*Heath's POV*

The entire world crashed down around me, suddenly making me realize why Vincent had forced me to never tell anyone how he abused me behind closed doors, especially not with McKinley; a girl I had just recently met by chance at her mother's occupation as my therapist.

A cold sweat broke out, drenching the collar of my shirt as I took deliberate, slow breaths to calm the heart racing inside of my chest. Vincent's hauntingly dark eyes stared back at me from the computer screen, daring me to break focus. Even behind the screen of a computer, the man had the capability to utterly terrify me.

In a span of three seconds, rapid thoughts of possible outcomes flashed through my brain.

If I told my mother that she was dating my therapist's husband, Vincent would inevitably find out that I was the one who informed her of the situation.

There was no way I could tell Mrs. Carter that her husband was a two-timing loser who had nothing better to do than beat up the children of the two women he was making love to.

Certainly, I couldn't tell McKinley that her father was dating my mother because she'd tell her mother who would tell my mother, and who would then tell Vincent.

No matter what I did or who I confessed to, it would always wrap around to Vincent and who knew what he would do to me?

What if he took it out on McKinley to get back at me and make me feel guilty for blowing his cover?

I hardly knew the girl, but if I could protect her from the awful man her father was, then I would do it...even if that meant I'd pay the ultimate price.

With that thought in mind, I abruptly ended my visit with Mrs. Carter and found my mother in the waiting room. I couldn't meet her eyes when she scurried to close the magazine she was flipping through without actually reading the words as her hand gently rested against her stomach.

I could barely control the red hot rage that boiled in my veins or the frustration that wreaked havoc in my nerves, causing my fisted hands to twitch the entire drive home as my jaw clenched tightly to keep from lashing out and saying something I'd regret later.

The car had barely rolled to a stop in the driveway before I threw the door open and leaped out, slamming it shut with a bone rattling impact. My mother flinched with wide eyes as she helplessly shut the car off to follow me.

I didn't hold the door open for that woman, instead storming inside the house where a deafening boom erupted once the door I'd thrown open connected with the wall.

"Heath!" My mother called, "Wait! I want to talk to you."

I lifted a hand over my back without breaking my determined strides to the stairs as I ignored her.

The anger I'd fought strongly to suppress finally erupted once I stepped foot inside of my bedroom. Sliding a hand under the mattress of my bed, I dug around until my fingers wrapped around the bottle I knew would be there.

A three bladed razor tumbled to the floor in my haste, temporarily hampering my efforts as I impatiently shoved it back underneath the mattress.

With a grunt, I triumphantly pulled the large bottle of straight vodka out, shooting a quick glance at the doorknob to ensure I'd locked it.

I had stolen the bottle from my mother after school today right before she'd dragged me to Mrs. Carter's office, figuring I couldn't feel pain when I was drunk.

Having already been open from a previous encounter, I knocked my head back and chugged the entire contents of the liquid that had been leftover.

The vodka burned its path down my throat, but I gladly welcomed the pain. It was refreshing, astoundingly different than the physical pain Vincent inflicted on me.

I slumped to the floor, heavily leaning against my bed as I hiccuped and let out a burp. The empty vodka bottle rolled across the wooden planks as my vision swam out of focus. Undeterred, the anger I'd felt before resurfaced and I ground my teeth together, feeling a scream bubble in my chest as it fought to be released.

I was done. I wasn't brave for staying alive. Hell, I was a coward who couldn't stand up for himself or have the guts to confess my abuse to someone. I was afraid, but I was even more scared to die and that was what anchored me here all this time.

Yet, it would be so much easier if I were dead. My mother would be happy dating another man to keep her mind off of her late husband and Mrs. Carter would go on living in oblivion about her husband's sexual desires behind her back.

McKinley. Undoubtedly, Vincent would make her his sole victim after I'd committed the ultimate act.

Suddenly, the doorbell rang, flooding my veins with ice that contrasted against the fire ignited in my throat. I stumbled to my feet, feeling unsteady as I clumsily kicked a leg at the bottle to hide it under my bed.

Just as it came in contact with the wall beneath my bed, I heard my mother's voice kindly instruct, "Of course. He's upstairs in his room."

I cursed myself for being so ignorant. I couldn't defend myself against Vincent when I was sober, nevermind when I was drunk.

Scooping the vodka bottle out from under the bed yet again, I clutched it tightly in my hands, turning my knuckles white as I bent my knees to prepare myself for the devil himself.

The doorknob twisted, capturing my attention. I couldn't seem to focus on it as my head pounded, nerves shot from the alcoholic beverage.

"Don't come in here," I growled, hoping I sounded threatening enough with the deep rasp obtained by my sore throat.

"Heath?"

A muffled feminine voice filtered through the locked door, loosening my grip on the bottle. I knew it wasn't my mother and the only other woman I could think of was Mrs. Carter.

I sighed, glancing in the mirror on the bureau beside the door to find a pair of blue orbs drowning in a red ocean staring back at me. Mrs. Carter would take one look at my bloodshot eyes, messed up hair, and tainted breath, knowing I was under the influence of alcohol.

Surely the empty vodka bottle in my hands was a dead giveaway that I didn't even bother to hide before I unlocked the door to face Mrs. Carter.

I opened my mouth to ask why my therapist was here when I'd just left her office, but the words died on lips when it wasn't Mrs. Carter's green eyes searching mine, but her daughter's.

McKinley's eyes widened at the sight of me, and for some irrational reason, it made me angry. It was as if she thought I had nothing better to do than drink.

But the fact was, she was correct. In a world corrupted by horrid events and an evil man, I really didn't have anything better to do than drink away the pain.

Unsure of herself, McKinley awkwardly shuffled her feet and tucked stray strands of blonde hair behind her ears. Biting her lip, she thrusted her arms out, holding a holiday tin decorated with snowmen and snowflakes.

I lifted an eyebrow when the long sleeves of her sweater slightly drew back, displaying the scars I'd seen before.

"Here," she offered, refusing to look at me. "My mother sent these for you." She hurried to yank down the sleeves of her sweater once she caught me eyeing them.

I took the container in one hand, feeling the need to hide the vodka bottle behind my back although it was evident by the way she warily shied away from me that she knew of my intoxicated state.

I nodded once in appreciation, tucking the tin under my arm. When she made a move to walk away, I wrapped a hand around her frail wrist and gave it a tug until she was in my room.

Placing the tin and bottle on my bed, I turned to face McKinley who's eyes darted around my room, probably searching for more booze or drugs.

She hitched a thumb over her shoulder, mumbling, "I should go."

I knew I shouldn't be talking to her, but my ability to process thoughts was hampered by the alcohol.

"You know," I drawled, finding difficulty in keeping my eyes from straying off of McKinley. "My father was just like us."

I shoved up the sleeves of my dark shirt and held out my wrists to her, displaying the skin thickened by self inflicted scars. I was careful not to go any higher to show her the bruises her father casted on me in fear she'd draw conclusions.

At a loss for words, McKinley swallowed hard and settled for saying, "Oh. How is he doing now?"

I knew she was being polite, but I couldn't keep the harsh sting from my voice when I responded, "He's dead."

"I'm so sorry," McKinley immediately apologized, undoubtedly feeling tactless for bringing up the issue when I'd been the one to introduce my father into the conversation.

"He didn't kill himself if that's what you were wondering," I replied, blatantly ignoring her apology. "But sometimes, I wish I could join him, you know?" I rhetorically asked without expecting a response.

"I understand. It's just..." McKinley trailed off, shaking her head in regret.

A deep, unmistakable masculine voice joined my mother's from downstairs and I shot a wild look to McKinley who hadn't had seemed to hear while she was talking.

Footsteps pounded up the stairs, and I wrapped an arm around her shoulders, causing her to wince as I held a finger to my lips before shoving her in my closet just as the door was blown open.

I'd had just enough time to whisper, "Sh. Stay in here," and catch a confused look cross her features.

"Who were you talking to?" Vincent demanded, cocking his head to the side as he cracked his knuckles.

His eyes found the empty bottle of vodka on my bed beside the tin McKinley had given me and I fought hard not to look in the direction of my closet.

"No one," I forced out, glaring at him.

Vincent casually stalked around the room, brushing his fingers along the wall until he reached the foot of my bed and lifted the bottle in his hands.

I held my breath when he leaned directly in front of my face, and suggestively commented, "You're off the hook. It's my birthday today and your mother still hasn't given me a present." He winked, causing acidic bile to rise in my throat as he walked out of the room.

McKinley hesitantly poked her head out of the closet and quietly wondered, "Who was that?"

I couldn't bring myself to answer.

**********