My adoptive parents tied me up and beat me, cursing the whole time, calling me a worthless bastard.
When I didn't show up at school for three days, Ernest asked around until he found my house.
He tried to get me out. He fought them.
He was a child—how much strength could he have had? They beat his face black and blue, but he wouldn't back down.
It wasn't until a neighbor heard and called the police.
These memories never left me.
What I felt for Ernest went beyond love—it was threaded through with gratitude so deep I couldn't separate the two.
So I poured everything I had into him, gave him whatever I could give.
I believed what we had was unbreakable. I never imagined he would turn on me like this.
The bleeding was getting worse. Wave after wave of weakness washed through me.
Part of me wanted to give up. Just let it end here.
But then I thought of my real parents.
They had searched for me for so long. We had only just found each other.
I wasn't going to die. I was going to live, for them.
I dragged myself toward my phone to call 911.
But I was so weak I couldn't even lift my arm.
Just as my fingertips were about to reach my phone, I heard footsteps.
Someone walked over and took my phone away.