SURVIVING

Prologue

The day after I turned six was supposed to be special, but it wasn't. Birthdays are a big deal when you're a kid, but mine just kind of... passed. Dad did his best, though. He played with me all day, trying to make up for the party we couldn't have. Money was tight, and Mom... she'd been gone for two days, not a word about where she was.

That's when we found out why we couldn't reach her. Turns out, Mom had a gambling problem, and it had caught up to us in the worst way. These three loan sharks showed up at our door, looking for her, but all they found was Dad and me. They were like characters out of a movie: one bald guy covered in tattoos, another with long blonde hair in a leather jacket, and this big, intimidating black guy in a tee, puffing on a cigarette.

They didn't believe Dad when he said he didn't have the money. Mom had burned through everything on her addiction. They told him he was on the hook for her debts, being next of kin and all. Dad kept saying she wouldn't do this to us, but they weren't buying it. The blonde guy, he asked about Mom, and when Dad said she'd been missing, I saw something click in his eyes—like he just figured out he'd been played too.

The big guy got in my face, and the tattooed one told Dad straight up: "We don't care about your family drama. You owe \$38,000. If you can't pay up, well, we'll be back." And just like that, they were gone, leaving behind a threat that hung in the air, heavy and dangerous.

Dad should've gone to the cops after the first visit, but he didn't. He scrambled to scrape together cash, but all he could muster was 900 bucks. He kept telling me everything would be okay, but even at six, I could tell things were pretty bad.

When those guys came back, Dad pleaded for more time, saying that's all he had. The one with tattoos, who seemed to call the shots, just laughed and shot a look at the big black guy—like some silent signal. Then he dragged Dad into the kitchen. I was frozen, couldn't even scream, just stuck there while the tattooed guy casually scanned our living room, muttering to the blonde one, "They've got nothing worth taking."

Soon, there were these awful sounds from the kitchen—Dad, trying to scream through what must've been a gag. It got louder, then suddenly stopped. I was petrified, not a tear, just shock, pure shock. The tattooed guy then nodded at the blonde one, "Take care of the kid."

He was closing in on me when Mrs. Cindy, our neighbor, burst in. "Robert, your door—" She stopped dead, seeing me there with the two goons. She bolted, probably to call for help. That's when the tattooed leader shouted for the others, "Time to go!" And they vanished.

Cops showed up soon after, turning my home into a crime scene. They tried to get me to talk, but I couldn't make a sound. I just sat there, lost in the nightmare of it all. I never saw my mother again

Not long after I was put in an adoption home. Life at the adoption home was lonely. Two years passed before I could even act normal again, and even then, I was the kid on the fringes. But everything changed the day Senator Griffin walked in. Cameras flashed and reporters swarmed as he made his way to me, his suit as sharp as the promise in his eyes. "You're coming home with me," he said. And just like that, I was happy.

I was eight years old when my life turned into something out of a fairy tale. I had everything—a new family, fame, and a future. I was the poster child for Senator Griffin's campaign, attending events that were splashed across the front pages. School was a breeze; I was smart enough to skip the missed classes and ace the entrance exam without breaking a sweat.

Becca became the sister I never had, just a year older than me, and Ellen Griffin, the matriarch who founded the Griffin Foundation, was now my mom. They enveloped me in love, and slowly, the trauma that clung to me began to loosen its grip. I was content, grateful for this second chance at life.

Victory was sweet when my adopted dad won the election. But the sweetness didn't last. The dream life I thought I had turned sour, morphing into a nightmare. My adoptive parents' true colors bled through their facade of affection, treating me like an unwanted guest in their perfect world. I was a pawn in their game of public image, a game I never asked to play.

I spent most days confined to my room, the walls echoing their harsh words and colder silences. Any mistake I made was met with anger and, sometimes, hands that struck out in frustration. Becca, my adoptive sister, was the only genuine connection I had, yet even she was forbidden from speaking to me.

As the years dragged on, each one heavier than the last, I became a shadow in my own life. At school, I was the senator's son, the adopted boy who didn't quite fit in. No one dared to bully me openly, but that didn't stop them from trying to sabotage me in secret. A cigarette planted in my bag, a whispered accusation, and suddenly I was in the dean's office with my adoptive father, his anger a tangible force.

The confrontation in the hallway after was worse. His words, "You waste of space," were a verbal slap, a threat to send me back to the orphanage hanging over my head like a guillotine. And then there was Andrew, the class bully, revealing his cruel prank with a smirk, offering a twisted form of friendship.

I'm Jason Griffen, no I’m Jason Hart, and my life’s been nothing short of a waking nightmare. Now, I’m left to wonder: am I truly living, or just barely surviving?