Is anyone else sick of those poor Max stories or is it just me? I honestly love it when people get hurt in stories. But only if its one of my favorite characters. Though I do worry about mysef seeing as my favorite character of all time is a guy who kills people by cutting them open and telling them exactly whats gonna happen after they die, while their dying. What can I say? I'm a strange person.

I was looking around and found this site that asks random questions, so I decided to ask all of you some. Don't worry I will answer them as well, if you don't wanna answer thats ok too. So here is this chapters question!

1. Have you ever been tied up? I think my brother tied my to a spinny chair when we were younger. His plan was to spin me around enough times to make me puke. Lets just say I did not feel good afterward.

I do not own Maximum Ride. Though I wish I owned Mr Smith, my crazy favorite character.

"Momma, momma! I made a new friend!"

A little girl ran off the school bus to where her mother was waiting for her. She had her long black hair in two pony tails on the back of her head. Behind her another girl hopped off the bus. She was seven, two years older than her sister, with blond hair with brown streaks in it.

"That's great Ella!" the girl's mother smiled at the little girl and took her hand.

"Her name is Monique! We're gonna be the bestest of friends!" Ella squealed excitedly.

The seven year old rolled her chocolate brown eyes.

"How was your day max?" her mother asked as she opened the door.

"Good, Iggy blew up a stink bomb in math." that was the last thing heard before the door shut, blocking out anymore words.

Looking at the house from across the street was a little boy, the same age as max. He had midnight black hair that reached his shoulders; his bangs fell into his dark eyes. He had a ratty old backpack over his shoulders. He was wearing a brown t-shirt and blue jeans. On his feet he had black and white sneakers.

Even at the young age of seven he was ridiculously thin. Not that anyone could tell from his too big shirt. He sighed almost enviously before looking away from the house and making his way down the side walk. He always went this way even though it was the long way home.

It took the boy ten minutes to get home. His house was a brown two story house, with that movie like picket fence and green green grass. That's thanks to Fred, the lawn man, not from anyone that actually lived in the house. They were lucky Fred did the lawns for free.

The boy cautiously walked to the door of the house. He never knew what to expect anymore. Stepping inside he didn't see anything different from the usual. Beer bottles and drugs littered the floor; a questionable stain was in the living room carpet. He stepped around it, not taking his chances.

He quickly scurried past the kitchen, which was connected to the living room, and made his way up the stairs.

"Nickolas!"

The boy froze on the third step. He slowly turned around to look at his high and drunk mother. A couple years ago he didn't know what either of those words meant, he didn't even know they existed. That is, until his father was killed in a drive by shooting.

He put on his best smile, "yes mother?"

The women glared at him. Nick shrunk away, moving his gaze to the floor.

"Don't act all innocent you little fuck! I know what you did!" she shouted at her young son

Nick just nodded his head slowly. He had learned it was best to go along with her accusations, that way she would leave him alone sooner. This time though, it didn't seem to be working. She kept shouting and shouting at him in her drunken rage, until she suddenly became quiet.

"Come here Nicky." her voice was sweet, like honey.

At the tender age of seven Nick didn't see anything strange about the sudden change, he was just happy she stopped yelling. A small sincere smile came on his lips as he made his way slowly over to his mother.

That was the first time she hit him.

The force of the impact made him stumble back and fall down on his butt. He stared up at her in horror. Fear shown clearly in his eyes as he saw his mother threaten him with a broken beer bottle.

"Get outta here you little shit!"

He was used to her cursing like a sailor, but that didn't mean it didn't hurt when she called him these things. He scrambled to his feet and bolted up the stairs. He ran into his room and slammed his door shut. He chucked his backpack onto his bed and sunk to the floor, fresh tears rolling down his cheeks.

That was the day he learned not to trust anyone, not even his own mother. He closed off his emotions, became known as an emo. Most importantly that was the day his mother started beating him. He took it all silently, never saying a word, or shedding a tear.

He just wished someone would look close enough to see that he was crying on the inside.