Thomas' P.O.V

Apparently Dad doesn't remember he has a son.

I find him passed out on the sofa, bottles of vodka lying empty on the floor. I consider cleaning his mess for him, but decide not to.

If he really wants to pretend I don't exist, I can do that too. He doesn't have a son. So who else is there at home to pick up his alcohol?

I smile smugly as I walk straight past him and up the stairs.

Chandeliers hang above my head. Ornate marble statues stand proud on the landing. Paintings of ancestors I never met watch over me with disappointed eyes.

They ask themselves how such a perfect bloodline created a failure like me.

They are sympathetic for Dad, having to raise this mess all by himself.

They ask each other, "When will he just curl up and die?"

I can't take it. I can't do it.

They laugh at me as I tremble on the polished golden floor, covering my ears with my hands to block out the laughter.

I still hear it. It tears through everything else. A piercing, shrieking cackle that mocks everything about me.

"Dirty little faggot. He's so selfish to like boys. How will his father react when he realises he'll never get a grandchild?"

More laughter.

More tears.

I shake and scream. I feel like I'm about to throw up. The walls are spinning. The paintings' faces are bulging and throbbing, flashing with too many colours. The floor under my feet is wobbling. I can't stand still.

I bend over and let the vomit push its way out my mouth. It splatters on the floor, deafening me.

I try to stand but my legs give out under me. My head slams on the floor; a sickening crunch.

I can't get up. I'm so tired. So, so tired.

Tired of pretending. Tired of making out that everything is okay. Tired of pushing people away, people like Eliza.

I am so worthless. It's no wonder no one wants to be near me.

"His mother was just as bad. Walking out and leaving them both like that. She was the true monster."

I scream despite my raw throat.

"SHE WAS A BETTER PERSON THAN ANYONE ELSE I KNOW!"

And they're silent.

…

My head is aching when I wake up. There's a deep pounding at the back of my skull. I give it a rub and stretch my arms out.

I'm still on the floor but the paintings don't seem to be watching me anymore. I mean, their little ink splodge eyes are still there and they're still trained on me, but they don't seem to be consciously judging me any more.

They aren't alive. They never were. They are just pictures, pictures of people who would be so repulsed if they knew I was related to them.

Dad is not around. I'm guessing he's either passed out downstairs still or at work already. Probably at work, hanging with the upper class men that he pretends to be one of. I bet the rest of them don't spend their evenings lost at the bottom of a bottle of vodka.

I bet the rest of them don't ignore their children. Like he does.

Dad thinks his job means he's admired. I have never once looked up to him for inspiration. That was Mum's job. She was the role model. She was there for me. She loved me.

I wonder if she's happy. Has she got a new family? A real husband? A normal son? Is she living freely now that she's escaped Dad's abuse? Has she forgotten all about her first family? Does she even remember that she once had a son that she was willing to do anything for?

It's probably better for her to forget us. That way she can pretend all those cuts and bruises were just from tripping over in the street, and not from the villain she was married to for too long. She can stop hating herself for leaving me in a house with him, instead of taking me with her.

Maybe she didn't take me because she already had another family. Maybe she didn't want me to meet her new husband. Maybe she did it to protect my heart, but the price she paid for that was risking my physical safety.

I like to think she's happy, even when I can't be. I like to think she got the life she deserved, the one she couldn't have with Dad.

I have the same scars that I bet she does. Hidden scars. The kind you can't see, that lie beneath the surface. Ones that come from a life spent with a person like Dad.

Wherever you are Mum, whatever you're doing, whether you're thinking about me or not, I hope that your hidden scars have faded by now.

I get off the floor and look around me. I will never be able to stop hating this house. It is too big. It could easily accommodate for a family of 12, with space left over. Everything is gold and shining. I never want to touch anything in case I break it.

My bed is a four-poster. I have to sleep in a room that looks fit for a king. A small, twisted part of my mind is glad that I don't have any friends. At least I don't have to be embarrassed by them wanting to come for sleep-overs.

No one knows I live here. Dad has done a good job of erasing my existence from the public. No one would even believe me if I said I was Peter Jefferson's son. So I don't have to worry about people giving me crap because of my famous dad.

Not even the Schuylers know my dad is America's Top Homophobic Asshole. They don't know much about me. All they know is that I'm some kid with daddy issues who is lonely enough to dedicate himself to a homeless shelter.

I want to get out. This house is not my home. My home is with Mum, wherever she is. I cannot be here, in the palace of pain.

I run out of the house, aware of a sting in my legs. I stand on the street, dressed in whatever I wore yesterday, my hair a mess, and roll up the leg of jean.

Covering my calf are cuts. Small red things, crusty with brown scabs. They're shaped like little mouths, smiling at me.

I don't understand. Where did they come from? Why are they here? Why do they look so fresh?

Dad can't have done them. He was practically comatose. No one else has been near me apart from James. And all he did was hold my hand for a second. He didn't have time to slit me like that.

I remember the pain. It's so similar to before. Back when Mum left, when I was a young boy realising he would never see his mother again, I grabbed a knife from the kitchen drawer and pulled it across my wrist again and again. Back and forth.

My blood had covered the floor and I felt faint.

The memory ends when I pass out and Dad takes me to hospital. I was put into a therapy. A little kid who almost killed himself, how tragic. That's all any of the nurses and psychiatrists told me; how sad the situation was and how lucky I was that my loving father had rushed me to hospital in time.

They all thought it was attempted suicide. They thought I was depressed. None of them believed me when I said it was an accident, that I really wasn't trying to die. They told me I was in shock and it would take a while for me to come to terms with what I'd done.

I wasn't in shock. I never believed it because I didn't mean to do it. I didn't want to die.

But this time it can't have been me. I didn't use a knife. I didn't do it. I can't have.

The morning is cold. The air bites at any exposed skin, making the cuts burn even more. Tears spring to my eyes, lingering in the corners.

What is wrong with me?

Those paintings were right. I really am a disappointment.

…

"Thomas!"

The small boy runs out from his room; a rapid blur of curly hair and freckles.

He extends his arms and says, "Lift me up!"

I scoop Philip up, carrying him in my arms back into his room. He giggles all the way with the brightest smile I've ever seen.

The scent of fresh mango body wash fills my nose. I know it well. It's what the shelter gives all the kids for their showers. Along with strawberry shampoo that says on the packet "no knots, no tears." Apparently when it gets in your eyes it doesn't sting and make you cry.

Me and Mum once made plans to test that. We were going to see if it really was tear-free.

We never got to do it. She left in the middle of the night. The plans were for the day after. But of course, there was no day after with Mum.

No day after, no week after, no year after.

I've not seen her since.

I have forgotten what her perfume smelt like; the one with pink roses on the bottle that she used to threaten to spray me with. I have forgotten what colour that beautiful dress was that she used to wear for parties. I have forgotten how it felt when I played with her hair, or when she kissed me and wiped away my tears.

I have forgotten how her voice sounded when she sung me to sleep. I have forgotten if she looked like me or not. I have forgotten the name of the movie we would watch on her birthday every year.

I have forgotten everything about her. I have forgotten my own mum.

I remember some parts. I remember the way her eyes went wide and her jaw slackened and her face paled when Dad approached her. I remember the stutter and desperation as she pleaded with him not to hurt her in front of me:

"Do what you wish with me. But please, let Thomas go upstairs. Don't make him see this."

I remember how I was ushered upstairs by an unloving dad and I remember the hungry grin on his face as he left me in the darkness. I remember the screams that would start from downstairs and how I would cover my ears and sob, pretending that this wasn't real and that Mum was fine and I was safe.

I would curl up, trembling, asking myself why out of all the kids at school, I was the one with the broken family, with the abusive dad. Why did they all get happy families when I was thrown into a locked room every night, forced to listen to my dad beating my mum.

"Thomas, Theo told me you gave her cookies yesterday." Philip says, "Why didn't you bring me any?"

He sticks out his bottom lip, his green eyes big and sad.

"Theo lied to you baby." I say, "She knows I'm not allowed to bring her food."

Philip frowns, "But Theo said."

"Theo lied." I say firmly, smiling at him.

He looks hard at me for a second before breaking into a smile. He laughs, all high and cute, his little cheeks dimpling and his cheeks rosy.

When I imagine myself having a family, I imagine adopting a kid like Philip; innocent and cute, mischievous and full of life.

"Theo's naughty. Aunty Lizzy said that we shouldn't tell lies." He says.

Philip wasn't abandoned as a baby the way Theodosia was. His parents died and he was found by a social worker, wailing in his cot. He was brought here and Eliza has practically adopted him and Theo. She gets them to call her Aunty Lizzy and she spends most of her time with them.

"Do you really think that Lizzy has never lied before?" I ask him.

He nods confidently, "Yes. Aunty Lizzy is very good."

I laugh, "Of course she is."

Philip wraps his arms around me and I can smell the strawberry shampoo. I wonder what he smells when he hugs me; probably nothing good.

Philip is young enough not to have noticed how tired and beaten down I look. He won't be able to tell I haven't changed my clothes or brushed my teeth today. He won't see that only yesterday I was throwing up and hearing voices.

No one will know that part. Not unless I tell them. Which I won't.

But anyone else would notice the bags under my eyes and the hopelessness behind my smile. Anyone else would see that I'm struggling.

I suddenly don't want to be here. I don't want people seeing me so weak. I have to leave.

"I'm sorry Pip but I have to go now." I tell him, looking over my shoulder frantically.

He moans quietly before shifting so I can move.

I start to leave, my heart in my mouth, when I hear a voice shouting my name. I start to panic, feeling sweat coating my palms.

But it's just Philip saying, "Promise to bring me a cookie next time Thomas! I won't tell Theo!"

I manage a small smile and a nod.

I leave the room, certain that I can't stay here any longer. I'm not going home, back to the huge, deafening silence of its halls. Maybe I can find a cafe in town. A small one that normal people go to, not freaks whose dads are rich.

"Thomas!"

No, no, no. Not now. Please not now. I need to go. I need to go before I have a breakdown in the middle of the shelter.

I can feel my breath speeding up and my heart pounding. My eyes fill with tears that I desperately try to blink away and the cage of butterflies is smashed open, releasing them into my stomach.

"Thomas!"

Please just let me go. I don't want an audience for this. Let me at least get to a toilet in a cafe, where I can fall apart in peace. I don't want anyone seeing me like this.

"Thomas I was just trying to say hi!"

Peggy's hand is on my shoulder. She spins me round so that we're facing.

"Woah." She looks shocked before breaking into a smirk, "You look like shit."

I breathe slowly. It's just Peggy. She's not asking me what's wrong. She's not going to find out who my dad is and how he treats me.

She's joking. Not judging. That means I should smile and joke back.

"I'll have you know that this is my new look." I say, "Takes me a long time to achieve it."

Peggy laughs, "Why were you ignoring me?" She asks, "I was shouting and you just sped up. Did I do something?"

"No." I say, "I just didn't hear you."

She frowns, "I'm a pretty loud person. How can you not hear me?"

"I don't know Pegs. I'm deaf." I say.

She smiles uncertainly, "Okay. Well I just wanted to say hi, so hi."

"Hi." I say, putting on a smile.

"And bye." She pulls at her ponytail awkwardly, "Mr Rosario's got me covering Lee's shift because he's still off with the flu. So I've got to get spooning out green slop in the kitchen."

"Sounds fun." I tell her, "Enjoy yourself."

"I will." She laughs briefly, still staring at me.

It makes my skin crawl the way her eyes are fixed so closely on me. She's picking up on everything and she's worrying about me. I can tell that much.

I hope that I imagine the way she turns back and looks at me, fear set in those brown eyes. I hope I imagine the crease of her mouth as it turns to a frown.

Peggy can't be scared. Not because of me. I can't do that to someone. Not someone like her.

Guilt rushes through me; a great wave of it washing away anything else inside me. It flushes all my light away and leaves me standing there; a hollow shell with nothing left but guilt.

My legs go forward, my mind not knowing what I'm doing. I walk and walk straight out of the front door, leaving Eliza shouting behind me, confused and concerned. I walk across the road, not hearing the screech of tyres and the honk of a horn as it swerves to avoid me.

I walk home, not thinking about Dad and whether he'll be home. I let my legs take control.

...

I'm overlooking the river. My legs decided to take me the long way home.

I watch as a grebe dives underwater, the ripples spreading across the surface after it's gone. It reappears a minute later, gulping down a small fish, the water rolling off its oily feathers.

It's so peaceful here. All I can hear are stonechats singing in the undergrowth and all I can smell is damp earth and freshly cut grass. A procession of ants march past my fingers, carrying a leaf together as a team. I bet they never fight. I bet they're a happy little family.

I breathe in and feel nature take its hold over me.

I feel strong here. I feel like I am in charge of my mind and body.

I let my legs dangle off the bridge, my hands playing with the blades of the grass. I let my mind take me back to the last time I was here.

"You know that if you talk to the animals here they will keep your secret forever?"

Mum holds my hand tightly as we both sit down on the edge of the bridge. She throws some seed down to the geese and offers some to me.

I take it and swing my arm to launch it as far as possible. I giggle as the geese hiss at each other, becoming nothing more than a grey mob as they fight for the food.

"They need to learn to share." I tell Mum.

She laughs, "They do. I bet their mummies are not impressed with their manners."

She stands up, pulling me with her.

"Race you to the riverbank." She says, starting to run.

I run too, knowing I'll win. Mum always lets me win.

"You beat me!" She exclaims as we pull up to the bank, panting and sweating.

I grin, watching as she extends her arm and catches a ladybird.

"Mummy! That's mean!" I squeal.

She laughs, opening her palm to show me the red bug.

"It's fine." She says, "See."

It crawls across to me and I hold my arm up high to the stars. The ladybird's delicate wings are exposed from the shell, flapping until it flies away from me.

"Where's it going?" I ask Mum.

"To the stars." She says.

We sit down again, dipping our toes in the cool water.

"What secret would you tell them." She says, "The animals, I mean."

I think about it.

"That I was the one who ate the last cracker." I whisper.

She cracks one of her "I knew it!" looks, before shutting her eyes and smiling.

"What would you tell them Mummy?" I ask.

There's quiet. All I can hear is the chirp of crickets.

"That I wish I could get away from your daddy." She says softly.

In the gentle glow of the moon I can suddenly see a purple bruise on her jaw. It looks painful. I don't know how I missed it before.

"Where would you go?" I ask.

"To the stars." She smiles, pulling me into her arms again.

"Would you take me with you?" I ask, tears springing to my eyes.

"Of course baby." She says, wiping away my tears, "I would never leave you."

…

Except she did. She did leave me. She walked right out that door and never even thought to take me with her. She forgot the promise she made, the words I can still hear echoing in my head.

I let myself believe her. I let myself get hurt. I let my own mum break my heart.

I don't want to be here anymore. Not near this stupid river, with these stupid animals who heard what Mum wished and let her get away with it. Not with all the memories of how happy I used to be compared to how much worse everything is now.

"You let her go!" I scream, "She told you she wanted to leave and you didn't stop her!"

The geese take to the sky in one noisy, honking cloud. The birds around me fall silent. Everything is still.

I sit down, panting, furious, red hot. My chest heaves. I feel a scream make its way up my throat, its slimy fingers force my mouth open and it bursts out.

This place used to be special. It used to be magic. Now all that's here is the stinging leftovers of heartbreak and the aching reminders of what I once had.

"You let her go." I whisper, tears rolling silently, "You let her go."

Maybe it's just me, but I'm sure I hear a soft voice whisper back.

"No Thomas. You let her go."

...

I get home. Dad is waiting at the door for me, an expression on his face that I haven't seen since he scared Mum away.

His fist twitches, a vein bulges on his red face, his teeth grind together.

I realise that I'm scared of dying.