A hit, a scream, a wail, a sob. Noises like these were emitted every day by one young boy, in the basement of a house on Staten Island, where all of his cries, no matter how loud, were sealed, bouncing back at him and the madman above him, hitting him over and over. Barney Stinson was this young boy's name, a boy no older then ten and already battered and beaten like a soldier.

His father, Jerome Whitaker constantly beat the little boy, going as far as nearly killing him one time, until his Mother had stepped in, screaming and sobbing. He had then hit her. That had hurt more then many of the kicks Barney had received, to see his Mother punched.

It had started at the age of 5, when his younger brother, James, was adopted. Barney was a very loved child up until this point. The day his brother came home, his parents paid him no attention, which didn't bother him much, he knew that James was their first priority right now.

It went on longer though, and Barney got very lonely. He had no friends, after all. So one day he had decided to play with baby James. He had to stand on his tippy toes to get the boy out of the crib, and just as he had had him over the bars, his father stormed in, saw him, and screamed at him. Barney had fallen backwards, dropping James at the same time. Jerome had pulled him up and hit him, hard, on his cheek, screaming about how he was irresponsible.

It only went downhill.

At 12, it was still going on, and each day Barney slowly grew depressed with his father's words. He had started to believe them, and it all grew to much. He took a knife and ran it over his arms, over and over until his blood soaked the ground and he struggled to bandage his arms, tears streaming from his face.

At 14..

At fourteen..

...

(Present Day)

A knock on the door.

The suited man got up, flashing a cheeky grin at his friends and speaking, "Here's our screwdriver now!". They all wondered if by screwdriver, Barney meant some kind of prostitute or an actually, you know; tool.

Barney opened the door, and his face grew pale, fear glimmered in his eyes.

No.

He hid it, and instead turned to his friends, whispering not-so-subtly, "Guys, I'm pretty sure that's not Louise but I can't be certain, someone introduce yourself,"

"Barney I-"

No, no, no!

"-I got your letter..,"

Please no..

"Dad..?"

The others left a few minutes later, leaving him and his father alone. The moment his door quietly clicked shut, Barney was up against the wall, sweating, trembling, shaking. "H-how did you find me?" he tried to yell, but only to achieve a broken whisper. The man, Jerome Whitaker, smile, a kind, creepy smile that made the suited man even more frightened.

"I did some research," Jerome mused, and Barney couldn't help but whisper, 'So you're a stalker now too?' silently. Apparently not silently enough, as the moment the words had left his lips, the older man had him pinned to the wall, one hand around his neck. "Shut up," he hissed, and Barney just whimpered. Jerome smirked, dropping the boy to the ground.

Barney instinctively tried to shuffle backwards when he was released, to no avail since he was, well, against a wall. He still tried, though.

"You were a little jack ass, doing what you did," Jerome hissed, his words icy cold with venom. "I almost still can't believe it to this day, that my own son would do that!" he gasped, sarcasm now joining the venom in his voice. "Not that I consider you my son anymore, of course," he added. Barney looks downwards, mumbling the words,

"You never did..,"

Jerome smiled.

An hour later, Barney walked into Ted's apartment, bruises and scars hidden under his jacket. He lied to them about the day.

He began to hurt once more.