Thoughts: I could write a banging AU right now. If I had ANY talent, that is. I hope this is at least entertaining, if not an interesting read.

This is my first like, legit BTR story. I am a noob. I am in love with Kogan. And I love AU stories. And, I'm almost 18 and have some very mature things that go on.

Prologue.

Time is a crazy thing. There's never enough of it when you're having fun, and there's always too much of it when you are bored, or hurt. It's never on your side, it won't let you turn it back, and God forbid if it'd ever let you have good moments within the bad ones. Despite all this, nothing can heal any kind of wound quite like time can.

I don't like to remember my childhood. I don't like to remember all the things that I could have done differently, or the things I should have done differently because I can't change the past. It's not easy to relive it, but it's not easy to keep everything bottle up inside.

I was the first child born to either of my parents and I was undoubtedly the biggest mistake of their lives. My mom fifteen, my father seventeen. They were young, and stupid, and they had their whole lives ahead of them. At the time, they couldn't even think of giving me up. They just couldn't stand the thought of not being able to take care of their child.

But it would have been better for everybody

I don't remember a time where my parents didn't despise me. The only way of life I knew was the pure hatred they against me and against each other. Every argument they had was either over me or over money, and sometimes it was even about both. They'd hit me, they'd punch me, they'd kick me till I couldn't breathe. They'd yelled at me, said things they should have regretted, and never loved me. As far as I was concerned, I was just a nuisance to them, I was just there, like furniture, or air.

I was an uncomfortable, awkward, dirty child. I couldn't allow myself to be around others without feeling uncomfortable. I was afraid of everything, I had stranger anxiety, I feared all people. I would get in trouble at school for being too afraid to interact, and then I would be punished at home for this. I would lose meals at home, I would get hit and get told how stupid I was, how useless I was, and how I would never amount to anything if I kept being such a loser.

My first year ever at school was the first year my father started treating me differently. He said there were some things his father and himself had together, some things that were kept secret between them. He said it was time he shared the secret with me, and only me, and we were not allowed to break the secret, because it was a sacred secret, and I had to promise never to tell.

There are some things that I'd never understand. To me, it didn't matter how many times his father had done things to him, or had hit him, or whatever the situation may be. To me, what mattered was how he treated me. His father didn't tell him to do these things to me. He knew it was wrong. He knew he wasn't right, he knew he was sick, and I was six years old. I didn't know any better. I didn't know glue from paste and he still did these things. And my mother wasn't any better, knowing what was going on and not stopping anything.

I was seven when they had another baby and I did my best to help take care of it. My mother suffered from post partum depression, and I tried to convince her not to hurt the baby like she hurt me, I wanted her to hurt me instead of my brother. The relationship between my father and my brother was better than mine. My father seemed to like him, but at the same time, he gave me much more of his attention.

My mother's relationship improved with my brother, but she didn't ever love us. Her and my father loved to drink, they loved to smoke pot, and they loved to ignore their children. I was nine years old, trying to take care of my brother, letting my father beat and molest me, while my mother sat back, allowed it, and rode my ass whenever my grades suffered. I didn't know any other kind of life. I didn't have friends, I didn't know what the word 'fun' was, and I didn't even know my birthday existed.

She left when I was ten, my mother. She was just done, with me, with the situation, with my father. She was twenty five, she felt like she had the world ahead of her, and we had just been bumps in the road. The sad part was, I barely noticed she was gone.

I know I was about thirteen when I told someone what was going on. I'd had a rough night with my father; after refusing to do things he'd wanted me to do, the beatings began. Bruises, cuts, and breaks were formed all over my body before I finally caved and did what he'd wanted. After all, I was put on the earth by him, I was obligated to do what he wanted. But I couldn't breathe. My ribs had been cracked, and I was in school and I felt like I was going to pass out with every breath.

My teacher had noticed the bruises on my face. They couldn't easily be unnoticed, I mean, they were everywhere. I remember being pulled into the principal's office. I remember the face he had; one that he'd never shown me before. I saw the principal a lot and he had never had this look.

"I'm not really sure what's been going on," he said. "But I know something has been going on. I don't know what to say…or exactly what to ask or how to phrase the questions I have. But I trust you to tell the truth."

I had felt cornered, I didn't know what to say, or what to do, or what to think. I looked at my principal. He was Mr. Langston, he was tall, and handsome, and he definitely didn't look like a principal. But he loved kids, and he loved to take care of kids, make them smart, and see them happy. He was the kind of man every father should idolize and want to be like. He was the kind of man I wanted to be my father.

"…I don't know how to answer a question that's not directly asked, sir," I said, my voice steady. "I don't quite know what you want me to say."

"I've been your principal for almost four years at this middle school, Logan. Over those years I've gotten to know you and a ton of other children. You just show signs of…I mean, your life is different than most others' lives."

"Everybody's different. Not just me."

"I know but…there are things…parents are not supposed to hit their children. It is against the law. Do you understand what that means? If your parents hit you, they can go to jail. They can go to jail like someone who steals, or someone who kills."

"They don't hit their child," I said, referring to my brother.

"Logan…how did you get those bruises? I can tell when you're lying." I knew he was lying.

I shifted my eyes. "What bruises?" Obviously, I was stalling. I was attempting to prevent the inevitable, and I so badly wanted this to end right there.

"The ones I can see on your face. There's no doubt in my mind that there are ones that I cannot see. Please…I can help you, okay? You have to trust that I know what to do in these kinds of situations."

"So, you're assuming I'm in a situation, then?" I questioned.

"I'm not assuming anything. I just want you to feel okay. I want you to be comfortable wherever you are. I want you to feel safe no matter what."

I couldn't help my smirk and roll my eyes and think, I'll never feel safe.

"I don't know if you're aware, Logan, but this isn't a game." His tone had suddenly changed, and he was being harsh. "It's not okay, what they're doing to do. You cannot be treated like this, just say it, just say what they're doing, say the words, and I can end it all here. I can make it all stop. I can find a safe home for you and your brother. I have the power to do all of that, if you just say it."

My heart told me to burst into tears, but my brain told me to stay strong no matter what. My body always listened to my brain; it was usually right. But this time, it was wrong. It was screaming, 'stay strong, just tell him you don't know what he's talking about.' My heart was saying, 'this will make a difference.'

So I said it. I told him everything. I told him how my parents beat me, and how they kicked me, and how they would take away meals for days at a time. I told him how they always had me convinced I was wrong, I was useless, and worthless, and how I couldn't help but believe anything else. I told him the things my father said, the things my father did. I'd never shown emotion, I never let him know how I felt about anything. I could never do that to anybody, for any reason. My thoughts were the one thing I had to myself, for me, and only me.

I didn't go home that night. I was taken into DCYF custody almost immediately, and my brother was immediately taken from my parents when I told the social worker what I had told my principal. "Don't make me go back," I remember telling her, afraid of what would happen. "Get my brother out, and don't make me go back."

I remember everything that had happened that night. I remember all the questions I'd asked, I remember all the things asked to me. I remember the color of the room, the time, the temperature, the mood. I was solemn. I was strong. I was mature. I didn't show any fear.

"What's going to happen to my brother and I?"

"Well, you will both be placed into foster care until the scheduled court date. The judge will decide your fate, and when he rules in our favor, you and your brother will both remain in foster care, up for adoption, until you become adopted. We will try our best to keep you together-"

"No," I said quickly. This was something I had feared. "You don't understand," I said. "My brother would be much, much better off without me. I know what's going to happen after the court date. I know we're not going back to my dad's. I'm not dumb…I don't want him to know any of this. I want him to grow up with a happy family, without expecting me to answer questions. I want him to live with a happy family, one that will love him unconditionally, and give him all the attention he's ever needed. I don't want to be apart of that. Nothing about me can make him happy."

"Logan…your brother needs you-"

"He doesn't. Please don't question me, don't tell me I'm wrong, don't try to convince me to change my mind. I've made my solid argument, and if you try to convince me otherwise, I might just fall for it, and I do not want you to change my mind about this. He deserves better than what he's had, or what he'll have with me. I know I'll mess him up."

After the court date, I didn't see my brother, or father ever again. My brother was adopted by a doctor, and his Baptist wife. They were happy, wealthy, and had one other child around the same age. He was going to have the life he deserved, he was going to be happy, and wealthy and successful. That was all I had wanted for him, and I didn't want him to know about any of the life he'd had within his first six years.

For me, it wasn't so easy. I didn't like foster care. I didn't like change, and I struggled to become accepted in any home I entered. It was much harder for a thirteen year old to be placed than a six year old. The first foster home I went to, I could not get along with their sixteen year old son, who felt like I was taking his place, and who hated me and beat me up. The second foster home I went to was downright awful; the husband hated all children, and the mother needed me for the money the government gave her for having me. The third family wasn't too bad, but I ran away from their house because I couldn't eat and after that they refused to accept me back.

By the sixth family, I was tired of being moved. I was fourteen, I was exhausted, and I was done with this foster family bullshit. I had turned hard as stone, I had walls, I let no one in, and I couldn't even imagine settling comfortably with a family. One thing my principal had promised, though, was that I would feel safe no matter what. And I did. I just wasn't happy. Although, I never had been, so I didn't see the difference at all.

At fifteen, the thirteenth family I was going to was, "a great family," like all the others, and had, "experience with troubled teens," like all the others, and was "going to love you" like all the others, and was, "going to take care of you" like all the others.

The thirteenth family, I had learned, was the Knight's. The mother was a stay-at-home-mom, the father was a Christian Preacher, there were two children, a boy, a girl, and they had never, never, failed to improve a foster child's life.

Challenge accepted.