Jonathan woke up covered in sweat and tears, the distorted visage the dream's remnant memories still echoing; the screams still echoing.

As quietly and hurriedly as he could, Jonathan scrambled to get out of the bed and out of the room before he woke Mayson. He ran through the dark, grateful he knew the house, his breathing the loudest sound, and slid out to the back deck. He made it to the bottom of the stairs before collapsing, no longer able to refrain the wracking sobs that kept pushing for escape. He bowed his head, his arms supporting it, as silent screams came forth from a mouth hung open in agony.

Mayson, who had awakened upon Jonathan's hasty exodus from the bed, slowly slid open the glass door that led to the back deck. He'd only known to go this way because the glass door wasn't properly shut, standing open about half an inch, as if shut too hard and it slid back open a fraction.

Mayson stepped outside the wind and smell of the salt-water air all around him, pulling him over to and down the stairs. He stopped at the sight of Jonathan sitting at the bottom of the staircase, his back hunched as he curled in on himself. Slowly he lowered himself beside him, close enough only now to see the shaking of his shoulders as they sat in shadow.

"Jonny?" Jonathan didn't answer. He didn't move to acknowledge that Mayson had spoken, or that he even knew Mayson was there. Not knowing what to do to comfort his friend's obvious distress, Mayson slowly slid his arm around Jonathan's back. Half expecting Jonathan to start at the contact, Mayson was surprised when Jonathan turned suddenly to his left and held Mayson close to him. Mayson wrapped his arms tightly around him, offering what support could be gained and offered.

Mayson said nothing, for what could he say? Jonathan pressed his face harder into Mayson's shoulder, trying to shield his mind from the bloody images that refused to release their grip on him. He couldn't stop the tears. He couldn't stop the blinding rue that overwhelmed him as a child screams for help that was never to come.

After several, long, and arduous moments, Mayson finally began to feel Jonathan start to calm. Jonathan didn't move from Mayson's embrace, but held himself there, getting lost in the feeling of having those arms wrapped securely against him. Finally, Jonathan sat up and wiped his eyes. Mayson's arm dropped from around his shoulders, though contact was not completely lost. Their shoulders touched, giving away warmth and electricity.

"Did I ever tell you about Max?" The question broke the silence, spoken low as it was.

Mayson glanced to his right and shook his head. "Not really, no. Once when we were younger you were telling me something...said "And one time Max and I..." but you trailed off...when I tried asking, you shut me up, shut me out, and wouldn't talk the rest of the day."

He nodded but remained silent. "I never talk about him. It...hurts...to even think about him. I wish I could think about him, duck. I miss him so much."

Mayson said nothing but instead simply let Jonathan talk. He watched Jonathan struggle to maintain control of himself as he prepared to tell him something he'd never before spoken of. Not even to the police when they took him away. He didn't need to...the evidence spoke for itself. Jonathan wiped his eyes before dropping his head in his hands. He couldn't look at Mayson while he was telling this tale, but he needed to finally free this burden from his soul. He had felt the memories starting to clutch at his heart a few weeks ago as the anniversary of that night started to loom over him. He'd managed to shove it from his mind while Mayson was in the hospital, focusing only on the one person left that he loved that still lived. Barely, but lived. And now that Mayson was safe and healing his physical wounds, the tremulous and beset memories of old ghosts began to return with vengeance, and without mercy.

Jonathan closed his eyes, took a long, deep breath, and faced his eyes pointedly at his feet.

When he began speaking his voice was strained and even the tide coming in sometimes overpowered his words, but Mayson listened with unmitigated attention; even the sounds of the waves abated to his story.

"My mom wasn't around...she died of a heroin overdose when I was four. Max was two. It wasn't long after my mom died that my dad started taking out his aggression on us. He began drinking heavily and I had to find a way to take care of us. At four there wasn't much I could do, but I made sure he ate...even if it was cereal or a sandwich or something. When I was six he began taking out other needs on me. The same for when Max turned six...."

Here he paused, the lump in his throat too big to talk around. He tried breathing but he choked as sobs began to escape, boiling up from his chest.

Mayson wanted to wrap his arms around Jonathan but wasn't sure if he should. He knew sometimes when his friend got too upset he didn't like being touched. He didn't know if this was one of those moments. Though he had never done such to him, Mayson witnessed Jonathan lash out and destroy any near object when he was touched at the wrong moment. However, his questions were well put to rest when Jonathan leaned into him, and silently mendicated any comfort that would be donated on his behalf.

Mayson reciprocated willingly, pulling him down so he was braced against him, shrouded within his warmth and protection against the pain and memories.

"When I was twelve..."

Jonathan sat in his little brother's bedroom on the floor in front of his bed, Max to the right of him. Before them was spread out the younger boy's mathematics homework, which he was having the most difficulty in. Jonathan smiled and told him he was doing fine as Max began to get frustrated.

"You're doing fine, Max. You understand how it works, you just have to apply it to paper."

The boys were almost finished with the lessons when the front door slammed shut, announcing their father's return. The homework was instantly forgotten as they listened to the heavy footfalls in the living room.

"Jonny, he's not alone." Max knew as well as Jonathan what that usually meant. Slowly Max grasped Jonathan's hand and pressed himself against his big brother as if attempting to hide behind him. Jonathan was tense, his right arm pulled behind him around his brother.

Max was shaking and whimpering, his face buried into Jonathan's back.

"I'm scared, Jonathan. I don't wanna do this...his friends are too rough. Th-they hurt me, Jonny."

"I know, Max, they hurt me, too. Maybe they'll leave us alone tonight."

But even as he uttered those words he knew them to be of false hope. And so did Max, as they were already making their way up the stairs.

Max's door shot open and their father leered down at them with a drunken sneer. Three friends flanked around behind him. The ones that usually accompanied him home for drunken exploits of the slaves they'd been diversified into.

Slowly the boys stood, Max still cowering behind Jonathan's bigger frame.

"I want the little one, Gage. He's my favorite," one of the men snarled from the darkened hallway behind their father. 

Jonathan felt Max begin to sob into his back, his hands clutching his brother's shirt as if the cotton alone could protect him.

Gage came into the room, the others following closely behind. Jonathan felt an out of character need to fight back. With his brother sobbing behind him, quietly begging him not to let them get him, Jonathan's fists balled.

"Max, come here. Gerald wants you first tonight, boy." Max didn't move from behind his brother.

"Max! Now!" The boy wailed in fear. Of both the command and its outcome.

"Dad, leave him alone. He's scared. He's just a little kid. I-I'll take them all tonight, just leave-"

His words made it no further as he felt Gage's large fist contact with his face. Jonathan spit out a mouthful of blood to the floor, spattering over the homework that was now forgotten.

"You shut the fuck up, boy." Gage reached behind him and grabbed Max's arm, tearing him from the only safety he knew. When Max screamed, Jonathan, for the first time, fought back, with a satisfying snap of Gage's neck as Jonathan's fist connected with his cheekbone. By reflex, Gage released Max who tried in vain to run. Before he got to the doorway, however, Gerald swept him up and off his feet before depositing him roughly onto his Batman bedspread.

Gage stood up to his full height and easily overpowered his elder son. Jonathan heard Max scream again as his pants were violently ripped from his body, but was in no position to assist his brother. Gage had him by the throat and against the wall, unable to breathe, let alone move. Gage held him there until his struggles weakened before roughly throwing him to the floor. He could still hear Max screaming and the new sound of flesh slapping against flesh, and a low guttural moaning. Max's cries were muffled by something being shoved in his mouth, but they still echoed helplessly in Jonathan's ears.

"You stupid little son of a bitch," his father growled as he slammed the back of his head into the hardwood floor. Jonathan ceased his struggles as dizziness overcame him and he was flipped over to his stomach, his own pants shoved down and over his ankles. He would have screamed had he had a voice as his father slammed into him roughly and without anything to help guide him in.

With each thrust inside him, his father struck him somewhere on his body. Then the sounds of protest were cut off completely as his breath was cut short, as a foreign object was shoved down his throat . The last thing he remembered was the sound of Max's screams finally dying for the last time and unwanted warmth being shot down his throat and inside his anal cavity, and to his fading horror, like every time, along his belly where his body betrayed him.

"I woke in the hospital three weeks later. Max was gone. They were in prison. I was alone. I missed his funeral. I've never...even seen his grave. I could never bring myself to go."

Jonathan tightened his grip slightly as he felt his control slipping even further. Mayson gently rocked him back and forth, his own tears falling silently at what was just verbally published into his mind.

"I failed him, Mayson. God, I failed him in the worst way. It's my fault he's dead. It's my fault, God, it's my fault." Jonathan curled in on himself, keeping his face buried in Mayson's lap, his arms tucked between his own lap and chest. His anguish came forth with screams and sobbing, as well as begging for forgiveness to a boy long since lost.

It had been fifteen years since that night and he still felt the pain of that loss like it just happened fifteen minutes ago. He had never before allowed himself to grieve, always locking it away, keeping it tucked away for his nightmares to remind him.

Tonight was different. He wasn't alone. Tonight after so many years he could not keep the emotions under wraps and lost himself in the past as Mayson, and his arms around him kept him anchored to the present.