Oliver had learned quickly how to avoid trouble. Liam's warnings echoed in his mind like a constant alarm: stay away from him and his boys, don't enter the places they frequented, don't give them an opportunity to bother you. And so, he did his best. Every day, he carefully avoided the corners of the school where Liam and his friends lingered, avoided the benches, the hallways, and the quiet spots where whispers and laughter followed him. By doing so, he managed to stay under their radar.
Oliver often felt out of place. Everywhere he went, there was a sense of being unwelcome, as if he didn't belong. At school, he was quiet, unnoticed except for the occasional bullying or passing glance. At home, things were no different, only worse. His life felt like a constant string of reminders that he could never truly escape trouble.
His family offered little comfort. His mother, Mrs. Montero, worked as a live-in nurse. She lived at the homes of her patients, caring for them day and night. Sometimes she came home for brief periods, but those moments were rare. His father, Mr. Montero, was a completely different story. Once an ex-convict, he now worked in a factory. He came home infrequently, but when he did, the air in the house changed. Tension clung to every corner. Oliver had learned to brace himself. His father's temper was sharp, his anger explosive. Every raised voice, every misstep, could be an excuse to lash out. No one was safe—neither his mother nor himself.
After school that day, Oliver slung his bag over his shoulder and made his way toward the park. It was close, just a stone's throw from the school, and he had always liked the small sense of freedom it offered. He bought a ticket for the bus and settled in the farthest corner, hoping to avoid the gaze of anyone he knew. For a short while, he thought he was alone. But soon, he noticed Liam's friends stepping onto the bus. Panic prickled at him, but he kept his head down and stayed silent. Thankfully, they didn't see him, and he exhaled quietly, relief washing over him.
When Oliver arrived home, the door was unlocked. That immediately set his nerves on edge. He had no idea who was inside. Stepping carefully, he entered, quietly shutting and locking the door behind him.
From inside, he could hear his mother's
voice. Her cries were sharp, urgent. The
sound of objects hitting the floor followed, clattering and breaking in the quiet. Oliver's stomach dropped instantly. He knew, without a doubt, that his father was home.
He froze for a moment, gathering courage, before slowly making his way up the stairs. Each step felt heavy, his heart hammering in his chest. Reaching the door of their shared room, he cracked it open, just enough to peek inside.
What he saw made him grip the frame to keep from stepping back. His mother was on the floor, her face bruised, swollen, and streaked with blood. Despite her injuries, her expression was a mix of fear, defiance, and anger. His father, tall and imposing, stood above her, a belt clenched tightly in his hands.
"Go away, Jonathan! I don't want to see you! This house isn't yours!" she shouted, voice hoarse but sharp.
His father's reply came in a snarl, rising to a terrifying scream. "I said SHUT UP!" He struck her again, the belt connecting with a harsh, sickening sound.
Oliver's chest tightened. His hands balled into fists. Every instinct in him screamed to intervene, and finally, he could not stand watching any longer. He pushed the door open fully and stormed in.
"Stay away from her!" he yelled, pushing his father back.
Mrs. Montero looked at him, her expression softening despite the blood and tears. "Are you okay?" he asked urgently, crouching beside her and helping her sit upright.
"I'm… I'm fine now," she whispered, trying to stand but shaking all over. "Go to your room. Don't come out until I tell you to."
Before Oliver could react, his father lunged at him. "You son of a bitch! Are you even my child?" he bellowed, grabbing Oliver by the collar.
"You are never my father," Oliver spat, voice shaking with anger and fear.
"Undisciplined brat! I'll teach you a lesson," his father growled, dragging him out of the room. He locked the door behind them, ensuring his mother could not follow.
What followed was brutal. Oliver was pushed into the reflecting room, the place he hated the most. Here, his father vented his anger on him with a thick rod. Oliver gritted his teeth, hiding the pain behind a mask of determination. Every strike hurt, but he refused to scream. He could endure this. He had no choice.
The stress and fear of home life weighed on Oliver constantly. At school, he sought small escapes, even if they were temporary. During the last two weeks of the term, the school announced an event that caught everyone's attention: a three-day adventure trip to Willows Valley.
The announcement stirred a mixture of excitement and nervousness among the students. Rumors had long surrounded the valley—stories that made it both dangerous and beautiful. The most famous was of the Whispering Willows, trees that were said to whisper secrets or tell tales of the past when the wind blew through their branches. Some students spoke of the shifting landscapes and bioluminescent flora—plants and insects that glowed at night, bathing the valley in a soft, strange light. The valley was eerie, yet mesmerizing, with an almost magical quality that few could resist.
Willows Valley was a protected natural reserve, granting limited access only to school groups who had made reservations in advance. Golden Crest Academy had secured a slot, and this would be the students' first opportunity to explore it for three whole days. The news spread quickly. Even Oliver felt a spark of anticipation, a brief glimmer of excitement that pulled him away from his usual worries. Despite the horror of rumors and his difficult home life, he couldn't deny that a part of him looked forward to the trip.
For Oliver, the adventure represented freedom—a chance to escape the constant shadow of his father's anger, a moment where he could feel normal, where he could breathe without fear. Even if it was only temporary, it mattered.