The place felt haunted—but now, I’m relieved when they forget about me. At least then I can pretend I live a different life, where he doesn’t hurt me anymore.
The switch from “nice dad” to monster happened the day after I arrived—and got worse with time.
They barely fed me but threw constant parties.
Men in funny suits walked around with trays full of drinks, and there was food everywhere.
My stomach growled, but I knew better than to ask.
I’d tried once.
When I first got there, they gave me tiny portions. I asked for more—and that was the first time Jonathan beat me.
Not the worst beating I’ve had. This is my fifth or sixth foster home. I’ve lost count.
I never knew what would set them off, so I learned early on: stay quiet. It’s safer that way.
Eventually, you stop wanting affection. I didn’t need love. I just wanted a house and food.
When I’d already given up hope of being adopted, Maria and Jonathan came and said they’d be my parents.
But now, after just a few months here, I’d give anything to go back to the orphanage.
I tried running away once, but the beating I got left me unable to walk straight for days. I still have the marks from the belt buckle across my thigh.
The violence kept escalating—until Jonathan made me an offer: he’d film me beating Maria, and that would spare me from getting hit.
At first, I didn’t understand. Why would I hurt a woman?
I’d never hit anyone before—not even the boys who picked on me at the orphanage. I was bigger than them, and even if no one had taught me right from wrong, I knew it was wrong to hurt someone weaker than you.
Of course I refused.
So he starved me for five straight days. All I got was water.
My stomach ached. I was scared I’d fall asleep and not wake up. My legs felt like lead. Even walking to the bathroom was torture.
I smelled awful because he didn’t let me go upstairs to shower. But still—I didn’t give in.
Then she came to talk to me.
Maria was so beautiful. She never hit me—it was always Jonathan or one of his friends.
She was crying, and she explained that if I didn’t obey, she would get beaten even worse than anything I could do.
Terrified and desperate for a bite of food, I finally agreed. But I did it gently. I just pretended.
That made things worse. Jonathan went into a rage and beat us both.
At that point, I didn’t care what happened to me. I prayed for God to take me to live with the angels. ButMaria . . . she wasn’t strong enough. When I saw her face soaked in tears, I did something I’d never done before. I begged. I begged them to stop hurting her.
And then, I gave in.
But it got harder and harder to remember who I was before they brought me here.
After each session—even bruised and crying—she’d tell me I was a good boy. But I didn’t feel good.
Not anymore.
