A/N: Please, read the end notes. Don't skip over it. Special shout outs to:

Ahab Keat
pollypocket911
TheLadyPendragon
lil joker
treesaresnazzy
tearsxsolitude
KensieTheCat

I know I have many other faithful reviewers, and I'm sorry I can't list you all. As it is, my notes on this chapter are longer than the story itself. So thank you to everyone who has reviewed, or added this story.


"So why keep going if it doesn't get any easier? Why keep tryin' if I'm always gonna be a fucked up disaster?" Jack asked desperately, voice filled with despair. "Why bother trying?"

Bobby scoffed. "As opposed to what? Curling up and dying? You had to run away from home for that? Shit, if you were gonna just give up, you shouldda just stayed home and gave your parents the satisfaction of finishin' the fuckin' job," He said scornfully.

"Fuck you! You don't know shit about me, or my parents!" Jack said angrily, tears running down his face again. "You don't know what they fuckin' did to me! Don't sit there and tell me I shouldda fuckin' stayed!"

"Hey, does it look like I curled up and died, kid? Like I just gave up 'cause I'd had it rough? I make good money, love my family, and go outta my way to help little shits like you. In my spare time, I enjoy bare-knuckle boxing with pimps and drug dealers who target kids like you.

"See, the difference between us? I fuckin' fought to live. I shouldda died there in the kitchen with my brother and sister. But I fought it. I shouldda died in the hospital, but I didn't. I fuckin' fought like hell to get better. I could have keeled over and given up at any point during the three years before Ma adopted me. But I fought tooth and fuckin' nail to survive."

"Why? What was the point?" Jack spat. "So you could 'save the world'? That help you sleep at night, saving pathetic losers like me? Tryin' to save me to make you feel better about what happened to you?"

Bobby gave Jack a cold smile. "Hey, if you don't like my reasons for takin' you half way 'cross the fuckin' country, riskin' gettin' arrested for kidnappin', you can sit your ass here until somebody else comes along, then fuck your way to Detroit. Ain't no skin off my nose, kid. There's hundreds of kids out there like you. Except they wanna live. They wanna be saved. So if you wanna sit here and try to piss me off so much I kick you to the fuckin' curb, save us both some time, and just walk away. Then you can bitch and moan and whine about how nobody saved you, and you just had to jump off the bridge. You just had to OD on that coke in your bag. You just had to slit your wrists to fuckin' ribbons. You just had to step in front of that semi. You just had to kick the chair out from under the rope.

"You can sit here and whine about how horrible your life is. How tough it was. Or you can suck up whatever little bit of fuckin' pride you have left -which can't be all that much if you're sellin' your ass for drugs- and let me fuckin' help you.

"As far as why I fought? Three reasons. One: My brother died to give me a chance to live. It'd be kinda shitty of me to just die, wouldn't it? Two: I survived all that shit, while it was happenin', and I'm supposed to off myself now that it's over? Like hell.

"And thirdly: I'll be fuckin' damned if I'm gonna let that bastard win. I kill myself, my dad wins. He'll laugh at me for the rest of eternity while we're burnin' in hell. He tries to kill me, I survive, so I kill myself? Doesn't make a whole hell of a lotta sense, does it?

"Oh, and consider this, fucktard. You keep whinin' 'bout how horrible your life is. You think I don't know how fuckin' tough life can get? My dad used to pass me around like a party favor during his drug orgies. See these scars?" Bobby asked, pulling his sleeves up, then his pant legs. "These are from when he fuckin' tied Billy and me to the hot water pipe using fuckin' barb wire. You think I don't know what fuckin' pain is? These scars on my hand? From when my pimp nailed me to the fuckin' floor 'cause I was tryin' to crawl away while he fucked me with a baseball bat. So I know what fuckin' pain is, understand? You wanna whine to someone about how you can't go on 'cause 'life is tough', go find somebody else. 'Cause I've bee there. I survived it then, and I kept on surviving.

"I got the night terrors. Waking up screaming 'cause I thought I was back with my old man. I got the anxiety attacks, where someone would raise their voice, or move too quick. I got the PTSD shit that made me lash out without thinkin' or rememberin' what happened. I did the drugs to help me forget. I got so wasted I couldn't remember my own name, much less what happened to me. I've been there. I've done it. I've lived through it."

"And I didn't say that the nightmares don't come less often. Didn't say the anxiety attacks didn't hit me quite as often. I still get 'em, and they ain't any easier to deal with just because they don't happen as much. But you can move on. You can make a life for yourself. There's a whole fuckin' world out there, kid. And you know what? It's actually a pretty damn nice world. Now that you're out... you can do anything you wanna do.

"So. You gonna curl up and die, and miss out on all the shit you haven't done yet? Skip out before the good part? Or you gonna let me fuckin' help you?"


End notes: Yes, this is the end. The last chapter in this particular story. I'm going to start work on the sequel this weekend. I hope you enjoyed reading it. I hope it encouraged you to take a stand, and do something pro-active about child abuse. I hope it helped you understand the permanent physical, emotional and mental scars abuse can leave on a child.

And yes, I hope reading this made you sick. I hope it made you angry. The problem with child abuse is nobody wants to get involved if it's not them or their child. But this isn't just the problem of those it affects. It's everyone's problem. It's everyone's responsibility to help if they know, or suspect a child is being abused. Not just the teachers. Not just the aunts, the uncles, the grandparents, or the friends. It's the guy on the street who sees the little boy scrounging for food in his dumpster. It's the woman across the hall who hears the little girl screaming in pain. It's the kid in school, who sees the cuts and bruises on their classmates.

Five children a day will die from child abuse, or neglect. Three of those children will be under the age of four.

36% of women in jail were victims of abuse as children. Seventeen percent of men in prison report childhood abuse. 67% of people in drug or alcohol rehabilitation programs were abused as children.

And these are just the ones who tell about the abuse later on in life. How many adults don't tell what happened to them, much less how many children? These numbers are just the tip of a very large, ugly iceberg.

1.27 million children are physically or sexually abused or seriously neglected every year that we know about. The ones that we save, who tell about it later in life, or that we find out about a little to late. Some researchers say that the actual number is probably closer to three million children.

1.27 million children. To put that in perspective, think about this:

That's the same amount of people who live in the cities of Dallas, TX, and San Diego, CA. It's more than the population of San Jose, CA.

Please, if you are being abused, or if you suspect that a child is being abused -whether or not you are personally involved with the child or not- please, for the love of God, report it.

There are probably several abuse tip lines for your area. If you can't find one, you can call 1-800-4-ACHILD, which is the national tip line. If the abuse is life threatening, or ongoing, forget the tip line and just call 911.

I know my end note was longer than the story (or at least pretty damn close) and I apologize, but it needed to be said. So thank you for your patience, and your time.

You guys have been great. See you this weekend with the sequel!