Loving You Hurts

Chapter 1 - Happy Birthday?

    The halls were silent except for the tap-tap-tap of flat-soled sneakers, slowly walking down the empty hallway of the high school. A young boy made his way to the boys' washroom in the west wing of the first floor, his hall pass stuffed safely in his back pocket. His head hung low, two navy blue eyes staring downcast at the black peppered, white tiles beneath his feet.

    It was the middle of sophomore year, and today Clinton turned sixteen. Unfortunately, it wouldn't be a sweet one for Clint. His day was doomed from the beginning.

    As usual, Clint awoke to find the same leftovers in the fridge -- day old pizza and half a loaf of stale bread. There was no special birthday breakfast, no "Happy Birthday!" greeting, or even a simple acknowledgement that he turned sixteen today. Clinton hadn't really expected any of that to happen though; he knew his foster parents well enough to know that they wouldn't celebrate his birth.

    Though the Michael's had taken him in over two years ago, he was still nothing more than a servant and a paycheque. Their neglect and lack of affection didn't hurt as much as it use to -- Clint was almost numb to it by now.

    In a way, this was why Clint didn't care all that much about his birthday. It was little more than just another day to him. One more year closer to getting out of the system.

Happy Birthday to me, Clint had thought dryly, while he went to grab his toast out of the toaster. At the initial connect, a searing pain flared through his fingertips, causing him to rip his hand away. Shaking his hand out in an attempt to ease the pain, Clint had muttered a few curse words, forgetting that his foster father sat at the table a few feet away.

    The first blow came from out of nowhere, leaving behind a sharp pain that gradually faded into a dull throb. Though he didn't see the hits, his body was ready for them. His thoughts and emotions shut down, and his body took each hit with little more than a flinch.

    It was like he was dead inside.

    "What did I say about talking when you're not spoken to, boy?" the old man growled, his gravely voice sounding a bit breathy as he continued to assault the teenager laying at his feet.

    Though he could feel the pain that was being inflicted upon him, Clint's mind was elsewhere. In his mind he was floating, no pain or misery. No parents to fear; no peers to judge his greasy hair that fell in uneven lengths; or his oversized and dirty clothes; or the chip in his tooth from when his foster dad punched him in the mouth and couldn't afford to have it fixed -- not that he would have if he could. There was nothing but empty, blank space.

    As quickly as the first blow came, the beating stopped. It took a moment for Clinton to come back to reality, and when he did, he found himself in the kitchen. Alone.

    His limbs ached as he started moving, stretching them from where he sat curled up on his side on the kitchen floor. Sometime during the beating, he had fallen to the floor and smacked his head on the door of the stove. It throbbed where he had struck it, to prove that fact.

    Carefully, and with much difficulty, Clint had stumbled back to his room and pulled on some clothes. Luckily, the weather was half decent today, as if taking pity on the boy who didn't own a winter jacket or boots. The only things that kept him moderately warm, was a black knit hat he had bought for fifty-cents from the thrift store in the strip mall, and a thick grey hoody that did little to block out the usual fridge to temperatures of February weather. He didn't even own a pair of mittens, leaving him to stuff his hands into his hoody pockets.

    When he had got to school, kids either shoved him out of their way, or avoided standing too close to him due to the smell of sweat, alcohol and cigarettes, that clung to his clothes. It wasn't his fault that his foster parents couldn't afford to buy a washer, or the fact that he had to scrounge around for quarters for the machines at the local laundromat. Sometimes adults took pity on him and gave him money for laundry. If they were really generous, they gave him enough for some food too. Clint didn't like being pitied, he felt ashamed of his poor hygiene and thin frame, but he was grateful for the money anyway, and would never turn it down if the person insisted.