It was the pain that made nine-year-old Marty McManus stir first; that wasn't unusual, and with a faint moan, the young boy started to sink back into pleasant oblivion, but even with his eyes still closed, Marty could sense a certain unfamiliarity with his surroundings that made him cling to the state of semiconsciousness he found himself in. Whatever he was laying on was too soft to be the kitchen floor, which was where he last remembered being awake. There was something soft cushioning his head, too- it felt like a pillow, and the disgusting, sticky feel of half-dried blood, something that Marty was more than accustomed to waking to, was conspicuous in its absence. Something had happened, and there was no way to tell whether it was good or bad. *I'm dead,* Marty thought suddenly, his blood running cold. *I'm dead, and this is Hell.* It didn't feel much like Hell, though, and Marty decided that it was probably a good idea to try and figure out what was going on.

Gingerly, he tried to open his eyes. One ached and was swollen shut, but the other slitted painfully, also swollen but not quite as badly. When his vision had cleared enough that he was able to look around, Marty found himself in a small room that wasn't one he recognized. The walls were a soothing, light blue, and the white tile floor shone brightly. Crisp white sheets and a warm blue blanket covered Marty as he lay in bed, and when he slowly turned his head against the pain to look behind himself, he could see various tubes and screens. A soft beeping was audible, and Marty quickly deduced that his heart had been attached to a heart monitor. *A hospital,* he realized quickly. *I'm in the hospital.*

Marty started to tremble at this. He and his father had an understanding about hospitals and doctors; Marty was not, under any circumstances, to reveal how he had been injured. If doctors started to suspect anything, his father generally whisked him away, with or without treatment. Once Marty had recovered some, he was punished for failing to do his job properly. Swallowing hard, the boy tried to push such thoughts out of his mind as he started to mentally catalog what his injuries were. His left shoulder flared with pain and glancing over, Marty could see that his right arm had been bound to some sort of a splint. His left had been left free, but what wasn't covered by the short-sleeved hospital clothing he was wearing was mottled with dark bruises and partially-healed abrasions. Grimacing, Marty wondered just how bad his face looked before he moved on to looking over his other injuries.

Tentatively lifting the blanket that covered his legs, Marty gasped. The hospital gown only came down to his knees, and what he could see of the rest of his legs wasn't pretty. Almost every inch of them was covered in vicious bruises, welts and sores. Some were older, but those were covered by newer ones. With a shudder, Marty swallowed hard and allowed the blanket to fall back into place. He could feel bandages of some sort encircling his ribs, and his back ached. Try as he might, Marty could remember no more than falling to the kitchen floor; the punishment must have been awful, but he couldn't even remember what had precipitated it.

During all of this, a dull pain had been thrumming throughout Marty's body, concentrating itself in his head and chest, worsening whenever he moved. As he lay in the hospital bed, unable to gather enough strength to so much as sit up, Marty began to panic. He had no idea of what he would tell anyone that asked him how this had happened; falling down the stairs would never be accepted by any doctor and neither would falling off of his nonexistent bicycle or running into a door. There was no possibility of explaining away injuries like these, but if Marty didn't find a way, he would only be punished again, later. Tears sprung to Marty's eyes at this thought, and with a plaintive half- whimper the boy closed his eyes, inwardly resigning himself to at best a fate at least as painful as things were now.

Just as the panic was threatening to swallow Marty whole, the soft hiss of an opening door startled his eyes open, and he glanced over to see a tall, white-coated doctor entering the room. Quickly, Marty scrubbed at his eyes with one hand, hoping that the doctor wouldn't see that anything was wrong.

The doctor said nothing at first, only strode over to Marty's bedside, pulling up a small stool and grabbing a padd that hung at the end of the bed. Sitting down, he regarded the boy silently for a moment, finally saying, "Hi, Martin, I'm Doctor McKenzie."

Out of his one good eye, Marty gazed mutely at the doctor for several long moments. The man in front of him was thin, with brown hair and dark brown eyes. He looked kind, gentle, even, but Marty couldn't stifle the wave of terror that was building inside him. This person was the enemy, someone from whom the truth had to be hidden at all costs. Realizing that Doctor McKenzie was waiting for some sort of an answer, Marty whispered, "Hullo, sir."

Doctor McKenzie smiled at this, but there was something sorrowful about him, and the smile didn't reach his eyes. "You don't need to call me 'sir,' Martin. My name's John, and that's what you can call me."

"Marty, sir," Marty murmured suddenly, surprising himself. "Everyone calls me Marty." *Father doesn't,* a malicious voice whispered inside his head. *He doesn't call you anything except cuss words.*

Again John McKenzie smiled, but again the smile didn't wasn't very happy. "Okay," he agreed, pausing to glance at the padd he held before turning back to his patient, his countenance growing somber. "Martin- Marty, I need to ask you what you remember of before you woke up here."

Marty hesitated. Was it safe to tell this doctor? He remembered so little that it probably wouldn't matter, but what if it did? Inwardly shrugging, Marty sighed faintly. What did it matter? There was no way to hide what had happened, anyway. "I.... All I remember is falling down on the kitchen floor, sir." When he spoke, Marty was so quiet that McKenzie had to lean in to hear him.

McKenzie nodded slightly. *This is going to be awful,* he thought, *unless this kid remembers more than he's telling me.* "Marty," he began softly, "do you- do you remember anything else? Anything about, say, the police?"

"The police?" Marty frowned, confused, before remembering to answer. "N-no, sir," he stammered, at the same time thinking, *They called the *police*? What did I do? Oh, God, I'm in so much trouble....* Marty started to tremble violently, clutching the sheets of his bed with his free hand.

"Shhh, Marty, it's all right," McKenzie murmured, starting to reach out to place a comforting hand on Marty's shoulder but stopping when Marty tried to cringe away, a soft sound of terror escaping him. "No one is going to hurt you. You're safe here, we'll help you."

Eyes closing in defeat, Marty shook his head slightly. *No you won't,* he thought despairingly. *No one can help me.* The strong hand of panic that had been creeping up on Marty since he had regained consciousness began to wrap its fingers around the boy's heart, and the pain in his chest started to grow worse. Marty's breath began to come in short gasps and embarrassed, the young boy scrubbed a hand over his eyes.

McKenzie watched, his throat tightening in sympathy as Marty grew increasingly frightened. For a moment the doctor was frozen, unsure of what to do, but finally he reached out and laid a gentle hand on Marty's shoulder, whispering, "Martin, it's all right. It's not you, you're not in any trouble. We... the police told us about your father. He won't be allowed to hurt you anymore."

It took a long moment for the doctor's words to sink in. When they did, Marty turned wide blue eyes toward Doctor McKenzie, slowly shaking his head. "Wh-wh-what?" he stammered, stunned. "I- how...?"

"Marty, one of your neighbors called the police when the... when things in your flat got noisy."

"I'm sorry, s-sir," Marty apologized immediately, mortified at what he was hearing. *Father's going to kill me! Oh, God, let my whole life be a bad dream....* "I... I tried to be quiet...."

"No," McKenzie said quickly, horrified at what he was hearing, "no, you don't understand. It wasn't you, you're not in trouble. The neighbors called the police, and when the police came, they saw what your father was... they caught him in the act, Marty. He's been taken in, he isn't here to hurt you any more." Doctor McKenzie looked closely at the child in front of him, waiting for a reaction, but there wasn't one. Though Marty seemed to calm somewhat at this piece of information, his eyes were dull, and he wouldn't make eye contact. *He's in shock,* McKenzie diagnosed quickly, *and why wouldn't he be? He was just almost beaten to death by his own father, and I don't think he even realizes yet how badly he's hurt.*

There was a long moment of silence before Marty spoke, his voice so low that McKenzie had to strain to hear him. "What's wrong with me?" he asked softly. "How long will I be here?"

Frowning, McKenzie consulted Marty's chart. "Your arm was fractured, and your shoulder got dislocated," he began, trying to keep his tone neutral and not emphasize just how bad Martin's injuries were, despite his inner horror at what he was having to say. "You had some broken ribs and sprained muscles, and there was a lot of bruising. We fixed most of it," he hastened to add, "but everything will need some time to heal. You'll be here for at least a week."

Marty sighed faintly in defeat. "I can't stay," he whispered. "My father won't let me.... He'll want to take me back sooner."

"Marty, it doesn't matter what your father wants anymore," McKenzie said, beginning to wonder if Marty had understood him. "He's been arrested for... for what he did to you. You'll be able to stay here for as long as you need to to get well, and you don't need to worry about your father any more."

Marty nodded slightly, but McKenzie could see that he didn't really believe what he was being told and was already beginning to close himself off, preparing for the inevitable return home. He wanted to say something, anything to reassure this boy that things would be all right, but there was nothing to say. *What do you tell a kid who's spent his whole life being beaten to a pulp by his father? Don't worry, he's gone and now you'll be fine, so act like it?* Shaking his head, McKenzie said only, "You need to rest, so lie here and get a little sleep." Suddenly, though, a thought occurred to him. "Are you hungry? When was the last time you ate?"

The only answer to this was a mute shrug. "Okay," McKenzie said slowly. "Well, you get some sleep, and someone will be by in a while to bring you some food." Marty nodded, still silent, watching carefully as McKenzie left the room, pausing to dim the lights and put the chart back at the end of the bed. The truth was, Marty couldn't remember the last time he ate, and he had been so hungry for so long, he had forgotten what being full was like. There was no way he could have told the doctor that, though, so it was better to stay silent.

As Marty lay there in the near darkness, trying to do what he had been told and go to sleep, he began to tremble violently. There was no way that what the doctor had told him was true; there had to be some sort of a mistake, or, even worse, all of this was some sort of a dream, and Marty would wake to find himself lying on the kitchen floor. How many times had he dreamed of someone coming and telling him that his father had disappeared or someone rescuing him and taking him away? Innumerable times, and nothing had ever come of any of them. *No,* Marty thought resignedly, *none of this is true. It's just a dream, and- if I go to sleep, I'll probably wake up at home.* This idea caused Marty to freeze in dread. He didn't want to wake up at home, not ever again, but it was unavoidable. Inwardly, the young boy resolved to stay awake for as long possible, in an attempt to delay the inevitable.

Despite his terror at the prospect of finding himself back home with his father again, Marty was undeniably exhausted, and his eyelids began to droop after only a few minutes. He struggled valiantly against the tiredness, but the strain soon became too much. Marty could feel tears of frustration and fear pricking at his eyelids and after several moments of trying to repress the slow boil of emotions that was bubbling up inside of him, he began to cry softly. Scrubbing at his eyes, he struggled to stop, but it was no use. For years Marty had been suffering with no reprieve, no way to release the horrendous pressure that had built itself up inside him, and now that some of it had started to come out, there was no way to stop it. Laying in his hospital bed, the young boy sobbed softly, choking on the tears until he cried himself to sleep.