CHAPTER 2

More of a filler chapter, but still necessary. These are actually a lot of fun to write. Don't expect updates every day like this, I usually and update every week, but I was bored today so I wrote. This actually got a pretty good response, so I was more encouraged to write it. So thank you to everyone who has read, reviewed, faved and followed, you're all amazing.

The RV bounced along and Danny started telling us about his life.

Ever since he could remember, he was in that room. It had always been his room. A couple of times a day, his Handler would come in and feed him, or take him out for exercise on a treadmill, or "correct" Danny's behavior (which I think meant hitting him, Danny had some bad scars that I could see on his neck). Some other days, Danny would be taken out of his room and taken into a lab and he would train his powers while the scientists would take notes. Other times they would strap him down and hurt him. They dissected him. Repeatedly.

He was supposed to be a weapon. A weapon they could completely control. He was a weapon in development, and we just rescued him from his 'testing phase'.

I've never been more disgusted by anything. Who would do that? You spend so much time making a human/ghost hybrid and then treat that hybrid like yesterday's trash. It's not right. Danny even said some of the "names" his handlers had given him. They were words like "Freak", "Ghost", "Moron", and more. He'd been treated terribly, whether he knew it or not.

It may have been normal for him. He was shocked to hear that it was wrong for one person to hurt anyone. He was confused by basic things. This boy had been brainwashed into thinking that his imprisonment was completely natural and okay.

How could someone do this to a child? He looked forteen. If that. He was tiny. Barely past five feet tall.

His growth had probably been stunted by his captivity. He was skittish and quiet. He only spoke when spoken to, or had a question. When Dad closed the car door earlier, he jumped and looked scared. Loud noises scared him. He still didn't trust us. We rescued him, but he was still reserved and looked at us suspiciously whenever we did something in front of him. The psychologist in me pointed signs to a generalized anxiety disorder, depression, possible PTSD, or acute stress. His height suggests that he doesn't grow very fast. That could either be a result of genetics or malnutrition, abuse, or Down's syndrome. I doubt the last one, he seems to have all brain functions and he's more thin and spindly than thick and stout.

What had they done to him in there, and for how long? Did he have a life before he was there and does he just not remember, or was he actually born there?

All signs pointed to prolonged abuse and neglect.

Eventually, Danny fell asleep. He just curled himself up in his seat and closed his eyes. The only way you could tell he was even asleep was his closed eyes and steady breathing.

Danny began breathing harshly and erratically. Tears leaked out of his eyes and he started mumbling and shouting "No, no, please, stop! I'll be good! Please stop!"

I shook him awake and he scrambled away from me, his breathing heavy. His pupils were dilated in fear. He soon realized where he was and calmed down, slowing his breath and closing his eyes.

"Sorry." he mumbled out.

"No, Danny. It's fine, I'm sorry."

He looked at me like I'd grown a second head. I smiled at him and helped him off of the floor and back into his seat. He sighed and stared out the window, staying silent for the rest of the ride.

By the time the RV pulled into our driveway we were all exhausted. Danny was nervously glancing around the house, checking for any threats or familiarity in the warm red bricks. Dad hopped up the back steps and shoved the key in the lock. The door swung open and we stepped inside. Danny hung back by the door, suddenly interested in his shoes.

"Danny?"

His head snapped up to look at Mom

"Hm?"

"What are you doing? Come on in."
He shuffled inside, his head hanging.

"Is something wrong, Danny?"

He looked back up at Mom and responded in a quiet voice.

"What am I doing here?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, why did you take me with you?"

"Because, they weren't treating you right. You deserve better than what you were getting there."

He looked down, a confused expression on his face.

"How were they supposed to treat me?"

"They were supposed to treat you like a person. You'd never even been outside before last night, had you?"

"...No, but…"

"But what?"

"I want to go back to my room." he said, barely above a whisper.

So that was it. His room, if you could even call it that, was home. He was scared to leave the only thing he'd ever known. There had only been a blanket in that room, and he brought it with him. He was clenching it in his hand. He misses the people who treated him so badly and wants to go back. Stockholm syndrome. It's common in kidnapping victims. The victims sympathize, empathize, have general positive feelings, and even defend their captors. Because, to the subconscious, someone you like isn't a threat, so the subconscious makes you like them. It's to protect the ego and save from further mental trauma. Freudian theory. I remember reading a statistic that said about 27% of hostage situation victims show signs of Stockholm syndrome. He's emotionally attached to that place. It's understandable. If he wasn't born in the facility or doesn't have any memories from the outside, then that hellhole is home to him. He feels comfortable there.

"Sorry, Danny, but you can't go back. It's not safe for you there. We'll give you a new room. It'll be comfier than your old one, alright?"

Danny looked unsure before he looked down at his feet and nodded. Mom smiled and continued.

"Now, Jazz will show you to your room, then you can come back downstairs and we can eat."

Danny blinked at her

"But we already ate."

"Danny, that was hours ago."

"And?"

Mom stared at him, a disbelieving look on her face.

"Danny, how often did they feed you back at the facility?"

"Once a day. Why?"

Our jaws collectively dropped and we gasped.

"Danny, people need to eat three times a day to stay healthy."

Danny looked at her, confused and worried.

"Don't worry. we'll get you adjusted to normal life in no time, just go with Jazz, now."

Danny nodded and turned to me, ready to go. I smiled at him and motioned for him to follow.

"This way, Danny." He walked after me, shuffling his feet. I walked up the stairs and opened the door to the guest room we never used. We stepped inside.

The walls were a bright baby blue, the occasional off white door to the closet or bathroom. The bed in the center of the room was big and squishy. The blue comforter ready to wrap around anyone and lull them to sleep. A clock on the nightstand flashed ' 1:00 PM' in bright red numbers.

The little brother the room was painted for died in the hospital. They never let us see his body.

But now the room would be used for another child. One who really needs a good home.