Him.

He never knew it, but I saw him. I saw the real him; not the person he wanted everyone else to see. I saw his hurt, his sadness, his hopes and his dreams. I saw everything that he felt. I didn't always know what was truly there, and I never trusted him, but I knew he was worth saving. I knew there had to be goodness in him. I didn't know how I knew, but I knew it was there. I knew it just as well as anyone else would've known that the sun would rise the next day, or that the best smell in the world was fresh ground coffee in the wee hours of the morning. His smile were rare, his happiness even rarer. He was so sad, and his little eyes were always filled with thinly-veiled hurt. All that I saw was an angry little boy, while everyone else saw a future inmate. He was so hurt, and none of the people that should've cared did anything to help him. They just let him suffer on. They left him all alone in the world as they, one by one, succumbed to their various vices. He was thrown off to the side, harshly left to fend for himself in a very hostile environment. His mother and father were so absorbed int heir own hurts that they scarcely noticed his cries for help. He was so angry!

I tried to help him, but all I did was make him lash out at me. He hit me, kicked me, pushed me down, took my toys, stole the few happy things that I had left. What he didn't know was that we were both going through our own personal hell. I didn't expect him to understand, but I did expect more from him than that. I was afraid of him. He was bigger, stronger, angrier, more vindictive, less forgiving. He scared me because he loved to tell me exactly how little I was to him and everyone else. I knew that I didn't matter to them, but I was afraid because I just wanted to help him, to heal his hurts. Not because he deserved it, but because he was worth it. He was so mean to me! I was just a little kid, I didn't do anything to deserve what he did. I just loved him because he was worth loving. I used to feel so afraid of his reaction to everything I did. I never woke him up, even when I had to get up several hours earlier on far less sleep. I never stole his toys, I never broke them. I tried my best to stay out of his way, but somehow, I always did something wrong. Everything that I did was a direct offense against him, and was therefor punishable by whatever he deemed necessary. He made my life hell, and sometimes I hated him and myself for being so afraid. And yet, when I look back on it, I still feel guilty for not helping him more. I still want to save him. I still want to take care of him. Not because he deserves it, but because everyone is worth saving.