A/N: Why is it that I can't write anything but angst for my favorite characters? Ah, but we only hurt the ones we love, yanno. This will probably be somewhat unsatisfactory, especially if you've read anything by Star, Victory Thru Tears, lycanthrope, or BennyP. I'm just not as good as they are, and my style is different.

That said, do enjoy the story, and please R&R.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

"The Unforgiven"

a mighty ducks fanfic by SchizoAuthoress

Fulton wakes up in near-total darkness, a faint sliver of light touching his face as he lies on the floor. He groans, recognizing the place as the tiny linen closet across from his parents' bedroom. The first few times, he pounded on the door and rattled the knob, begging to be let out; now, he simply curls up on his mostly unhurt left side and checks the extent of the damage inflicted upon his body.

His chest hurts, his back hurts. Fulton's fingers ghost over the sore flesh of the latter, and he winces at even this slight contact. The bruise there will obviously be worse. Fulton feels his eyes stinging with unshed tears and, by sheer stubborness and will, forces them /not/ to fall. He comforts himself with the fact that it is Tuesday and his mom will let him out to go to school tomorrow. School, despite being, as far as Fulton can tell, completely pointless, means freedom. It means a few hours away from his father, and for that the boy is thankful.

*-*-*-*

It is the last time that he ever sees his heroin-addict mother, or his abusive alcoholic trucker father. Mrs. Bishop, the playground supervisor, pats Fulton on the back when they exchange greetings that morning. Mrs. Bishop sees Fulton's look of pain and feels the boy flinch away from the casual, gentle touch.

She takes him to the nurse, who lifts up his shirt to examine him and gasps in shock at what she sees. The principal, the vice principal, and a counselor are brought in. At first, Fulton is silent, unwilling to let anyone know what his father does lest they think him weak.

But finally, reluctantly, he admits after an hour and a half, "Dad knocks me around sometimes."

"When?" Mr. Gladstone, the counselor, asks intently.

Fulton shrugs. "When he feels like it, I guess."

"What does he do?"

"He hits me," Fulton says, trying to close the circle of conversation. When he sees that this doesn't satisfy them, he goes into a litany of offenses, fully intending to shock them as payback for making him talk. "Slaps me, whips me with a belt, pulls at my hair, pushes me, smacks me with some of his tools, punches me, kicks me, locks me in the closet."

It works. Mrs. Bishop has her mouth hanging open in surprise, and the nurse is almost in tears from commiseration.

"One summer," Fulton informs them with perfect seriousness, "I was in the closet for a week. Mom let me out to go to the bathroom, but she only could when he was passed-out drunk."

*-*-*-*

They use that anecdote among numerous articles of evidence toward abuse and neglect in the hearing to revoke the Reeds' parental rights to Fulton. Again, the shock-value of the tale works well, and the judge declares Fulton Garrett Reed a ward of the state until the age of eighteen.

This is how Fulton ends up standing outside of a foster home in St. Paul, a black backpack full of clothes slung over one shoulder and his beloved hockey stick in his hand. A social worker hovers nearby, espousing the virtues of the charitable couple who has agreed to take in such a poor, scared, abused little boy. They think that Fulton will mesh easily with the other foster children they have taken in.

They have no idea what they are in for.

*-*-*-*

A mere two months after arriving at the Gilmore household--a time which Fulton filled with shrieking matches, sulking, random destruction, and extremely violent tendecies expressed toward the other kids in the house--Fulton was relocated. He stayed with the Marshes for five months, with the McLeans for four, the Wilsons for six months, and Nick Escobar only put up with him for five /days/. That's his record, and he's proud of it.

Almost a year and a half of being a ward of the state began to take its toll. Fulton no longer spoke unless spoken to by an adult, or someone significantly older than himself. His sulking became prolonged and deep. He no longer destroyed the property of his foster parents, but only because he learned that such behavior will only lead to packing your clothes back up and going to /another/ foster home. Vandalism and graffiti in black Sharpie marked his trail in the towns he frequented. Wherever Fulton ended up, he quickly established himself as one of the toughest and scariest kids in the school, even though he usually skipped class to hang out with wasters from the local junior high.

*-*-*-*

A skeletally thin hand waves in front of Fulton's dark, fathomless gaze, scattering the sweet, hazy smoke. Fulton does not blink. The hoarse, insistent voice of a girl calls in an annoying sing-song, "Ki-id, hey, /ki/-id!"

"Don' bother him," Another voice reprimands.

Ignoring them both, Fulton takes another hit. The second voice, which belongs to an older redheaded boy, continues obliviously,

"He's cool. Just leave him alone." The boy accepts the joint that Fulton offers and falls silent as well.

The girl looks incredelous. "Kid, how old are you? Huh? Twelve, thirteen?"

Fulton stares back at her. "Ten," he answers simply.

"/Leave/ him /alone,/ Haley." The redhead insists again, and Haley listens this time.

To be continued...