Something very bad is about to happen...this is the mature part.

I hope I'm not exaggerating but I just don't want to shock people too much.

Chapter 10

Ogilvie ran into the house with a piece of paper yelling, "Mom Mom look! It's not a D this time!"
His mother looked at him disinterestedly as she blew on her nail polish. "Shut up, I can't hear the TV," she said.
But Ogilvie needed her to see it right now! His mom would be proud of him at last! Maybe she would give him a hug, even! Ogilvie sometimes wanted a hug so bad he would hug himself real hard and squeeze his eyes closed real tight, and if he thought real hard he could pretend it was his mom. But more than that he desperately needed her approval. He knew something was missing and it had to do with his parents, but he didn't know what.
"But Mom!" he said.
"Oh my fucking God," said his mother. "Do you ever shut up, Ogilvie? Fine. Give it to me."
He eagerly handed it to her and waited. He was sure he had done a good thing this time.
So when he hit his head on the corner of the desk because his mom had smacked him, his inner self came crashing down and left him feeling sick. "You fucking retard," said his mother. "I didn't think even you could fail kindergarten, Ogilvie, but I guess I'm wrong. Why in the hell do you think an F's better than a D?"
Ogilvie didn't know his alphabet very well but decided it wasn't the best time to tell his mom that. "She wrote in purple..."
"Congratulations. You found someone who is able to feel sorry for you."
"I'm sorry," said Ogilvie. "I'll try an' do better."
"You're not sorry," said his mother. "But I am."
In spite of himself he asked why.
"I'm sorry I ever had you!" shouted his mother.
"Huh?" said Ogilvie.
"You idiot, do you think I care about you? Love you, God forbid? I don't give a shit about you. I wish you'd never been born. You're just one disappointment after another. If you got hit by a car on your way home tomorrow, no one would miss you. In fact, we'd probably celebrate. We could turn your room into a theatre."
Ogilvie just stood there.
Then he had to run upstairs because if he didn't his mom would see him cry, and he already had a headache from her smacking him. He didn't think he could take a beating right now. He lay facedown on the bed and tried not to cry, because if he cried she would tell his dad and his dad would hit him, and it made his headache so bad he had to bite his tongue. When he tasted blood in his mouth he gave up and instead tried to let the tears fall out onto the pillow. If he didn't breathe too hard maybe he wouldn't get caught.
Then he remembered what his mom had said and started sobbing hysterically.
No one would care if he didn't come home from school tomorrow.
No one would care if he was spread across the road under someone's tires. Would they even bury him? Or would they just leave him there and let the wild animals clean him up? This scared him so much that he had to force himself to stop breathing so he wouldn't scream. When he drew breath again the air came in gasps, leaving him dizzy and light-headed. Somehow his headache got worse. He felt sicker.
He had to stop thinking about it. He had to make the pain go away.
Usually he could. Usually he could pretend he wasn't there.
But right smack in his head was a picture of himself, and he was smaller than an ant, and scareder, and he was standing in darkness all by himself.
And that was what he was afraid of the most.
Being alone in the big big world with no one to hold his hand.
He was still little enough for someone to do that.
Wasn't he?
He fell into unconsciousness, more from lack of air than anything, and when he opened his eyes they were wet but felt dry, and his whole face was soggy. He cried in his sleep again.
How much did he do that?
His headache was less intense but no better, changed from a sharp stabbing pain to an incessant thumping ache that seemed to rattle his teeth and had no rhythm. For a second he would hope that it had gone away and the next he would be clutching his head as his brain seemed to be crushed under the pounding.
He was hungry and knew it was making the headache worse, but he just wanted to hide until tomorrow and maybe he would feel better. But to make things worse a tingling was starting below his belly, and it was the kind that makes you want to wiggle and hope it goes away. Ogilvie crossed his legs, hard, and tried to pretend like he didn't know he had to go, but it was really bad, like lightning was zigzagging around in there, so he had to get up. No way was he gonna hold it 'til tomorrow. And no way was he gonna pee himself. It had taken him long enough to get out of those stupid training pants.
He peeked out into the hallway and was relieved to see that the house was dark. He tiptoed into the bathroom and closed the door quietly. Then he stood there for a million and a half years, wondering where it was all coming from (remembering it was partly so he could pretend he wasn't hungry and partly because he was trying to lose weight that he had been drinking water for the last two days) and feeling pretty crappy after 'cause it was the kind where you feel like you haven't gone at all. So he waited a bit (better safe than sorry) and climbed up on the counter to wash his hands. He always washed his hands real good. He didn't like getting sick 'cause as much as he hated going to school, laying in bed wanting to puke and hoping no one got mad at you because if you got thrown today you would puke was worse.
He got down and dried off his hands (which was very important for handwashing) and turned around.
His heart stopped and his mouth dried up.
His dad was standing there.
How long had he been there?
Ogilvie privately thought it was his dad's fault he took so long to be toilet trained. Some of the other "special" kids that no one liked told him their dads showed them how. Some of them had to wear special pants anyways, but their dads had tried.
Ogilvie's dad had laughed at him instead.
So why was he here?
"I heard you failed your test," said his dad.
"Yeah," said Ogilvie.
Why was his dad looking at him like that?
Right there?
He wanted to cross his legs but didn't want to be wrong.
His dad threw him against the wall.
He hit the wall and smashed his face on the toilet. His nose started gushing and the thumping in his head got deeper. If it got any worse he wasn't going to be able to see.
His dad started to hurt him, twisting his arm until it cracked. Ogilvie hated this part. The more pain he was in the harder it was to pretend he wasn't there. His dad started punching him in the stomach, and Ogilvie was glad he had only been drinking water because his dad always hit him so hard he threw up.
He started coughing and watched the blood drip onto the floor. His stomach heaved but he did not gag, only coughed again. He didn't like that either. It turned his insides to water. Like nothing existed but his hateful, aching stomach.
He was being hit but wasn't paying attention. It was better that way. He sometimes tried to think of somewhere he could be, other than just being numb, but he had so little happiness in his life he could never think of anywhere to go.
Then he was lying on his face and not moving, his body a massive throbbing pain and his arm tingling with pins and needles, and he was relieved.
It was over.
It had been a long one. Maybe the longest yet.
He slowly started to get up, but saw his dad in the mirror and froze.
His dad was...was...
Wasn't that bad?
Wasn't touching yourself wrong?
Ogilvie didn't want to see any more but he couldn't look away, and when it grew hard under his father's touch he felt so sick he wanted to die.
Why was it doing that? Why was his dad making it do that? That was scary! Was he going to make Ogilvie do that? He didn't want to but even if he didn't how could he stop his dad from doing it?
His dad picked him up and put him in his lap. For one second Ogilvie felt a glimmer of hope, of happiness. It didn't make any sense, but his dad was going to hug him! Maybe he was sorry for hurting Ogilvie? Maybe someone loved him after all?
"Your mother's not home," his father whispered into his ear, with the sour breath he got when he drank the water that wasn't water, "so you'll have to do."
Ogilvie was confused.
What did his parents do that involved all this craziness?
Then came the most excruciating pain he had ever felt. It was so bad his headache felt like a butterfly on his forehead. He started screaming. He never screamed when he was hit. Never.
His father was moving him in his lap, and he was making all these weird noises and Ogilvie was so scared and in so much pain he couldn't stop screaming. His father's fingers were digging so deep into his arms. His father pulled his head back and started kissing him, licking the blood off his lips, and Ogilvie started crying. This couldn't be real. It couldn't. Maybe he deserved to be hit. Maybe he deserved to be beat up. But why would he ever deserve this?
His father started stroking him and Ogilvie had wanted this his whole life, but he knew that it wasn't an expression of love from his dad. It was his dad wanting something from Ogilvie, like always, and of course now of all times he was able to give it. Then his dad started sliding his hand up and down Ogilvie's left side.
Ogilvie knew where he was going next.
Ogilvie put everything he had into stopping him. He stopped screaming, he stopped crying, he stopped feeling the pain and the rough arm wrapped around his chest. He solely existed to stop his father's hand from getting in between his legs.
"C'mon Ogilvie," his dad murmured. "I like it better when you cry."
But he didn't.
Couldn't.
Ogilvie wasn't there anymore.

When he came back to himself he forgot where he was. What had happened. Then all at once his body became one massive blood-smeared ache, with his brain being mercilessly crushed over and over again, his stomach churning and his knees locked together so hard he was starting to panic because they wouldn't move...
He staggered to his feet and looked in the mirror.
There was a scared, bloody, bruised little hedgehog looking back at him, his black eyes wide and staring and empty.
The day rushed through his brain all at once and he started screaming and screaming and breaking everything he could reach, because he was broken, sick and broken, and he was going to break the world because he was tired and angry and frustrated with being laughed at and teased and hurt by people who were supposed to love him.
When everything was broken and his throat was raw he fell to his knees and cried. There was a sick feeling growing inside him, and it scared him very badly. He wanted to let it out but it just got caught on everything in him, from his brain to his spirit, and it wouldn't let him go.
Then he started running.
He ran and ran. He didn't know where he was going. How he would get there. But he couldn't run from the horrible sick blackness spreading inside him.
There was only one way to get rid of that.
He stopped.
Reached through a window with red-dripping hands.
Broke off a piece of glass.
Without hestitation slit his wrists.