I know I do.

"Can I ask you a question?" John stares at the table, timidly drawing invisible shapes with his index finger.

"Shoot."

"Why do you always wear your sunglasses?"

I put down my turkey sandwich and examine my converse, which suddenly seem much more interesting. I pay extra attention to all the scuff marks covering the shoe as John looks at me expectantly.

God, you have no idea how much I want to tell him. A huge chunk of my conscience is begging me to confide in him everything: the bullying and why it all started in the first place, the terror that I constantly feel in fear of someone else figuring out all my little secrets. But the more frightened, scarred part of me practically screams not to. It fears rejection, or maybe even facing the possibility of more teasing in the future. Although I can handle myself in a fight now, it wouldn't matter if everyone hated me. I'm not sure how I'd deal with going through all that shit a second time.

Deep down, I know John would not hurt a fly. He's the only true friend I've ever really had. He accepts me for who I am and, although I'm a dick, he's an asshole in his own right too. In spite of this, I'm just not ready to tell him yet. So, I cock a poised smile in his direction and push up my shades. "Well, since you asked," John groans, realizing he's not about to get the answer he wanted. "My shades are apart of my epic superhero persona. I'm sort of like Clark Kent or something. My glasses keep the cool side of me in check and nobody knows what kind of person is really behind them."

John raises one skeptical eyebrow at me. "Really?"

"Hey, man, give me some credit. After all, I could be Superman, and if your scrawny ass ever needs saving one day, you can sure as hell bet that I'll be there to do it."