It's all in the past
Chapter 4: Last resort
A/N: Here I am, making up yet another character's past. This time it's Greg. Two more chapters to go after this one, unless you guys want the pasts of Brass, the Daves, and other people.
Greg sighed. It was his turn but he wasn't sure how to begin. His eyes sought of those of his best friend, asking for assurance, for the strength to begin. He touched the scar on his wrist, which was a cruel reminder of those few weeks so long ago. He took a deep breath. He was ready.
"When I was five I entered the foster care system. My dad had gotten drunk one night and killed my mom, then he killed himself. The cops wasted no time getting me into the system but they didn't really care how I was doing as long as I was out of their way.
"I don't remember much before I was seven. It's probably for the best really. At seven-years-old I was in my third foster home. I actually liked the Bertier family at first. Mr. and Mrs. Bertier fussed over 'the poor fragile boy' as she called me, and their son, a fifteen-year- old named Bryan, treated me like an instant younger brother. He was a science geek and always brought me into his room so I could watch his experiments. He's the guy who got me into science and analyzing data.
"I was there a little over a year when Bryan started acting strangely. He was out really late, always in his room when he was home, and stopped doing experiments altogether. None of us expected to come home from the science fair and find him dead on the couch. He'd OD'd on heroine.
"They blamed me. I can still see Mrs. Bertier's cold, accusing eyes boaring into mine in my nightmares. She just looked at me and told me that this was all my fault. Bryan was a good boy until I came into their lives. It was all my fault that he was dead. He loved me like a younger brother and what did I do? I get him so addicted to drugs that he overdoses to his death.
"Mr. Bertier wasn't as bad at first. I actually thought that maybe he didn't blame me but soon realized that he was just as bad as his wife, maybe worse. At least she didn't lock me in the basement cellar for the night while he called the ambulance and went to the hospital with is son and wife.
"When he finally let me out I was starving and dehydrated. He let me have a small glass of water and a slice of butter bread but that was it. He told me now that his son was dead, and since it was my fault, that I would have to start earning my keep around the house. If I couldn't do that then I'd be put back into the cellar. So I tried my hardest to obey them and do the chores they wanted me to, I honestly did, but I was only eight. There was only so much work I could handle doing before I absolutely couldn't do anymore. I ended up in the cellar most nights, more often than not without supper. It was cold and damp down there. It was dark too, pitch black. I caught an awful cold but even that didn't make them lessen my workload. They were careful about how much work they gave me as I still had to attend school so no one would be suspicious. They gave me just enough so I was too exhausted to run away but not enough so that I would fall asleep during school. I wouldn't have even if they gave me more work. I fell asleep once, at the beginning of their torture, and Mr. Bertier whipped me until I couldn't walk. It took all weekend for me to regain enough strength to walk again.
"I had had enough. I was tired of waiting for someone to come rescue me or for someone at school to notice my exhaustion or weight-loss because no one ever did. Mrs. Bertier to ordered me slice some vegetables for her stir-fry that she was cooking and that's when the idea came to me. She never even noticed that I didn't return her kitchen knife when I set the sliced vegetables on the counter. I brought it up to my room with me and, after I washed it, I held it up to my wrist. I was shaking so badly I wasn't sure if I could do it or not but I forced myself to calm down. I couldn't undergo the torment anymore. I needed a way out and this was the only was I could think of. The only way I knew how to slit my wrists was that Bryan had let me watch a movie where a character slit her wrists.
"I did it," Greg rolled up one sleeve so his friends could see the scar that ran down his wrist. He fixed his gaze on the floor, not wanting to see the disapproval in their eyes. He couldn't handle seeing their disappointment. A hand covered his and he looked up to meet Catherine's motherly look of concern. He smiled sadly at her, relieved that she wasn't disappointed in him and continued. "I'm not sure what made me want to live. All of a sudden I realized that killing myself was not the answer. The Bertier's hadn't touched Bryan's room so his phone was still there. If I could make it to his room I could call an ambulance.
"Once in Bryan's room I did call 911. I was crying and I guess with all the blood loss I didn't realize that I was telling the operator everything. I was getting scared. The room was spinning and things were getting darker until I blacked out.
"I woke up in the hospital. A social worker, the same one who'd placed me with the Bertier's, was asleep in the chair next to my bed. I guess she felt guilty over the whole thing even though she couldn't have known the Bertier's would snap like they had. I eventually got placed with another family, a nice one this time, and the social worker made regular visits to see me to make sure I was okay. I had to visit a psychiatrist for the first few months after I was released but he declared that I was sane.
"I stayed with that family until I turned eighteen and went to university. I made sure to get a single room every year so my nightmares wouldn't disturb a sleeping roommate. After a while the nightmares lessened. They're still there but not as often as before. I also get jumpy if someone else turns off the lights without warning me. It brings back the memories of Mr. Beriter closing the cellar doors and shutting me in the dark."
The faces of his co-workers were shocked. They couldn't believe someone would be that cruel that an innocent child, though they all knew better. Greg looked over to his best friend, who smiled supportively at him then looked over at Catherine, his adopted mother. He had grown to think of her as a motherly figure after about a year of working with her. Her eyes told him that she wanted to kill the Bertiers for hurting him. Greg knew she was also thinking of her daughter. Yes, Catherine was definitely the motherly figure in his life.
A/N: Here I am, making up yet another character's past. This time it's Greg. Two more chapters to go after this one, unless you guys want the pasts of Brass, the Daves, and other people.
Greg sighed. It was his turn but he wasn't sure how to begin. His eyes sought of those of his best friend, asking for assurance, for the strength to begin. He touched the scar on his wrist, which was a cruel reminder of those few weeks so long ago. He took a deep breath. He was ready.
"When I was five I entered the foster care system. My dad had gotten drunk one night and killed my mom, then he killed himself. The cops wasted no time getting me into the system but they didn't really care how I was doing as long as I was out of their way.
"I don't remember much before I was seven. It's probably for the best really. At seven-years-old I was in my third foster home. I actually liked the Bertier family at first. Mr. and Mrs. Bertier fussed over 'the poor fragile boy' as she called me, and their son, a fifteen-year- old named Bryan, treated me like an instant younger brother. He was a science geek and always brought me into his room so I could watch his experiments. He's the guy who got me into science and analyzing data.
"I was there a little over a year when Bryan started acting strangely. He was out really late, always in his room when he was home, and stopped doing experiments altogether. None of us expected to come home from the science fair and find him dead on the couch. He'd OD'd on heroine.
"They blamed me. I can still see Mrs. Bertier's cold, accusing eyes boaring into mine in my nightmares. She just looked at me and told me that this was all my fault. Bryan was a good boy until I came into their lives. It was all my fault that he was dead. He loved me like a younger brother and what did I do? I get him so addicted to drugs that he overdoses to his death.
"Mr. Bertier wasn't as bad at first. I actually thought that maybe he didn't blame me but soon realized that he was just as bad as his wife, maybe worse. At least she didn't lock me in the basement cellar for the night while he called the ambulance and went to the hospital with is son and wife.
"When he finally let me out I was starving and dehydrated. He let me have a small glass of water and a slice of butter bread but that was it. He told me now that his son was dead, and since it was my fault, that I would have to start earning my keep around the house. If I couldn't do that then I'd be put back into the cellar. So I tried my hardest to obey them and do the chores they wanted me to, I honestly did, but I was only eight. There was only so much work I could handle doing before I absolutely couldn't do anymore. I ended up in the cellar most nights, more often than not without supper. It was cold and damp down there. It was dark too, pitch black. I caught an awful cold but even that didn't make them lessen my workload. They were careful about how much work they gave me as I still had to attend school so no one would be suspicious. They gave me just enough so I was too exhausted to run away but not enough so that I would fall asleep during school. I wouldn't have even if they gave me more work. I fell asleep once, at the beginning of their torture, and Mr. Bertier whipped me until I couldn't walk. It took all weekend for me to regain enough strength to walk again.
"I had had enough. I was tired of waiting for someone to come rescue me or for someone at school to notice my exhaustion or weight-loss because no one ever did. Mrs. Bertier to ordered me slice some vegetables for her stir-fry that she was cooking and that's when the idea came to me. She never even noticed that I didn't return her kitchen knife when I set the sliced vegetables on the counter. I brought it up to my room with me and, after I washed it, I held it up to my wrist. I was shaking so badly I wasn't sure if I could do it or not but I forced myself to calm down. I couldn't undergo the torment anymore. I needed a way out and this was the only was I could think of. The only way I knew how to slit my wrists was that Bryan had let me watch a movie where a character slit her wrists.
"I did it," Greg rolled up one sleeve so his friends could see the scar that ran down his wrist. He fixed his gaze on the floor, not wanting to see the disapproval in their eyes. He couldn't handle seeing their disappointment. A hand covered his and he looked up to meet Catherine's motherly look of concern. He smiled sadly at her, relieved that she wasn't disappointed in him and continued. "I'm not sure what made me want to live. All of a sudden I realized that killing myself was not the answer. The Bertier's hadn't touched Bryan's room so his phone was still there. If I could make it to his room I could call an ambulance.
"Once in Bryan's room I did call 911. I was crying and I guess with all the blood loss I didn't realize that I was telling the operator everything. I was getting scared. The room was spinning and things were getting darker until I blacked out.
"I woke up in the hospital. A social worker, the same one who'd placed me with the Bertier's, was asleep in the chair next to my bed. I guess she felt guilty over the whole thing even though she couldn't have known the Bertier's would snap like they had. I eventually got placed with another family, a nice one this time, and the social worker made regular visits to see me to make sure I was okay. I had to visit a psychiatrist for the first few months after I was released but he declared that I was sane.
"I stayed with that family until I turned eighteen and went to university. I made sure to get a single room every year so my nightmares wouldn't disturb a sleeping roommate. After a while the nightmares lessened. They're still there but not as often as before. I also get jumpy if someone else turns off the lights without warning me. It brings back the memories of Mr. Beriter closing the cellar doors and shutting me in the dark."
The faces of his co-workers were shocked. They couldn't believe someone would be that cruel that an innocent child, though they all knew better. Greg looked over to his best friend, who smiled supportively at him then looked over at Catherine, his adopted mother. He had grown to think of her as a motherly figure after about a year of working with her. Her eyes told him that she wanted to kill the Bertiers for hurting him. Greg knew she was also thinking of her daughter. Yes, Catherine was definitely the motherly figure in his life.