[[Ello! This is my first fanfic-- well, the one that I've actually let people READ, but that's beside the point -___-;; Anywho, this is basically going to be MxM, so if you don't like yaoi, I suggest reading it anyway until your eyes bleed to the point that you WANT to like yaoi!(: Okay sorry I'm bad. But there will also be some light, implied MxN as well, so prepare for the worst! I'm so glad that you (yes, you, lucky peanut gallery stander-outer) is reading this! Thank you so-so much!]]

Stark: [stahrk] harsh, grim, or desolate; rigid in death; strong, powerful; complete: having reached the fullest extent or degree of something; without clothes: completely unclothed and uncovered.

It was one of those times.

It was definitely one of those times.

I could swear time froze; it stopped and then restarted. But when it restarted, everything was so different. Everything slowly cleared up, slowly resurfaced itself after all this time.

I wasn't myself.

But I was.

Things looked a little brighter, until they started slowly growing dimmer and darker as they kept coming, as I neared the end of…

My old self.

That's who I was. My old self. During these times…

There were times when I'd catch a glimpse of my stained past, when my subconscious mind would dig up a repressed memory, one I'd purposefully buried long ago, and throw it at my conscious mind. No barriers. No throwing them back. No reason. The only thing I could do was hope it was one of the few pleasant memories I'd had, but really, how many of those did I have? I was forced to watch them, forced to remember…

I reached up high, high onto my mother's hidden bookshelf in the back of her closet. Her and my father shared a bedroom, but had separate closets. My father had once said he didn't want my mother pilfering through his things and gave her the closet in the "office" downstairs.

I stood up onto my tippy toes and stretched as far as my six-year-old body would allow, and finally the tips of my fingers brushed dusty paper edges. My mother hid books in her closet, thankful that she had her own, for my father said that wives were not supposed to read, that their duty was to care for her husband and their children. She was a big fan of romances and science-fiction, I remembered. She didn't know that I was aware of her secret hobby. I was glad. She had this hidden from my father, and I didn't want her to worry that I would tell him. I wouldn't. I didn't want to get her in trouble.

I didn't want her to be hurt by him again.

I jumped and knocked down a book that landed on the floor with a loud thud. I cringed and peeked out the cracked bedroom door a few steps away. My father was still in his beat-up recliner, beer in hand, feet on the table, watching Wheel of Fortune. I sighed in relief and picked up the book with edges that weren't yellowed with age. So my mother had recently bought herself a new book? Huh. When did she get the time or money to do this? Let alone sneak past my father? I thought that she might have done it while grocery shopping.

I silently debated on which hideout to use today. There was the closet under the stairs that had an almost unseen turn at the end, where I had a desk light that emitted no light to the main space of the closet. I liked that cozy place a lot.

There was also the attic that my father was completely unaware of. It had a pull down ladder leading to it's depths in my room. It was pretty well-lit for having only one small window.

But… There was always The Lot.

Back in the extreme corner of the three approximate acres out house sat on, there was a wall-resembling mass of grass and weeds as tall as I was. I liked to sit behind it on a few bales of hay that I'd swiped from the back of the house and made into a makeshift couch for me to lounge on when I read or felt like escaping my father's strict "household" rules. It was by-far my favorite place to be when the weather was right. So, naturally, I chose The Lot, as I so called it.

Book in hand, I crept silently over to the edge of the bedroom, getting onto my hands and knees and crawling out the doggie door for the dog we didn't have that was, for some odd reason, in the office downstairs. It was the perfect size for me, though, and I slipped through hushed and concealed, like a ghost.

It was a two-minute walk to The Lot from the house, and, though it was on our property, I always had this paranoid feeling whenever I went there. Like… If my father would see me out a window and chase after me, stringing profanities, wanting to hurt me like he sometimes did. I had enough marks left from him… I didn't need another. He never knew about my reading habits, my hiding places, or even my vast extent of knowledge. I was sure that I knew more than he did, in a sense. He called me his "Sport," his "Chap," and his "Amigo," even though we didn't have a speck of Hispanic descent in our blood. In other words, I was his little sidekick, and he had me do a lot of his dirty work along with him.

But that didn't mean that I was his favorite person. It didn't mean that I was treated with special attention. In fact, being close to him was like getting the shit end of the stick. Each time I was caught doing something that was out of character for a man, like helping my mom cook or clean, writing in a journal, or even praying, I was hit. Whether it was a slap in the face, a kick in the ribs, or a punch in the jaw, I was always punished this way. It was never "Sit in the corner for a minute and think about your mistakes." It was never that simple. It was always, "Why don't you fucking listen!? Every time I tell you, every time, you betray my trust! Why don't you listen to my God damned words, Mihael!? Why don't you listen!? Why don't you ever listen for once in your fucked up life!?" At the end of every day, I'd pray, pray that my father would understand. I never prayed against him. I always prayed for him. Quiet and reserved, I'd pray, "Lord grant me a safe and restful sleep that I might awaken refreshed and eager to serve you. Amen… And also, if I may ask, please help my father understand me, understand my mother, understand our circumstance and help guide him to the right path. I know he can find it, he just needs a little help, that's all." And with a child's smile, I would go to sleep, believing that God was going to help my father be a better person.

But that would never happen.

The midday sun beat down on my black clothes as I ran across the field of grass and bits of wheat and patches gravel. I got to The Lot and sat on the makeshift couch, made myself comfortable, and got to reading.

It wasn't a science-fiction novel or a romance novel, but something completely different. In fact, it wasn't even a book at all. It was a journal, bound in black leather with a black ribbon tied around it in a feeble attempt to hide its contents. With curious, bright green child's eyes, I untied the black ribbon and let it glide mutely to the ground by my feet. I opened it and the spine made cracking noises in protest, as if saying, "No, Mihael! You can't read me! I'm someone else's property!" But I didn't mind it. I was too curious, too interested in what might be contained on it's smooth, white pages…

What was contained would change everything I knew.

It was in my mom's neat cursive, and I dove into her words without hesitation. I was taking a leap into her life, into her mind, looking at things from a film of glass from her eyes.

December 13, 1989Today is a truly wondrous day. I gave birth to my first child and it is a fantastic baby boy. I named him Mihael, pronounced my-hail. He was 6 lbs and 1 oz. at birth-- what a small baby! I was worried he would not be healthy enough to withstand the birthing process, but he proved me wrong. I know that he is strong enough to bear anything if he tries.

He has my blonde hair and his father's emerald eyes-- I'm just hoping that that will be the only part of his father he inherits. I do not want him to be like his father. Lord please, bless his soul, but I do not want him to be like his father.

I thought about this entry. My father did not have green eyes. His were black, the color of his iris matching that of his pupil, so it was always frightening to be glared at by him. Why did she say that I had my father's eyes.

I had never thought about this before… Now that I was thinking about it, my mother had blue eyes, and my father's were black. Neither of them had green eyes. Not one speck. I ignored this oddity and flipped forward a few entries.

April 4, 1990

My husband hit me for the first time today. He threw a hand across my cheek so hard that I'm black and blue on one side of my face. I am crying as I write this, and my hand is shaking. He threatened to hurt dear baby Mihael, and I wouldn't allow it. Mihael is my child, and I will not allow him to be subject to any form of pain or suffering on my account or anyone else's, for that matter. I will protect him no matter what it takes.

Wow, my mother was… is… a remarkable woman. I truly envied her sense of justice…

With trembling fingers, I flipped through another chunk of pages and read that entry.

August 24, 1991

My best friend, Angela, had her baby today. I am very excited for her. He was only 5 lb. and 3 oz. Even smaller than Mihael! He was born with strange, silvery colored hair. It puzzles me! He is quite pale, as is Angela, even paler than my Mihael. He reminds me of a little snow baby. Maybe he and Mihael may have a few playdates? Angela is exhausted at the hospital, so I will remember to ask her within the week. Perhaps they can become good friends.

I recognized the baby as my mother's friend's son, Nate. He was obviously younger than I by a year and a half, and he was never interested in playing with me. I didn't care, I had all I needed. Though he did seem to take a liking to me as I did him, I was the one that taught him many things; how to ride a bike (albeit he hated it and demanded to go inside immediately, how stubborn. His frail body couldn't take the physical demands, anyway.), how to use a toilet properly, and all of his manners. They all came from me.

But his mother died in June of last year and his father was incapable of raising him on his own. He was sent to an orphanage to be cared for properly. I wondered sometimes if he had been sent to a home as nice as his mother's.

I didn't think much of it at the time.

But I kept reading.

May 19, 1995

Mihael will have to leave sometime this month. We have already signed him into the orphanage he will be staying in. I signed him into the Catholic based orphanage. I know he will appreciate that. I will miss him so terribly that I can not even bear to write anything to it.

This entry… was yesterday, I thought. How could she…? What did she mean…?

Leave?

Me?

Orphanage?

How could I appreciate something that wasn't my home, wasn't my mother?

The words continually echoed throughout my head in the pale sunlight. Have to leave. Catholic orphanage. Miss him…

Suddenly, I was being hoisted up by my shoulders, the journal falling out of my hands and rapidly hitting the ground. I let out an audible gasp, then started batting my arms and legs around, hoping to hit whoever was trying to take me away from my hidden spot. I didn't hit anyone, and soon I was being thrown against the hay couch. I let out a yelp at the pain that shot through my back and looked up at who was guilty of such acts against me.

It was my father.

Or so I had thought for basically my whole life. How could they lie to me? To me, a child? Because children were so easy to lie to. You could feed them lies for ages, answer every question they asked with something false and they would believe it.

I believed them.

It was the man that I thought to be my father for so long, never knowing, never even wondering who my real father was.

My eyes widened at the sight of his silhouette against the bright sun and he frowned, a snarl on his lips. "What are you doing out here, Mihael!?" he shouted angrily. "What did I tell you earlier? I told you to stay in your room! Your mother was out doing groceries and I told you to stay in your fucking bedroom!" I was out of breath and lying against the seat of the hay, and he stared at me with such rage, such hatred, that I thought that his expression alone would tear right through me and sear my brain.

His eyes shifted to curiosity and flickered over to the ground. "What's this?" he said, and bent over to pick something up. It was the journal, and my breathing either quickened or stopped-- I couldn't tell. He flipped through the pages and read about two sentences, and snapped it shut. He held it up near his face and shook it around. "What the fuck is this!? How long have you known about this, you little shit!? Huh!? Just how long have you known about all these things in here, that your fucking slut of a mother reads, that she is rebelling against me, all of this!?"

I sit there, quiet, saying absolutely nothing. Scum deserve to know nothing.

"Answer me!"

"I don't have to," I said.

"Yes you fucking do!"

"No, I don't!"

His rage turns to full out wrath as he swings down the journal with full force. It caught the side of my head and forced it to the side. I could feel a warm liquid dripping down the side. "Tell me!"

"I don't have to tell you anything!"

"You're my son, I am your father and you will tell me RIGHT NOW!"

I scowled and shook my head. He was wrong… He was so wrong and he knew it, he knew it… "You're not my fucking father," I said bitterly, cursing for the first time in my life. It felt good-- I felt power behind my words.

In a flash, my head is smacked to the other side and more blood splatters across the hay and ground in large amounts. It happens again and again, and I can feel my blood all going all over the place. I don't fight back, just take what I'm receiving and let it happen.

It was the first time I just let something happen.

My blood covered the whole area, and I watched it flow, watched it flow straight out of me and onto the ground surrounding me, marking my place.

All I did was think about my real father.

Why did she say I have my father's green eyes?

Why did she not want me to be like my father?

All I did was wish that I'd known all of this sooner.

But I guess it was better off that I didn't.

Scum deserve to know nothing.