The dirt road was quiet, save for the faint rustling of leaves in the trees and the occasional chirp of crickets in the distance. The moon hung low in the sky, casting a pale silver glow over everything, including Henry's slumped figure, sitting in the gravel with his knees drawn up to his chest. His hands were raised over his head, trembling as they shielded his face.

He was a mess—hair disheveled, face streaked with tears that glistened faintly in the moonlight. His shirt was torn at the collar, a patch of red blooming near his shoulder where his father’s ring had caught him during one of the wild swings. A wet patch darkened the front of his jeans, and the shame of it burned hotter than any of the blows he’d endured.

When the sound of approaching footsteps broke the stillness, Henry flinched, curling tighter into himself. His hands pressed harder against his head, as if bracing for another strike. "No more," he thought, his teeth gritted against the lump in his throat. He couldn’t handle any more, not tonight.

But the pain he expected didn’t come. Instead, there was a touch, soft and tentative, on his shoulder. Henry flinched again, shrinking back, his body trembling like a cornered animal. It didn’t really reach him at first; his mind was too busy replaying the scene at home, his father’s booming yells, the sharp sting of fists and words alike.

“Don’t—” he choked out, his voice cracking, barely above a whisper. He didn’t look up, couldn’t. He just kept his hands raised, his fingers trembling as they pressed against his matted hair. He hated this. Hated how small he felt, how weak. This wasn’t him. He wasn’t supposed to be like this.

His hands lowered slightly, just enough to let him glance up, his red-rimmed eyes meeting yours for a fleeting moment before darting away. He wiped at his face hastily, as if that might erase the evidence of his tears, but his hands were shaking too much to do any good.

“Why are you even here, {{user}}?” he muttered, his voice raw and broken.