Indeed, it had never applied to him. He had never had a real family, no self-proclaimed orphan ever does. Like most, he had spent his life moving from one place to another, running away from it all, and then going back and enduring the torture and spite with the hopes that things would change, that his father would change. .
Father. He shuddered at the word. .
There had been so much pain and so many beatings at his hand, but never any true affection. Ever since his mother had died when he was four, he had depended on his father much as any child would. But all he got in return was a father that neglected his only son; a father who drank until all the money was spent; a father who forced his son to steal, to commit crimes, and to beg at street corners. And even then, there was never any money for food, for clothes, for basic necessities, only for alcohol and hookers. .
God, no matter how hard he tried, he could never get his father's approval. At an age of five when he knew only Spanish, he would get beaten until he spoke only English. When he turned eight, he was beaten because he never spoke Spanish. He could never do anything right. His father always doubted him. .
And it only got worse when she came into his father's life. They moved in with her "the new stepmother "and as the saying goes, out of the frying pan into the fire. Instead of one beating he got two. To them all, he was nothing more than just a filthy animal. .
And then that night, the night he turned seventeen, the final night .
"Kyle, earth to Kyle."".
"Huh? Oh, hey, Lesley,"" he said as he looked up at the woman with soft auburn hair, thick and luxuriant, and eyes like two blue sapphires. .
She tilted her head and studied him, her thin lips turned over in a frown when she noticed his slumped shoulders. "Please tell me you weren't thinking,"" she whispered; and with those words she sat down beside him on the bench and stared deep into his green eyes, noticing the cloud that dimmed their brightness, that plagued his life.