So I didn't take the time to look through and edit this chapter. So mistakes are probably apparent. I hope you enjoy!

"There are very few people who are going to look into the mirror and say, 'That person I see is a savage monster;' instead, they make up some construction that justifies what they do."
Noam Chomsky

Of Monsters and Men

Morty couldn't remember what his mother looked like. He only remembered that she was the person who kept everything from falling apart. He remembered her warmth and happiness and love. One day she was there, the next she was gone forever.

The day of the funeral his father was a mess. Screaming and breaking whatever he could get his hands on. It didn't matter if it was the dishes or toys. It was all up for grabs. Morty and Summer hid in his sister's bedroom closet until their father calmed himself. Summer hugged him and whispered nonsense promises that made him feel better. Her presence a beacon in the oncoming storm.

He didn't know what was coming back then. If he did, he would have run. With or without his sister.

Morty vaguely remembered his sister. He pictured her with long, curly, red hair. He remembered how his sister hated her hair. How his mother would spend mornings straightening it to make his sister feel somewhat better. Morty recalled how his mother had loved the red curls so much that she couldn't bring herself to dye it. Only straighten it. Summer always wore beautiful sundresses with a bright bow tied in her hair. Morty couldn't really bring any of the dresses into his memory. Save for the bright cerulean dress that was embroidered with kittens. Maybe he remembered it because of how frequently she would wear it.

Summer loved that dress. She would wear it whenever she was given the opportunity. It was always worn with her huge kitten bow tied neatly in her hair. The bow was a slightly darker blue than the dress and it had two orange cats stitched on each loop. The cats had big white smiles, displaying perfectly set teeth. Her socks were either the white stockings with rainbow colored outlines of butterflies, or matching blue with lighter paw-prints. Summer liked to wear her blue sneakers, decorated with the silhouettes of the orange, smiling cats. They had come with that ridiculously cute bow.

Morty had gotten shoes from the same designer. His were the parallel of Summer's. They were also white sneakers, but they had orange dinosaurs. Each foot had a dinosaur head with rounded teeth pretending to eat the shoe from the toes. They made Morty happy.

But today there was no room for joy. They were going to their mother's funeral. Summer wore a black dress, her long hair curly without their mother to straighten it, and shiny, black mary janes. Morty was wearing his black suit. He didn't have fancy shoes, so he had to wear his dinosaur sneakers. Jerry eventually calmed down and ushered them out of the closet, then into the car. Summer never let go of his hand.

Morty didn't remember anything that happened during the funeral. He was too young to understand death, so the memory quickly slipped from his mind. He would learn what death was on his own, and it would be uniquely tragic. They would go home that evening, and everything in Morty's fragile world would be forever changed.

The next morning, Morty's dad would call Grandma to take them away. But Grandma didn't have the resources to take care of two young children. She was financially stable, but she was just too old to offer to take both of them. So Summer went away and Morty stayed. He only found solace in the parting, years later, when he looked back and realized it could have been her. She could have been in the same hell he was forced to endure. He was content that he saved Summer from this pain.

Dad loaded Summers bag into Grandma's van, and Morty cried the entire time. He would cling to Summer throughout the ordeal, begging her not to leave him. He had just lost his mother, he had thought that he couldn't survive losing Summer too. Morty would soon be surprised with what he could survive. His father had to literally pry him loose from his sister so that they could leave.

If he knew that this was the last time he would see his beloved sister, he would have held on. He would have fought with everything he had. Morty watched the van drive away, his sister waving goodbye from the back seat. He could tell that Summer was barely holding back her own tears. She stayed strong for him.

The next day Morty's father had bought a furnished home a few miles away. Morty knew his father was rich. His dad would always brag about his job and offer to come into school, to tell the students about his success in corporate marketing. He came up with slogans for all the mainstream companies throughout the country. Morty used to idolize his dad, the man who's commercials popped up in between his cartoons. Morty couldn't believe how ignorant he was.

About a week later the house was deemed 'move in ready', and Jerry took his son to the house. On the way there they stopped at the market for Jerry to pick up some bread, a block of cheddar cheese, and a gallon of milk. Morty sat in the back seat, eyeing the two pairs of day clothes and two pairs of pajamas that sat adjacent to his car seat. Morty wondered where he was being taken, but remained silent during the short drive. Things seemed off to the five year old, but he was smart enough not to voice his concerns. One of these oddities was how Jerry didn't bother to buckle him into his booster seat. Their parents never forgot to buckle them in, and this minuscule action grated on Morty's nerves.

They arrived at the house, and he slid from the back seat after his father opened his door. Morty took the exterior of the house in. It was about half the size of the two-story home he grew up in, the paneling a dark gray. The door was a mahogany that matched the windowsills, the roof a coal color. As Jerry fumbled with the new keys at the door, Morty bent over the flowerbed to get a better look. The flowers were a pretty purple. He wasn't very knowledgeable in flowers like his sister, so he couldn't even begin to imagine what they were.

The door finally squealed as it was pushed backwards. Jerry stepped into the house, Morty following close behind. Without a word Jerry moved to a shiny, black fridge and dropped the white plastic bag of food on the bottom shelf, along with the gallon of milk. Jerry straightened himself out, his spine giving an audible pop.

Morty's father turned to him, an exasperated look on his face. "Morty," he jumped at the break in the silence, "You're going to stay here for a while, while daddy tries to figure out what he's supposed to do." Jerry sighed. "It'll be like a sleepover, just all by yourself." Jerry did not sound very enthusiastic, and that put Morty on edge.

Jerry sidestepped Morty, heading back out to the car. He retrieved Morty's clothes and gently set them down on the sidewalk. Morty lingered in the doorway, unsure of what he was supposed to be doing. His father moved to stand in front of him, looking down, emotionless.

"do you have any questions," he asked in a bored voice.

Of course Morty had questions, so many questions. But he was scared to vocalize them. Morty's speech impediment became more severe with stress, and he was afraid if he were to speak, all that would come out would be a jumbled mess of stutters. Morty shook his head.

"Just stay inside Morty, and remember, do not go outside. No matter what, or you'll be in big trouble mister." Jerry warned seriously. Without a second glance, Jerry got into the car, and left him standing alone on the sidewalk.

Over the next few weeks, Morty fell into his own routine. He would wake up in his bed, turn off his starry lamp, and then go to the bathroom. After brushing his teeth, he would get dressed in one of his three pairs of day clothes. They had long since become dirty and smelled of filth, but Morty was five, he had didn't have the mental capabilities needed to know how to wash clothes.

Morty would move on to the kitchen, looking for something to eat. Once a week his father would bring a loaf of bread, a block of cheese and milk. Sometimes it was a gallon, other times it was a small carton. He learned to ration food for fear of running out, like the first week. Morty tried to limit himself to a slice of cheese and bread for breakfast, with a large glass of tap water. For lunch he would only drink water, it seemed to help curb the pangs of hunger. It didn't really do much. For dinner, another slice of bread and cheese, along with a heavy glass of milk. He waited all day for that milk, anticipating the feeling of a substantial heaviness weighing in on his stomach.

After his breakfast he would usually go to sleep. He learned that sleeping kept the hunger at bay, and he had no toys to occupy himself with. When he woke up he would eat, then repeat the process until seven. When evening came he would take a bath, albeit one without soap, then get changed into his pajamas. Morty would finally brush his teeth and go to bed. Falling asleep to the blue stars that lit up his room.

The loneliness hurt more than the hunger. Sometimes, when it became too much, he would lay in bed crying. Morty would wish for his mother to come back, to fix all the wrongs that plagued his existence. He would sit awake, waiting for his mama to come rushing though the door, and make everything better. To go home and eat all he wanted, to have his sister back, to have his dad love him again. The wishes never came true, and with each unanswered prayer, Morty became more independent. He became more self-reliant. Because if God couldn't help him, he'd have to help himself.

Time passed and one day Morty looked at himself in the bathroom's full-body mirror. His ribs were visible through his skin, his hips protruding from his sides. He had become painfully thin. Morty decided he would have to leave the house for food today. Morty decided to wait until the middle of the night to venture out. Less people would see him that way.

When nightfall came he left the house for the first time in weeks. You could never understand the simple gift of grass and the moon and the wind, until its ripped away. Morty admired the night sky for a few minutes, before the pangs of hunger forced him to the neighbor's garbage. His hands ghosted over the lid, as he nervously watched the house for signs that the inhabitants would suddenly wake up and come after him.

When nothing happened, he gingerly lifted the lid open. He tore the bag open when the ties refused to cooperate. He ate in silence.

A week passed and Morty learned what to expect from his neighbors. The neighbor to the right was a big eater. He was also very wasteful. Half eaten boxes of pizza and other forms of fast-food always filled the can. Morty always visited this house first. The neighbor on the left he visited second. The garbage usually has random tidbits of healthy foods. Partially eaten salads and fruit castoffs were most common. He would sit and suck on the cores and skins of the fruit; his body screaming for vitamins. The last garbage can he visited was the neighbor's, across the road. Morty guesses it was an old woman, because most of the contents in the can were inedible. She had cats, and the litter destroyed what little the woman threw away.

Morty continued his nightly rituals, until he contacted food poisoning from eating expired food. He had curled up next to the toilet, heaving so hard, he had felt like he was going to die from the pain. It passed after a few days. His father was dropping off his weekly rations, when he came across the deathly ill Morty. Jerry had looked down on his violently ill son; who was sobbing in a puddle of stomach acid. He walked right back out of the house and drove away.

Morty learned another lesson that day. That he could only count on himself to stay alive. No adult was going to help him, no wishes were going to make it better, and God was busy helping people who prayed harder than he did. After he recovered from his sickness, Morty knew that he had to find a safer source of food. The food he had been relying on was too old to be trusted, a restaurant dumpster would be safer.

The next night he had slipped his dinosaur sneakers on and ventured down the sidewalk. The streetlamps lit his path as he began his quest for food. He eyed each house, observing the familiar exteriors and neat yards. A strange homeless man had stumbled from out of an alley, alcohol strong on his person. Morty ran away as the man shouted obscenities at his retreating form.

Morty finally found an Italian restaurant at the edge of town. Above the sliding class doors was a neon sign, it read ABRUSSO'S in cursive lettering. He moved to the large glass windows to peek inside. Standing on his tiptoes he was able to see a luxurious interior, fancy people enjoying their nights out. He envied them, but he would never admit it. Maybe his sin of envy was the reason God wouldn't help him. Maybe he was too greedy. There were a lot of 'maybes'. Morty made his way to the dark green dumpsters out back, he had to stand on some cinder blocks to gain leverage on the heavy lid.

Morty dug through the trash, finding hot and lukewarm bags of pasta. He ate spaghetti, and scraps of meatball subs. Savoring each handful of the first warm food he'd had in weeks. After he was finished he sat by the dumpster for a while. Something inside his chest stirred. Morty looked at the dumpster and then to his mucked up hands. He felt something no child should ever experience. Shame.

Morty continued to visit the dumpster every few days. He would visit it every night, but it was four miles there, and four miles back. He would often find Styrofoam boxes in the dumpster, he would use them to carry leftovers home to save for the next day. Morty had made some friends along the way. Not human friends, animals.

Some local animals had become attracted to him, after Morty began to share his spoils with them. There was a stray dog, two raccoons, and a large brown and white rat. He spent a good chunk of time naming them. He named the raccoons Orion and Dipper, after the constellations. The dog he named Rocket, and the rat was deemed Moony. Each was named after the night sky. His mother had loved the night sky. She taught him everything she knew. He didn't know why she loved it so much, but his father sometimes whispered beneath his breath about a man named Rick.

When the reality of his situation became overwhelming he would lean against the dumpster and sob. People that left the restaurant never stopped to comfort him. He secretly wished that they would. Morty had already learned people couldn't be counted on. During these episodes Rocket would let him hug him. Morty's arms would rap around his greasy scruff, and Rocket would lick the tears away. When he was sad the raccoons would let Morty hold them in his lap. They were funny and pulled at his hair with their tiny hands. He didn't mind. Even Moony allowed him to cup him in his palms after awhile. Morty would watch the rat with fascination, as it ate bits of food while sitting upright. Morty loved them all.

Morty learned to become careful when he went on his nighttime escapades. Strange men in cars would stop and offer him candy to come with them. Sometimes he was tempted, but ran away nonetheless. The only people that payed attention to him were the ones that wanted to hurt him.

The weather became cold, and Morty could see his breath in the night. He didn't have a coat, all he had were the clothes that he was given the day Jerry dropped him off. Yesterday when he went to the dumpster, the food was embedded with ice shards. The flavor was so vile, he only managed a few bites before his stomach protested. Orion and Dipper hadn't shown up in a few days, and that really worried Morty. A week ago Rocket dissapeared. Morty had later spotted him, clean and sporting a nice red collar. He found a home and Morty knew he had to let go. Rocket was given a chance at a better life without him. Morty didn't have the heart to ruin that.

As he trotted up to the dumpster, he spotted Moony, curled up, sleeping peacefully. Morty smiled and went to pick his friend up. His finger wound around the rat, when he finally felt the cold stiffness in the rat's body. The five-year old desperately tried to wake the rat, but to no avail. Moony had died. He was alone again. Morty cried until he couldn't cry anymore, his heart tearing itself to shreds. When his mother died he didn't understand death. But now he did. And he realized she was never coming back. Just like his rat Moony.

He walked home with Moony cradled to his chest. Silent tears running down his face. Morty waited for morning on the front steps, thanking Moony for all the love he had given. It was broad daylight when he buried Moony in the front yard. Some people stopped and stared, but he was beyond the point of caring who saw him. All that mattered was his only remaining friend.

That afternoon Morty was jolted out of sleep from the front door slamming hard enough to shake the foundation. His father knew. What happened next was gone from his memory. The small bits he remembered were of his father screaming at him and then locking him in the dark basement. Morty would have ran if he knew that the basement would become his own personal hell. He would have ran like he did from the strangers that stalked him in the night. This hell would become his home for almost four years.

The basement was dark and Morty had to feel for the toilet and sink when he had to go to the bathroom. His father visited every day now. Jerry stopped in to throw a can down the steps before leaving. Turning the light on wasn't allowed, so Morty felt along the floor for his daily can of food. Jerry said that people food was too expensive, so Morty ate either cat food or dog food. Morty liked the dog food better, the meat was often dripping with gravy that hid the flavor, and the cans were much bigger that the cat food tins. His hands finally brushed cool metal.

A can of cat food. Morty sighed in resignation. He quickly pulled the tab open and dug into his meal with his dirty fingers. Tasting the chewy bits of substitute fish and the faint dirt that caked his hands. He finished and curled up on his blanket, the only thing protecting him from the cold cement floor. A ray of lone sunlight peeked through the basement window, and Morty took this chance to admire his dinosaur sneakers.

When things got especially bad, Morty would stare at the orange cartoons. They made him happy, and helped to anchor him to the outside world. When Morty began to think things could get better, they always became a whole lot worse.

It started when Jerry invited a strange man to the basement. Morty watched a brief exchange of money, and then the door shut then thing went to hell. The strange man made his way down the stairs and then had beaten Morty unconscious. He didn't stop when Morty screamed, or begged, or cried. There was no mercy. Morty learned mercy was an illusion, something that people picked and chose to give to others they wanted something from. Morty also learned that his father was renting him out to people that wanted to vent their frustrations. Or sexual perversions. But that was later.

When he had healed, his father would find another 'client' who wanted to take their anger out on a little kid. Soon they brought whips and car batteries to inflict more pain. His screams egged them on, so when he stopped screaming, they'd find a new instrument of torture. His father didn't watch or interfere; as long as these people didn't damage him permanently, or kill him, they were left to do as they pleased.

Time passed at a snail's pace, in Morty's brutal existence. Jerry came down into the basement one day, Morty was too weak to lift his head, so he stared at his father's shoes and blue jeans. This was a new development, Jerry never visited him. Not ever.

Jerry moved to the corner of the room and hooked up a hose to the facet of the sink. From there he hosed Morty down with the freezing water. Morty stayed silent during the shower. The cold water rinsing away the dirt and blood. Morty couldn't look at his father, the man who had betrayed him so hurtfully. The man he had loved and looked up to. So Morty watched the dirty water flow down a drain that was melded into the concrete in the center of the room. The bath ended too soon. Jerry turning off the lights and leaving him in the unforgiving darkness. It bothered him that Jerry had so suddenly changed their unspoken routine. It made him uneasy. He was rightfully so.

That night a man came to the basement. There was no beating this time, but the things that were done to him, haunted Morty. These things made him feel dirty. The things that he was forced to do destroyed his soul. He learned to pray for the beatings. They were better than those things.

He knew when these things were going to happen, because Jerry would come to hose him off beforehand. Morty liked the baths, but they never seemed to make him feel clean anymore. He didn't think anything would make him feel clean anymore. Morty would soon develop an aversion to water. Water meant the impending agony that the men would inflict upon his body, and his young mind. Morty's trepidation was cemented when a particularly angry man had tried to drown him in the toilet after Morty had bit his privates. Jerry heard the commotion and kicked the man out. Morty had looked to his father one final time for some sort of sympathy. Jerry had screamed at him and threatened to have someone knock his teeth out with a hammer if he did anything like that again.

Morty wasn't scared of his father anymore. He knew his father was a coward. If his father was in his position, Morty didn't doubt he would fold under the pressure and kill himself. Jerry didn't have the balls to hurt Morty himself, so he got other people to do it for him. He was too ashamed to spend time in Morty's presence. Too weak to move on after Beth's death. Jerry disgusted Morty more than he disgusted himself.

Morty's breaking point came after another night of rape. The pain in his bottom was intense and he needed something to anchor his emotions to the ground. He crawled to the corner of the basement to look at his dinosaur sneakers. He slowly lifted them to the light, like a prized piece of jewelry. His heart sunk when the light hit his shoes. Blood had coated his cartoon dinosaurs, leaving their happy faces forever obscured.

It hurt so much. More than anything he experienced in his young life. More than the deaths, the hunger, his family's collapse, the beatings, the rape. It symbolized the loss of his innocence. They were the only things that existed before his life was ripped away. For the final time in his young life, he cried. His mind lost in the ignorance of animalistic desire.

A man came down to the basement today. It was odd; people didn't come during the day. Morty didn't like odd. Odd was when he was abandoned, odd was the day before the rapes began. He closed his eyes for a minute, listening to the footsteps get closer. When they stopped he looked up at the man. He was older, his hair sticking out in every which way. He sported a long white trench coat and light brown slacks. His shoes a shiny black. His shirt was a light blue. Morty liked the color, it reminded him of the sky.

The man looked down at him with half lidded eyes. Morty couldn't determine his intentions. That bothered him, people's intentions were usually painted on their expressions. This man's face was blank. It wasn't going to be sexual, because Jerry hadn't come down to hose him off today. Morty watched the man wearily as he took a flask from his pocket and popped the lid open. The man took a swig from the flask, not taking his eyes off Morty. Morty knew bad things happened when people drank, so he pushed himself deeper into the corner.

The man tilted his head, before putting his hands in his pockets. "Damn, Jerry fucked you up. Didn't thiOOUUGHHnk he'd have the nuts to do something like this," he gestured to Morty's general area. "We got a lot of work to do kid. Places to be, things to doOOUUGHH. Ya know, the works." He moved much faster than Morty thought was possible. Quickly scooping him up and moving towards the stairs. "But first we gotta fix you up Morty, real goOOUUGHHod Morty. Grandpa's gonna make ya all better, okay?" He looked down at the child in his arms. Much too small to be a nine-year old. More like six.

Morty nodded mutely. He didn't know what was happening, and his isolation had vastly distorted his sense of language, but he nodded anyways. His life would change that day. This time for the better.

A huge thanks to MaddySan5926, Jimelda and Syb3rStrife for commenting! Review and like for more! Suggestions are always welcome!