Scott's P.O.V(Some years ago)
Warning: Neglect and Abuse, homophobia
I opened my eyes and sighed. Same view I had had every morning for almost two years, and I still wasn't used to it.
I used to have a nice bedroom with a large window, which I would stare out for hours, lost in my own little world.
I had developed this when I was about seven. That's when my parents started fighting.
I remembered the first time it happened.
"So, Scott, how was your day?" My mom asked as she speared a piece of chicken with her fork, looking at me.
"Oh, God. Seriously, Connie?" My dad snorted, taking another swallow of his beer. "You are so stupid. Can't even ask a meaningful question. God. I wonder sometimes why I even married you."
My gaze shifted to my father, eyes wide. He had never spoken this way to my mother.
She seemed shocked herself, but just waved it off. "Yes. You are right, dear. I should have thought of a better question."
I sat there and stared at them. Both were acting uncharacteristic. Dad never spoke ill to or of my mother, and my mother, well she never just admitted she was wrong.
"Mommy?" I asked, looking at her. "You don't have to apologize. It wasn't a stupid question. I like when you-" My father cut me off, slamming his beer bottle down.
"Shut your mouth, boy, this doesn't concern you." He snarled.
"Richard! I will not let you speak to my son that way!" My mother stood up and I shrunk down in my seat. She looked and me and smiled sweetly. "Why don't you go play in your room?" She suggested and I scampered away, ignoring my father as he ordered me to stay. Sorry. Mom spoke first.
I shut the door and ran to the window looking out. I tried to ignore the screaming downstairs, but the moment there was the sound of breaking glass, followed by crying, I cracked open my door and leaned out cautiously. My dad was stomping up the stairs and I hid my head until his door shut. The moment it did, I opened my and scurried down to the kitchen.
There was my mother, on her hands and knees, blood mixing with beer. There was beer all over the counters, and glass was spread as far as where I stood.
"Mommy?" I asked, going to take a step towards her.
She turned, eyes red, cheeks wet. "Scotty buckets, please stay out. Wouldn't want you to cut your feet now, would we?" I looked at her hands, seeing the cuts and stayed where I was, watching my mother. I didn't see the bruise on her neck, where my father chocked her.
I didn't know that six short months later, my mother would disappear without even a word.
The morning of my mother's disappearance, my father woke me up to tell me to get all of my stuff out of my room and into the basement by that night. Anything left would be thrown out.
I, a small boy of now eight, moved from the top floor the the dank basement in one day, all in my own.
The first things I took were the pictures of before, as well as all stuffed animals I could carry. After a few trips, I found a basket and used that to take more stuff down. The only thing my father didn't let me take was my clothes.
"Only good boys get clothes." He snarled. Both of my sisters stood there, shocked, ordered to not help.
From that day, my place in the house was made clear.
I was lower than the dirt.
Skip ahead eight years. I had become quite the survivor. Thankfully, My Father didn't care if I brought friends over, as long as their lips remained locked and I would be ready to do what ever I was told.
I was sixteen. Sixteen and I still had to beg for food and water, still had to bend to his every will. My sisters left me here, alone, to deal with this drunkard.
After mom left, his drinking got worse. He began to starve me for days, acting as though he didn't even see as I, a boy of nine, ten, even eleven, begged to be fed. After that, I stopped begging and began to look for food elsewhere.
The streets is where I went next. At twelve, I sat alone on a steer corner, all year, everyday, asking for food. It was always late when I was out there, after my father was done with me for the night.
Two years I did this, sometimes just digging through dumpsters. My clothes were a mess. Thankfully, I was allowed to wash them and shower, but only if it didn't inconvenience anyone else in the house.
Fourteen. That is when I met him. He was almost sixteen, blonde, with beautiful hazel eyes, a little taller than I, but slimmer. Even starved, I was still broader than he was.
"Hey!" He greeted and plopped down next to me, smiling. "Name's Alex. Who are you?"
"Depends on who you ask." I replied, not even looking up from my lap as yet another person passed me up, casting a disdainful glance my way.
"Well..." He paused and then continued. "I am asking you. So, what do you call yourself?"
I couldn't help but give a bitter laugh. "Worthless, dirty, you name it, I probably call myself it." Shaking my head, I finally looked at him. "Scott. You can call me Scott."
He smiled. "Well, you and I, Scott. You and I are going to be best friends! I know a place you could work that would get you money."
"I don't want money. I just want food." I said. I couldn't have money, not with my father. I couldn't use it for anything.
"Well then, they will be more than happy to take you if all they have to do is feed you!" He exclaimed happily. He then looked around. "See you tomorrow, Scotty Boy." He stood and waved.
True to his word, every day, he came and sat with me.
I adjusted well to my job. I was to lure out kids from bad situations, like mine, and bring them to Alex's boss. Easy. And they fed me.
Alex, or Allie, and I got closer and soon, he was coming over to the house.
"Boy!" My father bellowed the moment I opened the door and I flinched. Not a good way to start off the first visit.
"Yes, sir?" I asked, walking towards the living room, where I knew I would find my father, sitting in his reclining chair, smoking, surrounded by bottles.
"You have your chores to got. Get on them. Now!" He growled and threw a bottle. In all y fifteen year old stuborness, I didn't move as it flew towards me, then finally hit me painfully in the ribs. Running them, I rushed about, doing as he told me, Allie following along behind, smiling and chattering.
At last, I finished and I took him to the basement, into the room in had occupied for years.
That was the room where I had my first kiss with Allie, noting but nerves and curiosity. But it grew. They became passionate, a little over a year later, I gave him my V card.
That was the night I first slept in the streets.
As Allie and I drew closer to our climaxes, panting and moaning, my father walking in on us.
He began to rant and scream about how he did not raise his son to be fucked by a man. "I will not have a Fag in my house!" this face was red, like a cherry, and Alex and I, still not relived, stood up as he yelled, collected our clothes, then slipped out of the room.
Before we did, I grabbed a picture. It was the last picture I had of my mother. She and I were standing there, smiling widely, hugging. I had looked at it so many times. I could see the bruises on her perfect skin.
Allie asked me about why and I told him.
"Tell me more about your mother? She sounds wonderful." He sighed and I obliged.
"She was beautiful. And kind, and loving. Their first fight was over my father yelling at me." I tucked the picture away as I pulled on my boxers. "She never let me see her cry, though I knoe she did, I saw her when she thought I couldn't. I saw the marks my father left on her. Then, one day, with no explanation, left me."
"Oh, Scott." He whispered and pulled me close, resting out foreheads together as we stood on the street, almost completely naked.
With Allie by my side, I adjusted to street life.
Allie himself rose through the ranks and was finally the boss. I couldn't help but call him boss after I found out, though quickly it was dropped.
He and I had so many great nights together.
I always stayed on the streets, never accepting his offer to sleep in his room. No. I would sleep on the streets until I got a house for myself.
This left me alone to think over things. My mother's disappearance always puzzled me and I was determined to find out what happened.
I found out, around my eighteenth birthday what had actually happened to Mom.
I stormed into my father's hospital room. He had nearly drunk himself to death. Here he was, struggling to recover from it.
I walked right up to his bed and pointed at him. "What happened to Mom?" I whispered.
"She left." He spat back, words muffled by the tubes.
"No. She wouldn't have left. Not without her kids. Did you kill her?"
His eyes flicked away and I stood there. "You did. You killed my mother. You took her away from me." Something over took me and I didn't even know what was going on until I heard the flat line, and doctors and nurses rushed around me, pushing me out.
I killed my father, but I felt only peace. "These you go, you have been avenged, mom." I whispered.
Oh, that was only the least of the crimes I committed.
~°~
Sorry if this sucks. I wrote most of this at like 11 o'clock at night(right now)
So, some Scott back story.
Yay.
Oh, and stay sexy
-Scomiche❤🍓❤