A searing pain shoots up his arm, knuckles splitting open as they slam into Sal's face. Both boys are sent reeling back, the prosthetic clatters to the ground and reveals the mangled mess underneath, he doesn't even flinch. It isn't the first time Travis let his anger consume him like this, releasing his pain the only way he knew how to, giving it to someone else.

It's torture really, to go through the hell that bastard puts him through at home, then that blue haired freak and his little group flaunt their blessings in his face, dangling meat above a chained dog, that's what it feels like. Sal Fisher is kind, free, loved, he's everything Travis Phelps can't be.

And then there's you, stopping Larry from punching him where it hurts, trembling with disbelief and the effort to not slap him yourself. He dreams sometimes, about being a part of your world, having people to fall back on. He wonders what it's like to hold your hand, for your eyes to regard him with something other than disgust, or mere indifference, he'd trade God anything for even a fleeting moment. Not his pride it seems, or his rage, because he isn't about to apologize. And an encounter like this will most definitely happen again.

Who knows, maybe one day he'll find the courage to ask you out, with a fucked up jaw and your buddy's blood on his fist.