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Adam Jean Thompson was born on January 21, 1988. His mother was a whore, and he was a true b*****d. As he grew up, the other children made sure he never forgot that little detail. He was raised in the not so elegant part of the city, and went to a less than mediocre school.

Jeans mother loved him, even through all her drug induced inhibitions. She made sure he was fed at least twice a day, recieved new shoes and clothes at least once a year, and that his friends had the opportunity to come over. She never asked him why his friends only ever came over no more than once, but then thats probably cause she didn't notice in her drug induced stupor.

Through his first ten years of life, Jean believed his mother when she said she worked the night shift at a gift shop. He had never questioned why she sometimes didn't come home from the previous night till long after he was home from school. He just assumed that she was working overtime, like she said she was. He'd smile and hug her and tell her he loved her, then tuck her into bed, take five dollars and order himself dinner. Never had he questioned his mother, he loved her.

One day changed his life forever. His mother came home really late. She walked in, a small scared look in her eye, and a nervous twitch at whatever Jean did. He asked her if she was ok. He tucked her into bed, and asked her what she'd want for dinner. After she waved him off, he went and did his homework. Sick with worry for his only kin, Jean went and laid down with her for the night. In the morning, he woke and was surprised to see her still there. He shook her lightly, talking about how he thought they should have some pancakes and waffles for breakfast. He loved it when his mother stayed home and they went out for pancakes and waffles. When she didn't respond, he shook her harder. Leaning over her stiff body, he looked into her face. Her eyes were still wide open, glazed over, and her mouth was frozen in a slight sneer. Jean began to scream, he screamed and screamed and soon tears were blurring his vision. Wiping them away furiously he jumped from the bed and rn to get the phone.

Out in the kitchen, a women around the age of twenty was standing. She looked at Jean and snarled. "You brat, what are you screaming for?" She grabbed his hair and threw his head back, staring intently at him. "You do look like your mother." She snapped her fingers, and abruptly, two large men came and one hoisted Jean over his shoulder. The other went into the back and set a fire to the room, causing a fire that burned the apartment building down, killing 3 people and injuring 15 others. No one questioned where Jean went, nor did they ask questions as to what happened to the womans body found burnt beyond recognition. A small funeral reception was held for Jeans mother, which no one attended, not even a priest.

Jean was taken to a small house in a nicer area of downtown. The first item on the agenda, was to tell him why he was there. His mother wsa a whore and crack carrier. She sold them out to the police, costing them hundreds of thousands of dollars. She owed them money, and instead, died. Leaving the debt on her only living kin, Jean. Next, they took Jean to a back room and tied him down. He struggled against the tight bonds, only causing them to tie them tighter. A small tattoo was put on his ankle, a barcode, to signify to all the other drug runners, that this boy was taken. Jean had cried and struggled as the poorly prepared needle struck an ink into his skin. The color was a shade of dark blue, the color of the woman who ran this part of town.

Thirdly, Jean was removed from school, and put on the streets, running drugs back and forth and stealing from whomever he could. Jean became very adept at pickpocketing. He had learned how to make it so inconspicous that he could hold a conversation with the person while doing it. And last but not least, Jean became a toy. His green eyes and light brown hair attracted men and women from all over the neighborhood. He was sold out to the highest bidder for weeks at a time. He learned many things while staying in the different houses. He learned to stay quiet when the pain was practically unbearable, but it could of course always get worse. He learned the meaning of degrading and weak. Never before had he ever thought of these words in the context that they were now solidly percieved in his mind. He would cry sometimes, but that only caused him to abused harder by the current owner.

Soon Jean reached the lovable age of fifteen. After five years of pain, he was almost done with the torture they had placed on him. He could almost smell freedom. It smelled of clean sheets and a warm furnace. It smelled of a mothers cooking and a fathers pipe. He could taste every aspect of freedom. Only one thing remained. He had to kill a man, who had betrayed the womans trust. He had to kill Peter Fitzgerald.

On the night March 23, 2002, Jean walked through a peacful suburban street. He watched the cats dart from under cars and into bushes and he listened as the crickets hummed their merry songs till he came into their field of vision. He was trembling so bad, he repetedly dropped his knife. He couldn't believe that he had to do something like this. What if they had children? What if they were having a child? He was going to personally take the father away. Jean bit his lip as he reached 1564 Oswald St. He turned and looked at the small split level house. He walked to the door and tested the knob, it was locked, of course. He then removed his lock picking kit and began to methodically worm his way inside. He heard the final click of the lock and looked aroung. No one was coming or outside. He walked inside quietly. This was going to be an easy job, just slit the old mans throat while he was sleeping and walk out. Nothing more, nothing less. He quietly crept up the stairs. He turned and walked into the master bedroom. He walked over to the bed, lifted the cover slightly, and dropped his knife as a blood curdling scream came from the bedroom door. Looking over he saw Mrs. Fitzgerald standing in her night gown, returning from the restroom. He leaned down to get his knife but it was gone. Looking up he saw the blade pointed straight at his face. Mr. Fitzgerald had woken up to the sound of his wife screaming. Jean watched his life flash before his eyes as he stood with his hands in the air. He glanced over at the wife and swallowed a lump forming in his throat. He knew what being stabbed felt like, but he didn't want to find out what death was like.

"Why are you here? What do you want with my family?"

"I've come to kill you."

"Why? What have I done?"

"She wants me to."

A nod of understanding swept across the mans face. Jean trembled with fright as Mr. Fitzgerald stood up and handed the knife back over to him. Jean took the handle warily, keeping his gaze on the other man. He watched as the man went to hug his wife, telling her he was so sorry for the way he had treated her over the years and that he loved her and their little boy. A pang of guilt washed over Jean as he heard the man talk of his little boy. But wasn't Jean just a little boy also? What right did this little boy have to live happily, when all his life, all Jean had wanted was a father, a kind word, a friend. He ran at the man and stabbed him.

"I'm sorry. But I can't have a life if I let you live." He watched with no emotion as the man fell to the ground, grabbing at Jeans shirt. He looked at the wife, she had seen too much. He slit her throat as a scream began to rise. Listening to her choking on the blood that filled her lungs, Jean went to leave. He stopped short as a small boy stood in the doorway. Not more than five years of age, Clifford Fitzgerald stared wide eye'd at the intruder. "You're father... he killed your mother. He killed your family." Jean stated as the boy ran past him and hugged his dying and dead parents.

As Jean began to walk away from the crime, Clifford tugged on his shirt.

"Whats going to happen now?" He asked with a slight lisp.

"Jean felt tears fall from his eyes as he took the kids hand. "I'm going to take you to a new home." He smiled and led the boy away and to the house he dreaded so much.

"You brought their brat?" The woman shouted at him.

"Yes ma'am." Jean looked down at the ground. His whole body screamed danger, but he didn't move a muscle.

"What were you thinking? Why didn't you just kill him? Hes usless to us!" She shouted as she began to strike Jean, hitting him across the face and pushing to the ground.

Jean let his mind leave as his body was pummeled. He heard sobbing from the next room where Clifford had been set. Jean filled with a rage at the sound of the boy crying. He took the womans shoulders and pushed her below himself. "I'll take him! I'm leaving here anyways!" He snarled at her and watched as her face filled with fear.

"Fine take him!" She stuttered back. "But you've caused us a lot of trouble and owe us more money cause of it." She grinned as Jean looked taken aback. "We now owe the cops a grand total of 7,000 dollars because of your little mistake." She pushed him off. "Pay us in monthly incremints... and we'll let you and the b*****d slid." She grinend at him ferally. "But before you go Jean. We want to have a little fun, just one last time." He shuddered as two big hands covered his mouth and picked him up, placing him on the bed in the room.

Jean and Clifford, now known as Flick, have been living on the streets for two years. Flick had accepted Jean as his surrogate mother, and believed the older boy when he told him that his father had killed his mother and then ran off. Jean stole money from any person he could, and then paid them each month. He tried to keep enough on hand to buy Flick necessitys, such as clothing, and showers. Occasionally he treated the small boy to lunch at McDonalds. Jean and Flick soon became like family. They loved each other and never strayed far apart.