WARNINGS: This story briefly mentions abuse of a child and infant, attempted rape (though not detailed), and other sensitive subjects. Please do not read if these offend you!

"It was always his fault when someone left, and he was always sure to remember it. When his father left his mother, the woman went to go for an abortion, to rid herself of the thing that her husband had given her. The only thing that stopped her was her father, who begged to get to know his fifth grandchild. He never would - the man died before the poor boy's birth. The mother was so distraught that, when her child was born, she almost abadoned him in the hospital. The only thing that stopped her was her children, who would not forget their little brother. It continued on in this fashion for the rest of his infanthood: if someone ever left, his mother would try to take it out on her child. Thankfully, no one died during that time, no one left during that time, and the boy wasn't hurt. He made it into the stages of toddler-hood with a few mere scrapes and bruises, at least until he turned three. That was the year that he nearly was taken, and not just through abduction - the poor child was almost raped by a new neighbor. The man left a few weeks after his attempt, which made the boy sad...that man had been one of the (very few) people who even acknowledged him. He felt that was punishment for not wanting to do what the other wanted - he lost his only friend because the way he touched him felt weird.
"After the incident with the man, things were well for a few years, until the boy turned five. That was when his mother started to date someone whom the boy thought was very nice. The man his mother was dating would give him little gifts he liked, like Gatorade and chocolate cookies, and the boy learned to like him. His brothers and sisters didn't but the boy didn't care - he liked the man, and couldn't wait for his mother to marry him. And marry him she did. The little boy was so proud and happy about that, at least until he moved in with the man and his mother. It turned out that his brothers and sisters were right: the man wasn't a nice man. He would get drunk often, something the boy found horrendous. It made the entire house smell and made his mother yell. Things would break during that time and the little boy started to wish that he had never wanted his mother to marry the man. Things went on like this until he actually started school, where things didn't get better. The boy was made fun of for his odd tastes, for how he preferred reading books to playing with blocks or whatever else the children did during class. He was constantly bullied for trying to be a good boy, something he hated. It hurt to come home every day and hear his step-father yelling at him about being a man, how he needed to grow up and fight back. The other's yelling segued into fighting, into punching, and, once, during the poor boy's seventh year, it segued into the boy getting his head cracked on the paved driveway of the house. That caused a drive to the doctor and lots of tests, each to make sure the boy had no brain damage. None showed up, though the doctor worried the boy wasn't well enough to leave. But his mother wanted him home and so the little boy was off, wandering around the streets again at seven, not a carefree child, not a happy child. That hit to his head had brought something out in the little boy, had made him start to think about what he thought he never should: it made him think about pain.
"Pain, you see, had been a part of the little boy's life for a very long time, but he'd never liked the pain before. But the feeling he'd gotten from that hit to the head, the feeling that his life hung by a sliver, made the boy feel so much joy. He wanted more of that feeling, and so he decided to try it, to try to get to the pain of death. At first, he tried pills - he climbed up the sink to the medicine cabinet and looked about for bottles, ones of asprin. He tried taking them but was shooed away by his mother, who had come in to make dinner. After a few failed attempts at that, the boy decided to try cutting himself. At first he tried his sharpest toys (which, being plastic, barely made deep scratches, let alone ones that would make him bleed), but those didn't work. He then tried nails, ones he found around his step-father's tool box. Those worked better and he liked looking at the blood that oozed up out of them. The poor boy smiled and thought it was the prettiest sight, but the holes weren't enough. Eventually he moved onto the one thing that entranced him: knives.
"The little boy found out that he really liked knives, you see...he thought they were amazing. He liked the feel of the handle in his grip, liked the slice he got in his skin, but he especially liked the little scars that the blade left behind. He loved hiding them beneath his long sleeves, loved making sure his mommy didn't know they were there. No one found out they were there until after the Big Accident, the thing that went wrong. That was when the little boy snuck out of his room and tried to go to the train tracks, to try and let the train slice him through-"

The sound of a pencil tapping on a desk made the nineteen year old man open his eyes, his gaze turning toward the person who had made the noise. It was a woman, in her mid fourties perhaps, with red-gray hair, her face wearing a look of concern. The boy didn't want her concern, didn't need it. His face was blank as he sat up, tilting his head. "Need something, doc?"
The doctor, a woman named Amelia Doyle, looked at her patient, a young man who had been through so much in his life. This was her fourth session with him, the first talking about his childhood, and she felt so much heart-ache for the poor boy who had been through so much. "No...nothing. Go ahead."
She watched him return to his lying position and he closed his eyes, his nostrils flaring as he took in a breath to continue his tale...

"To try and let the train slice him through. He almost made it, and would have, probably, if that couple hadn't gotten him off the tracks. It'd been a couple of people, two teenagers who were probably fooling around. They'd seen him walking onto the tracks, had heard the sound of the train coming, and the boy had grabbed him away and screamed at him as the train roared past. The little boy hadn't liked that and had fought against the other, angry that he'd been removed from the thing he'd wanted so much. The couple brought him to the police station and, eventually, they found his mother and sent him back to his step-father's house. His mother, worried about the little boy for the first time in what must've been forever, talked to his step-father about getting him a psychologist. It worked and soon the little boy was trying to keep silent to doctors who poked and prodded at his brain. This kept up until he was twelve, when he finally had enough and ordered his mom to stop the treatments. During that time he found himself obsessed with a certain man he would see every day whenever he walked to the local Starbucks. The man, a guy named Thomas, became the young man's obsession. He would go to the other's table, sometimes, and sit down with his muffin when he had time, watching the man. He was very beautiful, with dark hair and pale skin, beautiful brown eyes that would occassionally flicker up to him...
"Eventually, the little boy decided that he needed to talk to Thomas. He didn't know what he would say, though - he'd never been the best conversation starter. Thomas fixed that, though.
"'You always order the same thing,' he commented, looking up from whatever he was doing to stare into the boy's eyes, smiling at him. 'Why is that?'
"The little boy, only twelve years old, stared at the man who spoke to him. His face flushed a bit and he looked down at the strawberry muffin he was picking at, mumbling that he 'Thought they tasted really good.' Thomas laughed at that and reached for the boy, taking his hand in his own. There was a piece of muffin there and the elder man stole it, popping it into his mouth. He made a pleased noise and whisered, 'Yeah...that tastes good.'
"The little boy smiled at the man who had stolen that piece of his muffin, and more. Because in that one theft, Thomas had stolen something else, too: my heart."

"Remember what we said about working in first person."
Mrs. Doyle's voice cut across his words, making him realize his mistake. This was supposed to be in third person so that it would seem like he wasn't so afraid of it. It made it easier to talk in third, like this was just fantasy. Some sick fantasy, but still a fantasy. He whispered out an apology but the woman shook her head, sighing. "It's fine. We're almost out of time, though. Do you want to keep talking?"
Of course he didn't want to keep talking - if he could, he wouldn't even have gotten this far into the story. But the woman was making him talk, and he kind of wanted to at least finish the Chris chapter. Would they have time? He glanced at the clock. Ten minutes left in his session. Not enough time. "No."
The woman nodded her head and watched as he sat up, clicking her pen open. "All right, we'll save it for next time. But I think we're making a bit of progress, don't you?"
No, we aren't making bloody progress. This is just hurting me more... It hurt him to think all the way back through the fog that had grown over his childhood, hurt even more to remember all of these painful things. It hurt him to think about the man who had almost raped him, to think about the day he'd gotten his head busted open, to think about Chris and to tell about who would come after him. His eyes narrowed a bit but he nodded in agreement, voicing out a "Yeah, we are," so the woman wouldn't say he wasn't communicating again. "Lots of progress."
She could probably tell that he was being sarcastic but right now the boy didn't care. He just wanted to get the hell out of there so he could wallow in the misery that sessions usually left him in. The sound of a pen scratching on paper drew his attention to Mrs. Doyle, who was no doubt taking note of his less-than-adequate attention span. She looked up at him and sighed, motioning to the door. "Go on, but be back here next week ready to talk more about Chris. I'll see you later, Al."
I stood up and nodded to her, heading for the door. "See you later, Mrs. Doyle. I'll come ready to talk." Or throw up...
I opened the thick cherry-wood door, sighing in relief when it closed behind me. My feet made no noise as they walked down the thick carpeting of the hallway and I headed for the outside, my salvation away from the world I'd come to loathe: that one office and a couch to lie on...

Amelia Doyle had been a psychologist for ten years now, and no one she knew perplexed her more than the boy who had just left her office. He'd had so many problems in life, and yet he was still able to pretend he was regular. It shocked her to no end, made her wonder what went on in her mind. At some point, she'd have to find out. She'd have to dig deep enough to learn what was wrong with him. Because if she didn't, he might never get better. Then again, after a near-rape, head trauma, cutting, and falling in love with a man nine years his senior at twelve, she didn't know how it could get much worse.
Oh, that woman knew nothing. She didn't know how much worse it would get. But she would. After all, they had another session next week.
Another session...