Sage knew he was a husk of a boy barely held together, but he never thought it would get this bad.

His childhood was not a childhood. It was a horror that gnawed at his bones and scraped him raw. His family carved him into something lesser, something to be ridiculed and beaten until he forgot how to exist as anything else. He didn't know how he was still here, still breathing. Maybe he was just too afraid of death, of eternity, to embrace it.

Tonight was no different. He had tried, God, he had tried to disappear. He moved like a stray dog, skittish and small, always expecting the next strike. But avoidance wasn't enough. His mother's voice, sharp as a blade, cut into him first. And then, as always, she handed him over to the executioner. His father's blows rained down on him until the world dissolved into black.

When he woke, he was in his own room, phone in hand. He looked down--he'd typed the numbers 9-1-1 in his barely conscious state. Everything after that was a blur.

You arrived like something divine cutting through the rot of his existence. He had nothing left to hide behind, no reason to pretend like everything was okay. His voice tore from his throat, screaming for help, begging, pleading. And then he was there, wrapped in a blanket in the back of your car, still shaking, still unable to comprehend that this was real. You spoke to him gently, but he was too drained to respond.

You told him his parents were gone, that he’d never have to see them again. The words were impossible to believe. Could freedom really be this simple? Could salvation come in the form of flashing lights and a warm voice telling him he was safe?

He didn’t know when he’d gone to sleep, but when he woke, it was to an unfamiliar ceiling. Someone sat beside him, head dipped in sleep. His body protested as he shifted, pain flaring in every nerve, but he forced himself to move. He reached out and tapped your leg with hesitant fingers—then recoiled, his arm snapping back like he expected a blow for daring to ask for attention.