I apologize for how long this took to finish but my dang math professor keeps assigning homework. I really enjoy writing and especially feedback from you people. It inspires me to keep writing. I hope you all enjoy :)
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Same restaurant, different overly perky hostess. This time though, Brady wasn't as nervous. He held Ezra's hand in his and he knew that Mr. and Mrs. Lockheart were close behind him. Brady spotted Adam and smiled. They made introductions and sat down. Adam took a short moment to look over Ezra before turning his attention to the Lockhearts. "I wanted to thank you for taking Brady in," he said.
"We're glad to have him," Mrs. Lockheart said. "He's a great young man."
Adam nodded. "I've recently learned more about his situation. I'm very glad he had you people there for him."
"Really it was our son," Mr. Lockheart said. "The boys care for each other very much."
Adam looked at the young couple. Ezra shrunk back into his chair. He didn't like being looked at too much.
"Brady tells me you're a musician," Adam said.
Ezra glanced around and nodded.
"He doesn't like to talk," Brady said, putting a protective hand on Ezra's shoulder. "But yes, he plays piano, along with others."
"That's a good skill to have," Adam commented.
Ezra seemed to relax a little. They enjoyed their meal and as they parted, there were promises of meeting up again.
**
It was dark. Ezra was cold. He was huddled in the corner. He was in trouble.
"I'm sorry," he whimpered.
Sorry wasn't good enough. It never was. He covered his face. "Sorry." He couldn't stop saying it. Why couldn't he stop saying it? It only made it worse.
A big hand captured a small wrist and pulled the small boy away from the corner that was his only defense. Uncle Roger pulled Ezra's pants to his ankles and tapped the several leather straps of the whip against Ezra's backside. He sobbed, "Please don't. Please. I'm sorry."
Pain tore through him. His little body shook and he tried to get away. Tried so hard to get away.
Big hands grabbed him, hurt him. A voice that smelled like death said, "Stop fighting."
Ezra tried to cry out. A big hand covered his mouth. More pain. He screamed. A hand around his throat. He couldn't breathe. He choked and coughed. The world was red.
Then suddenly, a soft voice. "Open your eyes, beautiful. It's OK. I'm here." A gentle shushing sound. "It'll be over just open your eyes."
More pain. Blood ran down his legs.
Brady was there, just like he always was. Ezra clung to him. The nightmare was over. Ezra felt the seat of his pajama pants. No blood, no bruises. Just a dream. Brady's hands brought warmth back to Ezra. He sighed.
"That was a bad one, huh?" Brady murmured.
Ezra closed his eyes, listened to the steady rhythm of Brady's heart. He took a slow breath, in and out. It was over. Uncle Roger couldn't get him anymore.
Ezra didn't really remember his real mom and dad. All he remembered was Roger. A big man with hard hands and breath that smelled like whiskey. He remembered beatings that got worse and worse. He remembered the night when Roger's friends had come into his room and how they had called him a slut for what they made him do. He had been nine years old when his uncle had branded him with the word. Nights were hell, and during the day was just as bad. Roger would clean up what he'd done. He would bandage up his nephew, feed him the table scraps from the day before, and then it was time for lessons.