Chapter One

So often, the monster under the bed isn't scary. When you turn on the light or open the closet door, the scary monster turns out to be a chair at a weird angle, or the sweater you put on the end of your bed. The real monsters are the people you're supposed to trust. It could be a sibling, a classmate, or even a parent. Brady wasn't afraid of monsters. When he watched horror films, he would laugh at the stupidity of the characters. He knew what took me a long time to understand.

The real monsters are people.

Running. In his mind, Brady was always running. His head was full of demons, chasing him and waiting for him to slip up or make a mistake. The rain streaked down the small window in the dark room, matching his mood. A loud boom and a flash of light made him press back against the wall and squeeze his eyes closed, willing the storm to stop. Ever since he could remember, he hated loud, sudden noises. He wished he could remember back to a time when things were happy, but he hadn't seen the point in trying to keep those memories when he probably would never see those days again. He tried to remember back to before things had gone dark, but it was so hard when everything seemed so hopeless. He knew he didn't belong here, but maybe that was just wishful thinking.

He woke up early the next morning and as quietly as he could, crept out of the house. It was a crisp morning, cool for Florida, and it was almost like the rain had cleansed the world and left it new. He took a deep breath, and hoped that today wouldn't be too bad. When he reached the school, there were only a few cars in the parking lot. He wandered to the playground where a few kids were playing basketball, and some others were standing on the sidelines, watching. He wandered over, keeping his distance. Even so, as he drew closer, one of the kids blocked his path.

"This is a private game," he said, arms folded.

"Sorry," Brady said, ducking his head and turning to leave.

"The freak section is over there," the kid said, gesturing to the far bleachers, where Brady saw one of the few people in this school that wasn't a total jerk, the special needs kid named Kevin. Kevin was nice enough, and people gave him about as hard a time of it as they gave Brady, but at least Kevin could get away from it at home. He'd seen Kevin's parents come to the school more than once to complain about the bullying culture.

Today, it seemed, their tormentors were in the mood for some fun. Brady was halfway to the bleachers when WHAM, the basketball hit him squarely in the middle of his back. He wasn't expecting it, and it nearly made him face plant. He picked up the basketball, dazed, and looked back toward the court. Several of the kids watched him, ready for a fight, but he just tossed it back, letting it lightly bounce a few times before it rolled to a stop just inside the boundary line. Conversation, which died down to see what he would do, bubbled back up.

"You should wash it off," one of the kids called out to the players on the court. "You wouldn't want to catch something." He gritted his teeth and kept walking. He sat down about five feet from Kevin.

"Hi Brady," Kevin said. "Is your back okay? I bet it hurt." Brady shrugged, and noted a red mark going down Kevin's neck toward his shoulder. "They got me too. But it's okay. My parents are transf-" he paused, frustrated, trying to think of the word. "Transferring me to a different school."
Brady wasn't surprised. This was no place for someone like Kevin.

He abandoned the idea of hanging out outside, and went to his classroom. It was Friday, and the class was doing their annual charity project – a food drive this year. He made himself busy stacking cans as around him, kids trickled in, forming groups he wasn't a part of. He kept his head down and hoped that no one noticed him.

"What are you doing?" Someone asked, and he drew in a sharp breath, not looking up. But it was just one popular girl talking to her friend who was taking a selfie with the stacked cans. The day stretched on as they all did, but it was better here than at home, he reminded himself. He was halfway through a math problem when the bell rang for lunch. He trailed the rest of the class to the lunchroom, and the thinly veiled popularity contest. He'd never wanted to be popular, since he'd never had anything in common with these other kids who made his life miserable, but even the losers were above him in the pecking order. But he didn't talk to anyone or try to make friends anyway. How would he explain his life?

The rest of the day went more or less the way his days always went. When the bell rang, he made his way back to his classroom. His eyes were on the floor, and as he rounded the corner, he smacked into someone. He closed his eyes tightly as he felt the elbow shove him against the row of lockers. One of the locks hit his ribs, and he let out a hiss of pain. He didn't know who pushed him, and honestly it didn't matter. Taunting laughter rang in his ears as the group kept walking. Reluctantly, he pushed himself up and made his way to his classroom. He slid into his usual seat, in the middle row by the wall, just as the second bell rang. At least, he thought, his homework would be on time. He wasn't sure why he should care so much about it, though. It wasn't like anyone else did. Half the time, no one even noticed if he was in class or not. He'd heard somewhere that high school was supposed to be the best four years of your life, but he couldn't imagine what kind of sadistic person thought that up. When the last bell finally rang, he looked at the clock, automatically working out how long it would take him to get home so that he'd be on time.

He had just enough time to put his backpack in his room before his dad pulled him down the hall and back outside. He was shoved into the back of the dirty, dusty van, and over time, he'd learned how to brace himself so that the ride wasn't quite so bumpy. Even so, tonight every jolt sent searing pain across his side. When they got to the hotel, the woman guided him roughly inside a room. He stood off to the side and out of the way until she was ready for him. She pushed him to the bathroom and shoved a washcloth, soap and shampoo at him.

"Wash," she said, turning on the water. He got in obediently and scrubbed himself clean, forcing himself not to make a sound when he moved in a way that shot pain across his side. He knew better than to call attention to himself, and it wasn't like he wasn't used to pain. When he was done, she handed him two little white pills.

"I don't-" he started to say, but she slapped him sharply before he could get the words out.

"You'll do what you're told," she hissed. He closed his eyes and took them. The hot numbness flowing through his body was almost a welcome relief. In a daze, he pulled his clothes back on and went out to the room to wait.