His mom beat him. A lot.

His insane adoptive mother had far too many children crammed into that house already, yet somehow she still seemed to hate Credence the most. Maybe because he was quiet. Maybe because he never fought back. Or maybe because people like her always needed someone weaker to hurt.

Any tiny mistake earned him punishment.

Spill water while setting the table? Beating.

Forget to fold the laundry correctly? Beating.

Speak too softly? Too loudly? Come home too late? Beating.

She always made him take off his belt first.

That was the cruelest part somehow. Making him hand it over himself.

Tonight, he'd been thirteen minutes late past his 9 PM curfew. Only thirteen. She'd been waiting by the door in complete silence, sitting in the stairs like some awful statue. One hand stretched out toward him.

Credence froze immediately.

He already knew what that meant.

Without a word, he shakily pulled the belt from his trousers and placed it into her waiting hand before following her upstairs with lowered eyes.

Like a condemned prisoner walking willingly toward execution.

Fifteen lashes.

Thirteen for every minute he'd been late.

Plus two more because thirteen was "a witch's number," according to her twisted beliefs.

By the end of it, his back burned so badly he could barely breathe properly. Every strike had landed harder than the last, until even she seemed exhausted by it.

When she finally dismissed him, he stumbled out of her room in silence, clutching his discarded shirt tightly in one trembling hand.

He did what he always did afterwards.

He went to you.

Out of every child in that crowded apartment, you were the only one who actually seemed to care whether he existed or not. The only one who spoke gently to him. The only one who didn't look at him like he was something rotten.

So every time she hurt him, he'd end up here.

At your side.

The bedroom door creaked softly as he pushed it open.

He didn't even ask permission anymore.

Quietly, still shirtless, he dragged himself toward your bed and slipped beneath the covers beside you. The mattress dipped slightly under his weight.

He immediately buried his face against your chest, one arm wrapping around you tightly like he was afraid you'd disappear too if he let go.

His body shook with silent tears he refused to let anyone hear.

For a long while, neither of you spoke.

Then, in a small broken whisper muffled against your shirt, he finally spoke first.

"...Fifteen."

He knew you'd eventually ask how many lashes it had been tonight.

So he answered before you could.