Darn those plot bunnies that strike at awkward moments. Story: My friend Big Glasses Girl FanFic told me I should write a Spot Conlon story after I published Except. I LOVE Spot, so I wanted to, but I didn't have a story. Then, I was sitting in the seven-o-clock church service and his entire story, back-story, family, future, getting control of Brooklyn, it all just kind of fell into my head, and I flapped, which just sort of happens when I get excited. Sometimes real bad. My friend Kylie says that if Corey Cott walked in a door, I would flap so hard I'd fly. *sigh* Corey Cott. Anyway, I flapped, and the pastor was talking about the youth and how we need to pray for them, and he was looking right at me because I'm being confirmed in two weeks, and he gave me quite the look. I think this story shows promise, but honest reviews, please.

The belt lashed on his back over and over again, leaving wide red welts he could feel beginning to form. Tears were streaming down his face, his nose was running, but he would not allow a single sound to escape his mouth. He would not give his father the pleasure of knowing how much the belt hurt, would not let him know his rampage had left an impact.

"Lucas...Lucas you was bad. You was a bad boy, Lucas. Is you gonna be bad any more, Lucas?" His father growled out, panting slightly from the effort of striking hard enough to raise welts but not to break the skin. Lucas held still, controlling his urge to writhe, scream, to beg for mercy. Lucas had to be strong. If he wasn't, his father would go after Aodh or Abela. And Lucas could not allow that to happen. He just held still under the onslaught of blows, his mouth clamped tightly shut. This lashing had been going on for a quarter of an hour, surely his father would tire or get bored soon. Lucas felt time phase out around him, nothing mattered, the only things that existed were the belt and his back, he needed to stay strong, to stay silent, to protect his younger siblings. "You know Lucas, you was gonna be called Laoidhigh. Mebee if you was called a proper Irish name like that, you wouldn't be a bad seven year old. Mebbe you was gonna be good if I didn't let that woman, your mother, ta call you Lucas. I hate that name." Lucas realized that his father had started rambling. Rambling meant he was tiring. Sure enough, the lashes started to slow, their strength diminishing. "You has been beat good enough...for now. Go sit in your room now, until I call you, Lucas." Lucas rushed to the small room he shared with his twin siblings.

"Lucas, Luc, is you okay?" Four small, concerned sea-green eyes peered up at him from beneath a blanket on one of the two cots in the room. Lucas managed a small, hopefully comforting, smile in the direction of the twins.

"I'se is fine." He replied, wiping his eyes and nose on his forearm. "Da jist hit me a few times is all." Abela poked her head of fiery red hair out of the blanket.

"But that was a long time, Luc." She looked worried. Lucas looked down at the four-year-olds who had been forced to grow up so quickly. He sighed as he sat down on his cot, wincing at the pain as his back stretched out. The door of the apartment banged open.

"Geussssh who's home, sweetyssssh!" A voice slurred. The twins ducked back under their blanket. They had learned quickly as their home fell apart that that voice meant trouble, that staying out of the way was what was best for them. Lucas nervously pushed himself back against the wall. He couldn't get away with hiding under a blanket, but sometimes curling into a ball made his drunk mother ignore him. With a rampaging father and a drunk mother, a night in the Conlon household could turn real nasty, real fast. The argument began in the kitchen.


"I jisht hada few ta drink, Patty."

"MY NAME AIN'T PATTY!" Lucas closed his eyes at the sound of a slap, then a thud as his mother, weakened by alcohol, collapsed onto the ground. Several more thuds, a few whimpers, then a bellow.

"YOU LITTLE ADULTERESS! YOU HAS BEEN WITH SOMEBODY, AIN'T YA?" Inaudible murmurs. More sounds of violence. Lucas squeezed his eyes shut and waited for the release of sleep. It didn't come until much later, when the sounds from the kitchen had quieted. Dreams of tomorrow plagued his dreams, dreams of more abuse, from his father, his mother, the boys at school. Dream that made sleep less of a release than a burden. Dreams that he was sure were killing him slowly. Nightmares.

Lucas Edison Conlon, everyone. I know the main idea of the story, just the details will be filled in as I write, but it could be lighter later. Maybe.