Mother. Father. Will you even notice when I'm gone? Will you cry when you realize the truth about your precious little girl? Or will you just shun every thought of me and replace it with anger and embarrassment? I decided not to write you a letter saying goodbye. I thought, under the circumstances, it wasn't necessary, or appropriate. Your slow, steady road to realization will be a better one than the quick plummet I could offer you. Mother. Father. You're not ready to learn yet.

Their muffled voices in the next room prompted me to stay but a minute longer. As I sat on my bed, looking around one last time at the things I was leaving behind, my parents were in their room blissfully unaware of my plans. Without a doubt, their ignorance was bliss for all three of us.

"I can't help but think we made a mistake," I heard my father say. Already I knew, they were talking about me.

"Charles, we wouldn't have known," my mother replied to him. "We couldn't have."

"I just think that maybe we should have thought about it a little longer, Charlotte, before we made the decision. But it was so long ago…"

"Exactly. And there's no changing it now. It's in the past, dear."

"But still. I mean, why didn't I notice something? Why wasn't I more …vigilant?"

"Please, dear, stop blaming yourself for this. There was no way you could have known. It's not your fault."

"But I'm her father. I'm supposed to protect her."

"You did all you could."

Protect me, dad? It's so strange to hear you say those words, considering that never once in my life have you been a protector to me. You were always too busy with your business and your parties. So oblivious…

My father sighed heavily. "It just sickens me," he said with a horrible touch of spite that made my nose cringe. "I think about the last thirteen years…we let that thing in our house. We let it roam wherever it wanted, we let it play with our child, we let it mind her every single day. For fuck's sake, we even let it sleep in her bed! Thirteen years!"

"Charles, calm down…"

I was overcome with a mixture of negative feelings. Anger stood at the front, just wishing it could scream and holler at the man in the next room. Don't call Knox an 'it', don't treat him like an animal, and stop jumping to your stupid conclusions! The other part of me was terrified.

When I left, would I ever be able to come back, after hearing all of this?

I touched the tender wound on my forehead, stitched up and half-healed but still sensitive. This was a sick reminder of my father's quick-to-judge temper. To me, this scar was an accident. To him, it was assault. It was about time that both of my parents learned that I was no longer a child but an adult, with opinions of my own and a lifestyle of my own, and plenty of other things they probably wouldn't agree with. I ran my fingers along the scar once more before bending down to grab my backpack. I slung it over my shoulder, sneakers on and items packed, ready to start acting like an adult for once in my life.

I climbed out of my bedroom window, knowing full well that if I left, I would not be welcomed home. Not ever.

XxxX

At the age of ten, my parents had decided that I needed some type of 'culturing' in my system. And so, like most moderately wealthy citizens who don't feel like spending time with their children, they schedule private piano lessons for me. I hated them with a passion. It wasn't the instrument itself that I hated. As a matter of fact, I loved the sound and feel of the keys against my fingers and the smell of sheet music. I loved everything about playing the piano, except following instructions.

After each lesson, the withered old woman who dictated every single move I made would leave in a rather bitter mood. One more scale unsuccessful, one more meaningless little ditty learned, one restless child driving her utterly insane—it was a weekly deal.

The piano lessons came and went, but the instrument stayed in the house. At age fifteen, I knew enough about the keys to play simple melodies by ear and to even compose a few of my own. None of them were impressive or perfect, but the new-age quality of a slow, melancholy piece was enough of an accomplishment for me to die happily.

As I tested out a few keys with intent to experiment with chords and harmonies, I got this feeling. You know that eerie little sensation you get when someone is standing behind you? Even if you can't hear them or see their shadow, it's like the air gets a bit thicker.

My fingers hovered gingerly over the cold, ivory keys as I smiled to myself calmly.

"Sit down with me." I said in a voice that was barely above a whisper. I didn't need to see my hitmonchan to know that it was him. Like all people you grow accustomed to being around, he had his own atmosphere and his own scent.

Knox sat down beside me on the wooden bench, looking curiously at the piano and then up at me. That look in his eyes—innocent, naïve wonderment—made me think he was waiting for something. What did he expect, a serenade?

I smiled warmly at my Pokémon friend. "Wanna learn?" I asked him sweetly, to which Knox eagerly nodded with a little murmur of "hm". That was the funny thing about Pokémon. The language barrier wasn't so much understanding as it was phonetics. My hitmonchan could understand every word that came out of my mouth, and it was obvious. I liked to think that Pokémon vocabulary was as vast as that of every human they meet, but they just can't get the sounds to come out.

Then again, when you're with a Pokémon for so long, words aren't always necessary.

"Okay," I beamed, grabbing Knox's wrist. "You're gonna have to take your gloves off first, though."

They say a hitmonchan's fists move faster than the human eye can detect. From this personal experience, I can vouch that this rumor is one-hundred-and-ten percent truth. Before I could even grab ahold of Knox's gloved thumb, he pulled his arms back and topped onto the floor in a panic, eyes wide and his teeth gritted. I didn't know whether to be afraid or ashamed of myself.

"I-I'm so sorry." I stammered, holding my shivering hands up to my chest defensively as I awaited my punishment. I clenched my eyes shut tightly and bowed my head with dignity and respect for the creature in front of me. "I didn't know. Please, Knox, I didn't mean to pry. If it hurts, if they can't come off, just tell me and I'll never try to—"

I was silenced; not by a sound or an injury but by a gentle touch. At first, I didn't recognize this new flesh. It was calloused and rough, unlike my mother's hands, but too kind to be my father. I opened my eyes with a little bit of hesitation, finding that my hitmonchan had found his way off the floor and onto the bench again.

One glove lay abandoned on the ground whilst the other was currently being dropped beside it. Knox had laid three fingers over my mouth in a code of silence as he stared at me, not angrily or sadly but with a sort of cheerful indifference. He murmured a few low whispers of 'mon' and 'chan', which in my translation was something like: "it doesn't hurt."

Few trainers of fighting-type Pokémon know the true mystery of whether or not a hitmonchan evolves with its gloves attached or not. I can't answer that, because Knox came to me as he was. But as I looked at his calloused, bandaged hands, I realized why he would keep them hidden. You see, after about three million lightning-fast punches, it puts a little strain on the knuckles. His four claw-like nails were broken all the way to the quick at points. His fingers were thick, strained, and chapped from so much physical abuse. My hands were hurting just looking at them. But these hands weren't deformed and they weren't mangled; they were roughened by hard work and unending fortitude.

I reached for Knox's hand and held it fearlessly in mine. "They look fine to me," I said to him soothingly as I placed his fingers onto the piano keys and pressed down.

"This one here, this is a high E…now go down to the flat…good, good! Now play these three in a row and I'll play them on the lower octave…"

A week later, the piano was moved out of the house.

Mother and Father never told me why.