A/N Here's chapter 7 for you guys... updated version! I'm currently editing all my chapters... sorry I'm not doing it in order... As always, reviews are very much encouraged! Hope someone likes it!

-Claire

September 21, 1948

John awoke groggily in the cupboard under the sink, curled up only semi-comfortably in one of his mother's spring coats, a soft blue thing that he regularly borrowed as bedding. He had been kicked out last night, which wasn't unusual, so like he normally did he snuck back in through a window (after the first few times he had been forced to sleep in bushes outdoors, he had wizened up and loosened a latch on a little used window), took the closest soft thing, and hid in the cupboard so Bobby wouldn't find him. Generally, by mid-afternoon the man would be drunk enough not to notice or care that John had returned, but in the mornings he was more alert and sure to throw a fit if he saw John disobeying his orders by being inside.

After he crawled out of the closet, stiffly and carefully, he simply sat on the kitchen floor and whimpered softly, for it was really all he had the energy for. Pretty much every part of his body hurt terribly. It was a different kind of pain from when the initial thing happened. When Bobby would first hit, or burn, or cut John, there was a sharp sting, like hornets, under his skin, but the morning after was always worse in his opinion, when everything hurt, ached like being slowly burned alive by the flames of Hades, all the time and flared when he moved. Of course, he knew that it would get better as the days wore on- he was a little boy, naturally resilient, and he healed quickly- but for now, it was all he could do not to sob aloud.

He tried to stand, but his left leg gave out almost immediately. Wincing and with a slight yelp as he hit the unswept floor unexpectedly, he stood up again, more gently this time, and limped over to the freezer-fridge combo that sat tucked away in the corner of the kitchen, slightly off kilter and dented from one too many drunken rampages courtesy of Bobby.

John opened the freezer and retrieved a heaping handful of ice, shoving it all down his shirt and pants, sighing as the cubes began to work their magic. Sure, it was frozenly, numbingly cold, but that was the good part of it. Even though his clothes would be completely soaked in a few minutes, it was heavenly relief for the time being.

With his mood much improved, John opened the refrigerator and looked around hopefully, disappointed but not surprised that there was nothing to eat. The only items that decorated the spare shelves were cans of beer, some liquor, a few sliced of stale and molded bread and a can of what appeared to be baking powder. Rarely did the kitchen at the household contain anything fit for consumption, as Bobby used all the money Julia made on alcohol and the wretched cigarettes that he pressed to John's skin sometimes. Naturally, Bobby got food- he was, after all, the local bar's best and most treasured customer, so they gave him a lot of free meals to complement whatever alcohol he had decided to drink that day- but rarely did he think to share. Julia worked almost 14 hours a day, so she ate discarded samples of the café's dishes for her three meals and sometimes was able to sneak John something or other. The only reliable source of food for John, however, was the free lunches provided at school (a benefit for impoverished children he wouldn't have asked his mother to sign him up if he didn't desperately need the food) and whatever he could get from Elsie, Louise, or Mary when he was at their houses. Julie still breastfed from her mother, so getting her food didn't pose a problem, at least for the time being.

John sighed resignedly, shut the fridge door, and limped carefully, avoiding stepping on glass shards that still littered the tile out of the kitchen, and made his way to the bedroom all four family members (theoretically) shared and peeked in, poking his head around the doorframe.

Bobby was sprawled out contentedly on the unmade bedspread, not even having bothered to get under the covers as per usual. Julia was curled up in a ball next to the bed, sleeping lightly, her red hair spread out behind her head like a halo. She and John rarely slept with Bobby in the bed any more, and while his mother stayed diligently on the carpeted floor next to bed, John much preferred the relative safety of his cupboard under the sink. It may be claustrophobia-inducing, stuffy, dark, and tiny, but Bobby had never found him there, and John was counting on the fact that he never would. Julie slept in a laundry basket next to Julia, soundly sucking her thumb, oblivious to the world as John wished he himself could be. They had recently had to sell her bassinet, whether for rent or Bobby's favorite pastime John wasn't sure. A lot of things had been sold recently, and John's few possessions weren't safe from it whatsoever. Most of his toys, which were his only real possessions, had recently been sold to the local pawn shop, a small establishment on the street that John's bus passed when he was going to school. Cruelly, he could always see the toys sitting neglected in the window whenever he passed.

Softly, he closed the door, satisfied that nothing terrible had happened. He went to the washing basin for new clothes and, much to his surprise and delight, found a clean shirt and pair of pants in the basket next to it that he gratefully put on, reveling in the comfort that clean clothes, as opposed to the singed, bloodied, torn and damp ones from last night brought him.

With his clothes on, he pulls the mirror out from behind the basin and looks at himself hard.

His hair was matted and at all different lengths. His bangs were uneven from his long-time neglect for getting it cut, and hung in front of his eyes shaggily. He roughly brushed the strands from his face, only to have them fall back in front of his face, obscuring his vision somewhat. The rest was overlong, nearly touching his collar- all the teachers called him a little hoodlum for it- and some strands were shorter than others, either from being singed, pulled, or simply sheared off. It was much less blond than before and much more red like his mother's, darkened much like his mood, and matted. He hadn't brushed it since yesterday, and blood had pressed it to his neck. Even through his clothes, he could see how thin he was. Although taller, he was even skinner than George, which was saying a lot. His face wasn't too much of a mess, save for a bruised eye and a cut on his cheek. Bobby may be terrible, but he was also extremely clever- he knew if he hit John's face too much people would begin to notice. For this reason, he always forced John to dress in heavy clothes, no matter what the weather. His exposed arms looked like a battlefield, scarred and bruised as they were. Bobby was absolutely right. He was ugly, stupid. That's why he was punished. That's why. Nobody loved him, nobody gave a damn what happened to him. A fact that couldn't be exemplified better than in the grim, unsmiling, depressed face that looked back at him hollowly from the confines of the mirror.

Suddenly, an ear-piercing scream tore through John's consciousness like a dagger through cotton, ripping him from his self-loathing thoughts and back into the real world. He jumped instinctively and subsequently froze in pure terror. For a short second, it seemed as if the scream hadn't been real, just the crazy thread weaved by a mind that's gone mad, or about to. Then, there was a second, seemingly muffled this time by an unknown force and accompanied by loud banging sounds that quickly invalidated that particular theory. The tortured wailings of a baby, Julie, accompanied soon after, like a twisted orchestra.

John hurried as quickly as possible, which alas wasn't very quickly at all, to the bedroom where the noise seemed to be coming from and yet again peeked around the frame of the entrance. Inside the room on top of the bed he could see his mother struggling fruitlessly, with Bobby's rough hand covering her mouth, muffling her protests. He was straddling her, and she was trying her best to thrash herself from his oppressive grip. He let his hand off her for a second and she started pleading almost immediately.

"No! Please, Bobby! Not this time, please not today, I'll do it tonight, I can't… Bobby it hurts! Don't hurt me!" she was stopped by the sounds of a wailing baby, which had quickly intensified. "Oh, Julie-" she tried to get up to tend to her daughter, but she was pushed back down almost immediately.

"You want her?" snarled Bobby condescendingly, standing up and stalking over to the wailing child in the laundry basket. Thankfully, he didn't notice John as he went. "Well, guess what? I'm your fucking husband, Julia, and this damn baby isn't going to get in my way!" he lifted the one-year old from her position, by the collar as he's done to John so many times, and shook her violently. Julia wailed at seeing her daughter in this situation, and she got up and snatched her away from Bobby and quickly put her in the closet, shutting the door tightly to get the child away from the man, the monster in front of her. Bobby's nostrils flared in rage, but he did nothing to stop or reverse her actions.

John's mind was drifting throughout the episode. He was completely and totally lost in thought, and before he knew it, some of his too-long hair was in Bobby's filthy fist and he was being dragged into the room, right into the thick of things.

"Johnny…" Julia whispered worriedly, tears pooling in her beautiful, pale green eyes- eyes like frightened disks of hard candy, wide and shaking ever so slightly. John hated seeing her in such a state- it was so different from how she normally was, happy, cheerful, witty, outgoing and fun loving. Julia appeared to think about going to her son, but she stayed sentry at the closet door, protectively shielding her other, more fragile child. She looked intently at her son, her face seemingly draining of both color and expression.

"Get over here, you bitch!" hissed Bobby, pulling tighter on John's hair. He whined at the sharp needle-sensation, but was silenced by a kick to the back of the knees that sent him to the floor in a heap. He was quickly jerked upright, by his hair once more, and he regarded the wall in front of him, trying to block out the events taking place. Sometimes, if he was lucky, he could tune himself out of whatever was happening. It was rare, however, that he could, and it seemed that his brain wouldn't comply today. A right shame, too, as Bobby appeared to be in even more foul a mood than usual.

Julia took a deep, shaky breath and calmly walked over to her son. She stood in front of him, only about a foot away, and gave Bobby a look of such pure malice that John was surprised that the man didn't spontaneously burst into flames from the sheer potency of Julia's anger. Suddenly, with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, it occurred to him that he had just woken up. Bobby couldn't possibly have had any more drinks this morning, meaning he was completely sober, and even probably capacitated by a hangover. And if he was doing this un-intoxicated, that was really the thing to worry about- that his violence was no longer a bi-product of drunkenness but an action he chose to follow through with even when his mind was unhindered.

"Hit him," commanded Bobby, his voice cold as ice. Julia looked at him in silent horror, disbelievingly. "Do it!" he insisted maliciously, letting go of John, who immediately fell to the floor, and grabbing a long wooden rod from beside him. "Or I'll kill the other one."

His threat was genuine. Both John and Julia could tell that he would kill Julie if he didn't get what he wanted. Closing her eyes, Julia slapped John softly. The force was barely enough to shake the skin of his cheek, and certainly not enough to even sting. However, it wasn't enough for Bobby.

"Harder!" he hissed. Julia hit John again, this time harder, and John's face stung and his head whipped around. He turned back around and looked at her, a strange expression on his face. It was one of hurt, confusion, and betrayal, mixed in with fear and sprinkled in anger. More tears fell from Julia's eyes and down her cheeks. Even though John had no way to tell, the look he had on his face was enough to rip her from the inside out, and even though she wanted to stop more than anything, Bobby kept threatening her, egging her on. Julia kept hitting, kicking, and slapping her son against her will, tears bitterly streaming down her face all the while.

Then, seemingly from nowhere, Bobby procured a heated iron, which he handed to Julia with a frenzied, sadistic glint in his eyes, the kind that would get you sent to a mental hospital and never let out. John squeezed his eyes shut tightly as he could and prepared for the all-too-familiar melting sensation that he knew followed whenever the iron was taken out.

He heard the unmistakable hiss of heated iron on flesh, and he felt…

Nothing.

There was a deep, throaty yell of pain.

John cracked his eyes open hesitantly, to see his mother viciously pressing the hot metal against Bobby's shoulder. She pressed and pressed until she was thrown backward violently. She crashed into the bedside table with a loud crack, and one of the legs of the table snapped, sending the entire thing to the floor on top her. The scattered bottles on the table crashed down onto the floor and shattered, broken glass exploding onto the floor into a million little green slivers. Almost immediately, as if she had suddenly acquired superpowers, she got up and dashed across the room to John, forgetting Julie for the time being. She grabbed her son's hand and was almost out the door with him when the iron hit her in the shoulder, having just come from the angry hand of Bobby. She stumbled under the impact, but didn't fall, and together mother and son booked it out of the room together, their feet pattering frantically on the floor, mother dragging son, son looking fearfully behind, the horrible adrenaline of the moment coursing through their veins and making their hearts beat faster and faster, like they were about to reach some sort of climax.

Bobby was right behind them, livid, eyes ablaze with anger. The fabric of his shirt was blackened on his left shoulder, but he didn't even seem to acknowledge the injury, his mind more focused on the revenge he seemed bent on getting. All the time, profanities came spewing forth from his beer-scented mouth, and he threw anything he could at Julia and John. Even though vases hit him, shards embedded themselves in his back, John didn't care. He was terrified, running blindly and completely terrified. Bobby was madder than he's ever seen him before, and imaginative thoughts of terrible things coursed through his young mind.

Julia hadn't planned her escape route well. Instead of making it to the door, she mistakenly turned the wrong way in the hall and found herself with John trapped in a corner of the kitchen, no escape in sight. Not knowing what else to do, she hugged John protectively and whispered words of comfort in his ear, but Bobby's enraged shouts drowned it all out.

He was in front of them now. The sparely furnished room, broken cupboards hanging from their hinges, looked like a prison to John, an execution room even, and Bobby before him, with a baseball bat in one hand and a china plate in the other looked like a monster- the kind borne of twisted nightmares turned to reality. The stubble on his beard looked deadly, the look in his eyes like it would melt solid iron. Not for the first time, John feared for his life, but this time it was different.

"No, Bobby! Please, it was an accident!" Julia cried out, pushing John behind her as she tried desperately to reason with Bobby.

"YOU CROSSED THE LINE, YOU DUMB FUCKING BITCH! GIVE ME THE BOY, JULIA, I'LL KILL HIM, I SWEAR I WILL!" he was roaring now, like a lion, and he reached behind Julia and grabbed John's arm so hard that pins and needles went into his fingers. He whimpered in pain, and the baseball bat smashed onto his shoulder hard and he fell to the floor. He could feel himself being lifted once again, but suddenly, Bobby fell away from him. Julia had tackled him football style, and the two adults were hitting and kicking for dear life, for revenge on both their parts. It was hard to believe, John thought drily, that they were married.

"GET THE HELL AWAY FROM ME, YOU FUCKER! GET AWAY FROM ME AND MY CHILDREN, AND NEVER COME BACK!" Julia screamed as she smashed a small fist into Bobby's frame. John gleefully cheered for his mother, glad that she was finally standing up for herself, for him and Julie. But then his face fell and his blood ran cold. A swatch of metal glinted in the light of the early morning from Bobby's right fist.

It was a knife.

Bobby plunged the sharp metal into Julia up to the handle, sinking it in just above her pelvis, and she howled and let go, freeing Bobby to raise the knife again. And just then, at least for John, time seemed to stop entirely.

In addition to the knife, a long and vile instrument intended for kitchen use that used quite often, Bobby owned a gun. He had never shot it at anything to John's knowledge, but he certainly owned it, and it was certainly loaded. Bobby would threaten John with it at sporadically when he got especially drunk and violent, and John knew exactly where it was- in the cupboard nearest to him. Without a thought in his head except to save his and his mother's life, John threw open the doors and grabbed it. Beside him, Bobby's knife sunk yet again into Julia's abdomen, her screams of pain becoming fainter as Bobby drained her of her vitality.

The instrument felt cold in his hands, foreign and evil, like a living creature with fangs that could very well bite him. Although never before in his life had he used a gun, he had seen Bobby so close to shooting something- usually him- that his fingers instinctively knew what to do as he hastily aimed the instrument.

As Bobby began to embed his knife a third time into Julia, John shut his eyes and pulled the trigger.