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Prologue
Brody
Thirteen Years Old:
“God, you’re such a pathetic waste of space, you ugly piece of shit. No one’ll want you with a face like that and the scars. Here, let me add another,” my mother cackles with an evil smirk as she puts out her cigarette on my arm.
I know better than to scream since it only makes her laugh harder. She enjoys my pain way too much. I have the scars crossing my body like a road map to prove it. I have too many cigarette burns to count and knife marks from the times she used me like a pin cushion just to see me bleed. I have scars from belts and anything else she could get her hands on to throw at me or beat me with. You name it, it’s been a tool of her abuse.
“What, not going to say anything? I should have gotten rid of you when I had the chance. Get the hell out of my face,” she barks, and I stand, heading to my room.
“No, nope, nuh-uh. I have company coming over tonight, and I won’t have you ruining it for me. Find somewhere else to sleep,” she sneers, looking at me with disgust. I shake my head before grabbing a long-sleeved shirt and heading out the door.
I couldn’t tell you the last time I said a single word to my mother. I was tired of getting slapped or hit every time I opened my mouth or made any kind of sound, so I just stopped talking. To her anyway. I still talk to my friends and sometimes my teachers, but mostly I try to keep my head down just to get through the day.
When I step outside again, I pull the long sleeve shirt over my head, making sure all the fresh and old wounds are hidden. That’s when I notice Griffin, one of my best friends, walking my way.
“Hey, headed to the clubhouse?” he asks, and I nod.
He looks down at my long sleeve shirt with a slight frown. He knows why I wear them, even in ninety-degree heat. I know I’ll sweat through the shirt, but it’s better than people looking at me in disgust when they see the marks.
My teachers actually think I would do this shit to myself. “self-inflicting pain” is what they tell me. They all think I’m suicidal or something. I’m not, though. All I know is that death is the easy way out in my eyes. Even if I hadn’t had the normal upbringing like most do, I would just be causing more heartache if I were to commit suicide. I have people here who love me, and in my eyes, that means something, and it’s worth fighting for. I want to live. I want to see the world, get out of here and live a happy life with my friends. Hopefully, one day, I’ll have a family of my own, and they will never feel the pain I’ve had to live through growing up.
“Want me to get the rest of the guys?” he asks, and I just shrug.
“If you want. I have to spend the night there. Mom has company,” I tell him, and he growls. I look at him in shock. Griffin is a lot like me, caring and soft-spoken—the heart of all of us. He cares about everyone, all eight of us equally, and has nothing bad to say unless one of us is mistreated. I’ve never heard him sound so vicious before, though.
“Five more years, brother. I can’t fucking wait, just five years,” he says, practically vibrating, shaking his head, and looking back toward our trailers with disgust.
“I just hope all of us make it that long,” I tell him my greatest fear, and he sighs, knowing I’m right. We will get out of here one day. I just hope it doesn’t come at a cost none of us want to pay.
