The Abandoned & The Lost: Jared's Story (Boy x Boy) (Completed)

Chapter One: When I Was Seven....

I'm back my dear lovely readers with chapter one. Alas it is finally finished and I'm ready to share it with you, so here goes. Hope you enjoy it! :)

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Chapter One: When I Was Seven....

Jared's P.O.V

Ten years ago, I was seven years old. All those years ago, my mom was diagnosed with a rare type of pancreatic cancer. The one they said couldn't be treated yet, they hadn't found a cure. Though, I never felt like they were trying very hard.

She was the only thing I'd ever had, the only thing I've ever known to be safe and loving. Secure. Even then at seven years old, I knew she was all I had. When she left me, she took half, if not at all of me, with her.

I've never had a father, never even knew the cowards name.

There was no way to contact him, and I had no remaining relatives. After her funeral I was taken directly to foster care. They dropped me off as if I were a ripped garbage bag that needed to be thrown away.

When I got there I was handed over to my torturer, I mean, my social worker, Jewels Finnegan.

I was, shall we say..... given to him. At first, as these things go, everything was great, he was sweet and extremely nice. He was almost like the father I never had, almost. After about a week, everything went downhill.

That's when the abuse started.

It started off as just little things, like burning me with cigarettes or searing me with lighters. It then progressed to him giving me little nicks with his pocket knife, then "teasing" me with butter knives. You know, normal stuff that I could handle without too much pain.

It stemmed from that to the evermore painful stunts. He seemed to have gotten bored of me when I stopped screaming the first few times, the thrill was, apparently, starting to dwindle.

After a couple years, he found a new high.

Hitting me while I was tied to a chair, completely exposed and defenseless, seemed to turn him on more than anything. Sometimes he even handcuffed me to the poles that were attached to the basement walls.

He would tie or chain me up, for hours, pounding onto my entire body as if I were some kind of punching bag. Once he'd finished, I would be left there for hours, waiting for him to return drunk and needing some more anger relief.

He always hit me and tried to leave marks where no one would see. I remember the one time we almost got caught. He had lost control after a few shots of tequila, too drunk out of his mind to think straight. Inevitably, that night ended with him slamming a 9-iron golf club across my face, knocking out four of my front baby teeth, right in the middle.

I was quite baffled that people actually laughed at me and said, "all he wants for Christmas is his four front teeth."

I had also had a huge oval shaped bruise across my left cheek, a busted lip in two different spots, and a black eye for a month. Life was hell, the bastard blamed me for it.

Apparently, 'getting in the way of a 9 iron' could've been prevented.

Towards the end of the month, I was confronted by five different teachers, asking me what had happened. I had to make up some bullshit story about how I 'tripped' over my skateboard, fell down six steps, and then landed on my guitar.

I could tell that most weren't convinced, but none of them seemed to truly care about the situation, so they just let it go. Not a single person questioned my story, so he was saved and I endured nine more years of abuse.