[DGW: I didn't like how the story was going so I rewrote it, warning, first chapter contains mention of patricide, assault, and cult behaviors.]
The door opened with a soft creak, the sound oddly loud in the sterile hush of the observation room. The therapist stepped in carefully, as though entering a sacred space, or perhaps a minefield. Her heels clicked softly on the linoleum floor, echoing off the blank walls as she lowered herself into the chair opposite the boy.
He didn't look up.
"Apologies for the delay," she said gently, smoothing her skirt as she sat. "There was... an incident down the hall."
Still, no reaction.
The boy sat with his shoulders curled inward, spine rigid. His hands were hidden beneath him, pressed flat against the seat of the chair. His black hair hung in tangled ropes across his face, veiling his expression like a curtain. Beneath the mess, his eyes locked onto the floor with a kind of quiet fury, unwavering.
She consulted the folder in her lap. "It says here you prefer to be called Donny," she said, cautiously testing the name. "Or Abby, if that feels better to you."
No response.
Her eyes drifted to the tips of his fingers—just barely visible beneath his thighs. Stained. Not fresh, but dried in the creases. A faint, rust-colored halo at every fingertip.
"I'm not here to hurt you," she said softly, leaning forward. "But I am here because I want to understand what happened. And because we need to talk about what you did."
That got him. His eyes flicked upward for a split second, just long enough to register her presence. Then back down again.
"You maimed three people," she continued, her tone measured but not without weight. "I need to know why."
The boy's lips parted. His voice, when it came, was low and rasped, like it had been dragged across gravel.
"They weren't people."
The therapist paused, pen hovering over her notepad. Her voice stayed calm, almost curious. "Why do you say that?"
Donny didn't answer right away. His mouth opened, then shut. A tremor passed through his frame like a wave held beneath the skin.
"They didn't care," he murmured finally, the words barely audible. "They watched him do it. Prayed while he did. Like she was... a sacrifice."
The therapist's pen stilled. "She... Ethel? Is that who you mean?"
He flinched. Not from the name, but the weight it carried.
"She's my sister," he whispered. "Not really. But she was the only one who didn't look at me like I was filth."
He finally lifted his gaze, meeting the therapist's eyes. It was jarring—those eyes, too old for his face, too aware. The kind of stare that made adults forget they were talking to a child.
"He was going to kill her," Donny said flatly. "And they were going to let him. Said it was what she deserved. For having the baby. For bleeding."
His voice turned brittle. "Clyde called her a 'thorned rose.' Said the Leader gave him shears. Said pain was holy. He said that about me, too. Every time he cut me, or made me lie in the pit. Said it was The Leader's way of getting the devil out."
The therapist's grip on her notepad tightened.
"So," she said carefully, "when you saw Clyde with Ethel, what did you do?"
The boy's breath hitched—more memory than fear.
"I stopped thinking."
He slowly lifted his hands from under him. His fingers trembled, caked in dried blood at the nails and knuckles. They looked small. Fragile. Not capable of the kind of violence he had committed. And yet...
"I hit him with the lamp," Donny said. "The iron one by the bed. I kept hitting until I couldn't hear him anymore."
His voice didn't crack. Didn't waver.
"They came after me," he added. "The sister wives. Screeching. Like animals. Like it was me who sinned. They called me a serpent. The pit-beast. Said I finally proved them right, living up to the name they gave me."
He gave a faint, bitter smile that didn't touch his eyes. "Guess they got what they wanted."
The therapist exhaled slowly. "You were protecting her."
Donny's face hardened. "No. I wasn't protecting. I was angry. I wanted them to feel it. What it's like when your skin doesn't feel like yours anymore. When your blood is something they think they own. When they say your mother's crazy just because she saw them for what they were."
Silence fell like a heavy blanket. The hum of fluorescent lights filled the space between them.
The therapist laid her pen down. "Donny... can you tell me about your mother? Before she was institutionalized?"
Something flickered across his expression. A crack. A tremor. Like glass trying to hold back the sea.
His gaze drifted to the corner of the room, distant.
"No," he said, voice colder now. Final.
The therapist sat motionless for a long moment, watching the boy carefully—his small shoulders drawn tight, his voice fading like smoke in the air. There was no trace of malice in him. No sign of cruelty. Just the scar-tissue residue of too many injuries left to rot in silence. His words clung to the room, heavy with something ancient and raw.
"She doesn't belong there. They broke her because she wouldn't break me."
The therapist slowly reached for the folder again, flipping past the intake form to the risk assessment. There were boxes left unchecked. Recommendations not yet finalized. Words like danger to others scribbled next to clinical phrases—Reactive Violence, Disassociation under Duress, Psychological Bonding with Trauma Victims.
She crossed them out, one by one.
Her hand steadied.
"I'm going to make a call," she said finally. "Would that be all right?"
Donny didn't move. Didn't answer. But he didn't protest either.
She stood, her chair giving a soft creak in protest as she stepped into the hall and closed the door behind her.
Two hours passed as Donny sat in the offices, staring down at the floor with a dead look in his eyes.
The sun shifted behind the blinds, casting long stripes across the linoleum floor. The hum of the fluorescent lights never stopped, a quiet, constant buzz in the bones.
Donny hadn't moved.
He sat perfectly still, eyes fixed on the floor, as if the pattern of the tiles held some secret only he could see.
Then, the door opened again.
Not the therapist this time.
The man who stepped in was broad-shouldered, tall, and had the look of someone who lived in stairwells and boiler rooms. His beard was streaked with gray, his skin tan from outdoor work, his black hair cropped short under a fading Cubs cap. He stood just inside the doorway, hesitant.
He didn't say anything at first. Just studied the boy with wary eyes. Like he wasn't sure if Donny was going to speak, scream, or vanish.
Donny didn't move.
The man cleared his throat. "Uh... Hey."
Nothing.
"I'm Eddie. Eddie Thales." He rubbed the back of his neck. "I—look, I don't know how to do this part. They told me to come in and... say something."
Donny finally glanced up, eyes like cold tar.
"I don't know you," he said flatly.
Eddie nodded, awkward. "That's fair. I didn't know you either. Not until this morning. Your mom—my half-sister—we hadn't talked in... Jesus, almost fifteen years." He offered a shrug, like he didn't expect forgiveness. "I guess we weren't close."
The boy's eyes narrowed. "So why are you here?"
A beat passed. Eddie looked down, then back up again.
"They said you didn't have anyone else."
Donny's mouth twitched, but it wasn't a smile. More like a wince.
"I had Ethel."
"I know," Eddie said, gently. "I heard what you did."
Something shifted in Donny's expression. A warning.
Eddie raised his hands, palms out. "Not judging. I just mean... someone had to stop that bastard."
Silence.
"They always said I was the monster," Donny muttered.
"Yeah," Eddie said quietly. "Sometimes monsters are just kids that no one helped."
That hit something—too close to bone. Donny looked away sharply.
"...what do you do?"
"Superintendent," Eddie corrected. "I keep the pipes from freezing and the tenants from killing each other. Got a little apartment in Humboldt Park. One-bedroom, but I've got a couch that folds out. Better than here."
Another long pause.
"You got rules?" Donny asked.
Eddie gave a half-smile. "Couple. Don't steal from the tenants. Don't throw bricks at the pigeons. And if you pee on the toilet seat, clean it up."
Donny didn't laugh. But his lips didn't tighten as much either.
Eddie waited.
"I don't want a new family," Donny said finally. Voice brittle.
"I'm not asking to be your family," Eddie replied. "Just your roof. Your hot shower. Your plate of microwaved mac and cheese at 2 AM."
Donny glanced at him again. Slower this time.
"You're not gonna make me pay, are you?"
"Nope," Eddie said. "But if you want to curse during poker, you better bet high."
Another beat.
Then: "Do you hit kids?"
Eddie's jaw twitched. "No."
He was telling the truth, but the look in his eyes said he was hiding something.
Donny watched him. Studied him like a cornered animal deciding whether the open door was safer than the cage.
He didn't stand. Not yet.
But he asked, almost a whisper: "You ever meet my mom?"
Eddie hesitated. "Yeah. Once. A long time ago. She was... quiet. But kind. Smarter than anyone gave her credit for. She loved painting. Weird stuff, like broken windows and birds with too many wings."
Donny blinked. His fingers twitched in his lap.
"She used to say I was made of crows," he murmured.
Eddie nodded. "Sounds like her."
A long silence fell again. The kind that made clocks feel too loud.
Finally, Donny slid off the chair. Stiff. Small. Suspicious.
"I don't trust you," he said.
"That's okay," Eddie replied. "You don't have to. Just walk next to me. That's all."
The boy didn't respond. But he followed him out the door.
Not family. Not yet.
But something like a beginning.