For countless eons, he was a petrified redwood, waiting. Nothing of his being was able to even twitch, yet in his Phantasia the effort put forth striving to raise the courage was truly a task that would tax reserves for entire cities.

A hard swallow made the long journey down his esophagus, and from his eyes brave pathfinders broke trail across his cheekbones and down to the precipice of his chin.

They say your life flashes before your eyes, when you know you're about to die. But this was more like a meandering, and it wasn't everything, just... some.

A four-year old boy, proudly waiting for Daddy to get home from work, so he can show him. He had spent all afternoon in big sister's room, getting the pretty lace set just right. Daddy's home, yay! Hoping he likes his pretty dress! He was so pretty! Daddy had to love it! But Daddy doesn't look happy, and he's taking a breath like he does before he yells at naughty children...

A quiet, inexorable sob escapes his throat at the fusion of shame burning through, beginning behind his eyes and blooming like a slowly unfurling blossom at this first memory, even as his synaptic soldiers march inexorably on to the next. His hand trembles with the weight it bears, but he holds himself steady as he witnesses the events unfold in his mind, waiting to see if there is anything that may convince even him that it would be worth putting that weight aside.

A seven-year old boy, standing in the living room, with his head hung, wanting to explain to his Dad that he does respect him. That he loves him more than anything in the world. That he just can't help himself, and anyway he wore socks so no one else'd know his toenails were painted, anyway! -- The look of disappointment is worse than any grounding or beating he could have had delivered upon him...

The haunted disappointment that resided behind those sharp, cold blue eyes that day -- without any visible changes, the stream brimming from his wide open eyes increases in flow to a near river and there are spasms upon the hand-carved oaken handle resting its smoothness within his palm. His breath, slow and even... instead of ragged, quick draws as one would expect.

An eleven-year old boy holding his breath, as his Dad's uniform boots stood centimeters from his face, and the quiet static that was interspersed with the voice of his auntie dispatching here and there around the city. He can't let himself be caught. He had promised never to do this again, and the only punishment more severe than disobeying was lying. This was lying about disobeying. He began to relax as the boots took a step away, but then the shadow darkened, as the officer bent to examine under the bed...

A throb in the leg that still had a limp from -- from... from the response that Dad had that day. But he knew Dad loved him, right? He knew, Right?

A sixteen-year old boy, thanking whatever deities might be possibly real that it was Hallowe'en. He sat in the indecently short skirt, with the fashionably torn tights, along with the rest of the outfit. He had known he looked hot, hot enough to get any boy -- and some of the more interesting girls -- bothered for him. The calf-length, stiletto-heeled boots had been the perfect complement. But here he just wished he could find the courage to vomit, but that would take him across the cell too close to the three large men ogling his not-quite factual curves. Aunty had tried to talk the Sergeant into not putting him in with the rest of the men arrested that night, but the fat old man had just laughed and said he would be fine until Dad got there. And now, he could hear his father's raised voice coming from down the locked up hallway...

At least that time, Dad had jumped on the explanation to save face that it was a High School Hallowe'en prank. Though the furious look on his face as he stood and waited for those leering men to finish what they were doing was still frightening to think about... better than thinking about what they were doing, but frightening, itself.