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I find myself without having to search. It’s not that I stand out, but more like I don’t. I’ve always been the invisible type, the one who sneaks in the back and only becomes visible when he chooses to.
Being invisible helped me adapt to night patrol, the searches, the attempts of molestations.
Attempts, because I always got myself out of them, by force, by wit, by having Nancy lock me in the dark room. I just managed.
Richards stood beside my class at the time. I’m the scrawny kid near the back, partially hidden from everyone, half my face is blocked by the kid beside me and my one eye is glaring.
Fucking glaring at the camera like I’m telling the world and everyone in it to go fuck themselves. My eyes were fucking mean since I was a child, evil and meant to screw up the world.
Unlike common belief, people like me are needed. We’re the predators who keep the balance. Without us, it would all be old-fashioned chaos.
I’m about to leave when I notice the small boy clinging to my side. His short black hair is in a bow cut and he’s hiding his face against my shoulder, not looking at the camera.
And I... let him.
His small fingers dig into the sleeves of my T-shirt as if it’s a lifeline. The most bizarre thing is that I haven’t beat him to shit or smashed his face for touching me.
Joseph. Little Joe.
He was too scrawny, too small, and too weak. He was several years younger than me when he came in and all the other boys wanted to bloody his perfect porcelain skin and blue —or were they green— eyes.
He’s hiding his face, and I can’t exactly paint a picture of him. It’s been decades now.
Being small and pretty, he was adopted a few months after he arrived. Stepford housewives loved his type a bit too much. Perfect boy, perfect face, perfect grades.
And he was young, so he could’ve been molded to anything they wanted him to be.
As I stare at his small fingers, a memory hits me as if it happened yesterday.* * *Past
Rob stares at Joseph from across the playground as he throws a rock in the air then catches it.
I snarl at him from my position on the bench and the other boy makes a motion of cutting his throat before he disappears around the corner.
We’ll see who will cut the other’s throat. I’m going to smash his face in his lunch later.
Joseph, the source of all this unwanted attention, is oblivious to everything going on around him as he picks on the daisies scattered around us.
He’s hunched over, his white shorts clean and immaculate. His silky dark hair catches in the sun, making it appear blue.
Such a weak little boy.
Even his skin is too white, it bruises when I catch him by the arm.
“Jas, look!” He points his little fingers at the daisies, his mouth falling open in complete amazement.
“Stop playing with flowers like a girl,” I reprimand him as I watch our surroundings.
It’s because he’s too weak that everyone preys on him. I shouldn’t have tackled Rob that first day when he put Joseph’s head in the toilet, I should’ve just walked away. Maybe he would’ve become stronger if he wasn’t so sure I’d save him every time.
Ever since that day, Joseph has been following me like a shadow, and as a result, no one dares to touch him, knowing he’s under my protection.
He pouts, playing with the flower, but still not turning around. “I like it. I can tell if you love me or not.”
“How can you tell, genius?”
His tiny chuckle fills the air as he plucks one petal at a time. “Jasper loves me. Jasper loves me not. Jasper loves me. Jasper loves me not. Jasper loves me…” He trails off, a tremor in his voice.
“What is it?” I lean sideways to look at his flower, but he hides away. “Joseph?”
“It says you don’t love me.” He throws the flower to the ground. “I hate this game.”
I laugh and pick another flower for him. He can be cute sometimes.
Throwing the daisy at him, I say, “Try again.”
“What if it also says you don’t love me?”
“Then I’ll bring you all the flowers until you get the answer you want.”* * *Present
A small smile lifts my lips.
After Joseph left, my life somehow turned for the worst, until Lucio found me that night.
And Joseph can’t possibly be a coincidence. His age matches, too. He was around seven when I was twelve.
I pluck the picture from its frame and tuck it into my pocket.
No idea where Joseph is, but he better be far away or dead. If he’s Costa’s heir as I suspect, nothing will save him.
I protected him back then, but no one will protect him from me.My little Petal has called me today.
