Rowan rubbed his cheekbone, where a smudge of blood dripped from a shallow cut. He was beaten, bruised and bloodied. It wasn’t fatal. At least, not to anything but his ego.

The others liked to pick on him. It wasn't really for anything he did, except for the fact that he was an easy target. Smart, and unwilling -- or perhaps unable -- to fight back. It had been this way for years. He hated it. Hated feeling small, feeling pathetic and in need of protecting.

“…Sorry,” he whispered. He had always blamed himself for this stuff. He hated making his sibling take care of him like he was a toddler again.