hello people! Thanks for freaking seven reviews already! I know I'm updating really, really fast, just don't get too used to it.

The next few chapters will come out super speedily, but after that you'll probably get three updates a week.

Something like that. When I go back to school in September, it might be a little less. Still, if I'm not able to update at any point I will tell you.

My last story got to forty eight chapters in about 20 months, but that was a little slow, so, expect a bit more. Man. Nostalgia. That was all the way back in 2015.

Anyway, thanks to CarolinePhillips 707, I'll take your tips and make sure I consider them while I'm writing. I think the quality of my stuff will get a little better now because I'm back home. The past two were written on the go, seriously, like in a car.

Alex was perched on a chair at the kitchen table leafing through the New York Times in awkward silence. Mr. Washin- George, had finished with it a few minutes ago and had tossed it to him to look through.

His foster father had now resumed their state of quiet, flicking through his phone and occasionally glancing up at the boy. Despite the kindness the couple had shown to him, Alex was still on his guard around George, after all, every foster home started the same way.

He was fed, bought more clothes than he could use, treated like he was actually a person rather than something that earned $25 for his foster parents. This was usually to throw social services off them, so there was no doubt they were a 'nice, kind' family.

Then, usually around the two week point, he'd get the first punch. Normally he'd either mouthed off, stolen something from them (usually food, he'd learnt to prepare for starvation in advance) or just happened to be in the house when they got pissed.

There had been the Harveys. His first ever foster home, he'd stayed with them for four months. That was the first time he had known what true hunger felt like.

They had very rarely hit him. The couple were old and to be honest, in a fight, Alex could have blown on that old man and he would have collapsed. Still, this was before Alex had learned you had to steal to survive. His stomach still emptied itself when it was even half full, an unwelcome souvenir from his thirteenth year. He'd been fed in a month what most people would eat in a week.

Next were the Johnsons. He was with them for five months, and in those five months he went to the ER for the first time. Those five months were the first time he had been hit, he still had scars on his back from Mr Johnson's belt.

There had been the Akemanns, the Harpers and then, Katherine.

She was the first foster parent he had actually liked. An old lady in her seventies, her wit was as sharp as Alex's and made up for her lack in eyesight. He stayed with her for six months and got used to the feeling of a full stomach.

He didn't have any scars from those six months either. Unfortunately, being in her seventies and having some already existing condition, she had gotten sick. Alex didn't know what it had been, he only knew that she had been ruled unfit to care for him and he was moved on. He didn't see her again.

The homes blurred into each other after that, untill the Paces. Mr Pace and his adult son, Richard. He was there for seven months and he had visited the ER so many times in those months, he knew the doctors and nurses in Brownsville general hospital by name.

He could still remember the whistle of Mr. paces belt as it flashed through the air. The cold burn that intensified to a crescendo of pure agony when it had hit him, again and again and again.

The feelings of an empty stomach and hollow ribs became commonplace.

He could remember the cracked plaster of the kitchen walls and how cold the tiles were against his cheek. He remembered the dent in the cheap plaster that his head had made when it was smashed against it, just two days ago when Mr Pace had found out he was leaving.

The bruises he wore daily to school couldn't go unnoticed for long and although Pace was never even questioned, Alex had been moved for his own 'safety'.

Ha, as if the next family wouldn't be the same as all of then had been.

Alex snapped out of his day dream (if it could be called that) and looked up, realising George had been staring at him. He knew he probably looked like shit and his face had almost certainly paled at the memories of his last three years.

It wasn't his face George was staring at however. It was his neck. This sudden attention was uncomfortable to say the least and he blanched when George suddenly stood up, an unreadable expression etched onto his face.

"Alex, what are those on your neck?"

Shit, shit. He knows. He definitely knows. You're in for it now. No one wants a kid who's all broken and tainted. If your lucky he'll only call the foster people, maybe you should run. You've planned the escape routes...

Alex stood up so quickly his chair fell back onto the floor with a loud clatter. He froze for a momet, in front of an equally still Washington before he bolted to the front door, passing a panic stricken looking Martha in the hallway.

He grabbed the handle of the front door and pushed it open with so much force it rebounded and crashed into his shoulder, making him stumble and wince, but he refused to let that hinder him. He was at the end of the drive way about to reach the street when he heard his name yelled from the porch behind him.

Whipping around he saw a terrified looking Martha clutching her dressing gown around her in complete confusion and a panic-stricken George, who was breathing heavily and was evidently the one who had yelled after him.

You need to run. They can't know about Pace, just find the nearest bus station. Run.

Alex was about to do just that when he felt a tight grip on his shoulder and a presence behind him. The hand was hurting him, the bruise beneath still sore.

Ha, you're done for...

He turned his head slowly, petrified and stared at Washington behind him. His foster father calmly led him back towards the front door, Alex couldn't even be bothered to resist. He just hoped they would get over with quick, or that he would black out before he could feel any of the real pain.

He whimpered as George led him to the lounge and sat him down on the sofa. Curling in on himself he braced for the inevitable beating he was about to endure.

A minute later though, he felt nothing. Were they toying with him? Luring him into a false sense of security before they struck?

He managed to look up and saw his foster parents crouched in front of him. Martha looked almost tearful and quiet concern was evident in George's eyes.

"Alex," he started, looking directly into Alex's eyes, "we will never hit you, we will never hurt you. We don't know what happened in your last homes, but that is behind you know. You live with us, and we will never raise a hand agianst you, or anything else for that matter."

Alex flinched slightly when George's voice rose slightly at the word never, but he looked into his eyes anyway and nodded slowly.

Bullshit.

Ignoring the voice he took deep breaths and counted in his head like George had for him. One, two, three, four, five, one, two, three, four, five.

Eventually he had calmed himself to a slightly more normal state and George spoke again.

"I asked you about your throat because I saw bruises there, Alexander."

Shit, he's using your full name. He must be mad.

"I'm not mad, I just want to help you."

Martha drew in a breath, realising the gravity of the situation. She slowly reached her hand up to Alex's back and rubbed soothing circles there, not speaking but acting so much like his mother, Alex teared up a little.

"Alex, you don't need to tell us what happened, but can we at least put something on them. They look painful."

"O-okay" Alex whispered, shifting on the couch so that he was no longer curled into a ball.

George nodded and hurried off upstairs while Martha continued to rub circles into his back, whispering soothingly to him. He felt almost as though he woukd drift off can't any moment. He hadn't slept peacefully in a while and eaten properly in even longer. The hunger gnawed at his stomach like restless beast, expecting to be fed.

A moment later George returned with a pot of some sort of ointment, a roll of bandages and some plasters.

Alex stared at those last items in confusion. You didn't bandage a bruise... did you?

"For your hands Alex." George explained and Alex nodded, understanding.

Ever so slowly he stretched his left arm out to George, who pushed his hoodie back ever so slightly and dabbled a thick layer of ointment onto the bruises around his wrists. Alex hissed as the cream stung his raw skin.

"Sorry," murmured George.

"S'kay..." responded Alex.

Next he rubbed ointment onto Alex's swollen knuckles and bandaged them gently, wrapping the cloth around his hand and securing in with the plasters he had brought down.

He repeated this process with the other hand, Alex wincing when he grazed a particularly sensitive bruise.

George apologized hastily and payed extra attention to that hand. When he was done he handed Alex the tub of ointment.

"Would you like to do your neck yourself? I don't want to hurt you."

Alex nodded gratefully and stood up. He walked across to the door, on his way to the mirror in the bathroom.

He stopped. "Thank you, George, thank you Martha."

His voice was strained and hoarse but the look in his eyes told the couple he was sincere.

They smiled together. Martha's smile widened slightly, and she shook her head in a dismissive manner.

"Alex, we'll always care for you. We're your foster parents."

Alex nodded and curled his mouth upwards slightly before leaving the lounge and walking upstairs to the bathroom.

In front of the mirror he pulled of his hoodie, locking the door so no one could come in and see the other bruises on his arms.

Hesitantly, he rubbed the ointment into the bruises on his throat. They were sensitive and stung painfully, but the cream was cold and soothing.

Sighing, he thought of the bruises that marred his his back, shins, shoulders, chest, stomach and upper arms.

He would deal with those later.

Alex rinsed his face with the coldest water he could and pulled his hoodie back on, careful not to rub away the ointment. He stowed the ointment back in the cupboard and walked back through his room and down the stairs.

As he neared the kitchen he heard muttered voices conversing, he caught his name amongst the whispers.

He stopped to listen, just outside the kitchen door.

"But George, what if he's hurt even worse than this? We don't know what injuries he's got under that hoodie, there must a reason he even sleeps with it on!"

"I understand Martha," it was George's voice now, "but taking him to the hospital seems a bit far, especially considering that we haven't seen any other injuries on the boy, and I highly doubt he's going to let us see any more if he has them."

He heard a deep sigh and the sound of fabric rustling, he assumed the couple had embraced.

Embarrassed to have been listening at the door he retreated a few paces before walking loudly down the last few stairs and opening the door to the kitchen.

Martha and George looked up as he entered and broke apart.

"All good?" Asked George, eyes caring and mouth stretched into a warm smile.

Alex smiled back and nodded.

"Listen... thanks for the ointment and bandages and stuff. You didn't have to, I'm sorry about trying to run off and waking you so early in the morning."

Martha laughed softly and shook her head. Her hair was not her pinned back in her usual work style and her many curls bounced charmingly.

"Alex, it's alright, in fact, when I woke up I realised I hadn't set my alarm last night, so really, you stopped me from over sleeping!"

George smiled to himself. This wasn't strictly true. Trust Martha to say something so sweet to calm this boy. He was so lucky to have her...

"Anyway? Who's hungry?"

George laughed and nodded at his wife, "I think everyone could do with some coffee and something to eat."

Alex had gone stock still. They were just going to give him food? But he hadn't even done any chores yet! He had eaten yesterday anyway, and he had woken them up at an ungodly hour! They were just going to feed him?

"Do you drink coffee?"

Martha had flicked the kettle on and lined up three mugs. She was spooning instant coffee in to each one while George dripped cooking oil onto a pan.

"I- uh, yeah. Do- do you need me to help or anything?" Alex stuttered, not exactly sure what to do.

"You can just read the paper at the table if you'd like, we won't be very long." Marta was now pouring milk into each mug and stirring a spoonful of sugar into one.

"I- I... Are you sure?"

Martha turned around to him and pressed a mug of coffee into his hands. "If you're so eager to help, you can make dinner with me tonight, okay?"

She smiled and turned back to the stove, elbowing George playfully in the ribs when she needed to grab something from the drawer.

Alex sunk down into his chair and sipped at his coffee, the steam heating his face pleasantly.

He scanned through the articles in the paper. He grinned internally at the latest fuck up of the president on Twitter (he seriously didn't have a PR team to stop this crap?) and frowned at the news another bomb had fallen in Baghdad.

The paper nowadays tended to depress him, so he shut it and instead and took to staring out the sliding glass door that led to the garden.

It was much more natural looking than he had expected. That was probably a weird way to phrase it, what he meant was that the bushes weren't elegantly trimmed into perfect little spheres and the grass was long and lush, rather than fake looking and perfect.

A few willow trees at the very back of the garden filtered the sunrise into tiny flecks of gold onto the lawn and an old swing hung on one of the old, gnarled branches. Alex wondered vaguely who used it.

He was snapped out of his musings as a large steaming plate was placed in front of him.

Breakfast; scrambled eggs, toast, fried tomatoes.

His eyes widened at the meal, in his wildest dreams he had hoped for some buttered toast, never did he expected something like this.

Martha and George were next to him, already tucking in. His eyes darted their faces, wondering if he was allowed to eat yet.

They were talking amongst themselves and hadn't noticed his expression, so he waited, not believing he would actually be allowed to eat this.

Ten minutes later Martha and George were finishing the last of their meals and Alex hadn't even started yet.

His stomach was burning painfully, screaming at him to eat. He knew he couldn't though, the burning in his stomach was nothing to the punch he could expect from George if he acted out of line.

Logically, he knew the food was for him, of course it was, but his fears were the most illogical part of him. If there was even a chance eating would get him punished, he wouldn't take that chance.

Martha looked up at him stopped, taking in his nervous expression and full plate.

"Alex, you aren't hungry?"

George looked up too and frowned.

"Alex, you should eat if you're hungry. We made that for you."

Alex gulped and nodded, picking up some tomato on his fork. He glanced at Martha and George, who were watching him. George nodded and he began to eat.

Immediately his instinct took over and he started to eat quicker, the survival instinct in him yelling at him to get down as much as he could. He had to exert all of his will power to slow down and chew carefully and controlled.

Martha and George were still watching him and glanced at each other with a look that so clearly said pity.

Instantly, like the memories were a freezing wave breaking over him, he remembered the crying off the young children in his group home two years ago and the skinny arms of the kids he had lived with. He thought of the boy he shared a room with being beaten for sneaking food after dark from the kitchen because his meal had been stolen by an older teen.

Alex gagged and forced himself to swallow. He put his cutlery down and stopped eating, taking a deep breath.

He pushed his nearly untouched plate away from him and shook his head.

"I-I'm sorry... I can't."

George nodded sympathetically and patted his shoulder reassuringly. He flinched.

"If you're not hungry you can go back up to your room for now, we'll have lunch later so you can eat something then."

Alex nodded silently, feeling bile rise in his throat. He gasped and covered his mouth.

You're seriously gonna puke like a baby? Really? The last time that happened wa-

But Alex was not thinking about that. He murmured and apology and bolted up the stairs, not soaring a glance to either of his foster parents. He collapsed in front of the toilet in his bathroom and began retching.

Eventually his stomach emptied everything he had eaten he dry heaved raggedly for a moment before rinsing out his mouth and staring at his reflection in the mirror.

The images bombarded him as he tried and failed to block out the memories.

Twelve tiny white pills.

The slump of his shoulders against the bed.

The hoarse scream of his room mate as the bottom of the door hit his shoulder.

The feeling of being hoisted onto someone's back and pulled downstairs.

White.

Alex sank down against the door of the bathroom, unable to breath. Before he passed out he heard his name called from downstairs and footsteps on the landing.

The door of the bathroom was pushed open and someone yelled in alarm as he was pushed, unconscious onto the cold tiles.