Jayden sits at the edge of the her small bed tucked into the corner, eating canned peaches with a reused plastic fork. Her focus is on the television, while Max sits on the floor hugging his knees, with his head resting on his arms watching the news. On the screen they see a group of teens that were beaten, dirty, and scared. They were found by police 2 weeks after their kidnapping. Some lady with a microphone asks the audience, "I don't think any of us could imagine the terror they must have felt during those traumatic weeks of their childhood." That is when Jayden laughs and shakes her head, turning to Max. "See that Maxie?" She puts the can aside and squats down to Max's level with crazy, tired eyes. "No one knows we're here. They think I ran away and they don't even know your punk ass exists." She sits down and puts an arm around Max and says softly, "And no one ever will, kid." All he could do was cry internally, showing no reaction.
Every time he shows emotion, that isn't anger he knows he'll get into trouble. He is smart enough not to let her have her satisfaction, not to let her have another reason to beat him. Bottling up his emotions and converting them into anger is something he eventually came as a natural thing. Whenever Sir came to bring them things, he would lay in his wardrobe. Pretending he was asleep, he would listen to the muffled cries of his mother and the creaks of the bed. He listened to it not because he was forced to or because he couldn't sleep...he listened to it because he enjoyed the fact that his mother had her karma. The noises of her growing agony put him at ease. The weaker she is the weaker her punches would be and the less energy she would have to hurt him. Sometimes if he is lucky she would stay in bed majority of the day.