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Hate	By : Bucken-Berry Category: G through L > Law & Order Views: 1376 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own SVU or it's characters, no money is being made off this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Chapter 1
- 2-Chapter 2
- 1
- 2
George closed his eyes wearily as the day ended, relieved to finally be able to go home and relax.
He left the FBI building after saying goodbye to several of his coworkers and walked to the parking lot. He started his car, giving an inward groan of anticipation as he thought of the hot mug of tea he'd make as soon as he got home.
Even with the radio on, his car felt too quiet, and the darkness outside did nothing to ease the creepy feeling. There was something comforting about the SVU squad room and the FBI field office; strength in numbers. He knew he was safe there. But everywhere else? He could never feel completely at ease.
Shaking his head slightly, he tightened his grip on the steering wheel and made a left turn.
Days like today were the hardest; with the persistent dark thoughts of the abuse- more like torture, really- he'd endured at his brother's hands, it was hard to fight the urge to lock himself in an empty room and lose the entire world for several hours. As good as he was at losing himself in his work, he could never shake the thoughts completely.
Sometimes he thought it was just short of a miracle that he was able to do this job. Each of his co-workers at the Special Victims Unit had been through some trauma or another, but his was more directly related to the job, more easily triggered, and he had the added burden of understanding the perpetrators. He not only had to carry his firsthand knowledge of what victims felt, but he had to understand what people like his brother thought when they victimized others, as well. It was frustrating.
Truth be told, he considered changing specialties much more often than anyone could ever guess. At least once a week, he asked himself why he didn't become a teacher instead- with his qualifications, he could surely become a top professor at NYU- or go into private practice, and spend all of his time helping to repair the damage done to the victims instead of trying to understand the perpetrators. Protect the innocent instead.
But the thought never got any further than that, because two things always held him back. One, profiling was what he was best at; where his skill could be best applied. Helping the victims would be nice, but being a profiler ultimately helped the victims just as much, if not more. And two, the FBI needed him. Maybe he would switch jobs when his age forced him to retire from the FBI, but certainly not before then, as much as he wanted to focus his energy elsewhere.
George finally arrived at his apartment and parked his car in the parking garage. He clutched his FBI-issue glock tightly, like some kind of talisman- he could never know who or what might be lurking in a dark, deserted space like this.
He climbed a flight of stairs and arrived at his apartment door. He entered, shrugging his coat off and setting his things on the coffee table. Then he walked into the kitchen and, after boiling some water, pouring it into a mug and putting a tea bag- green tea, his favorite- in it.
He walked into his living room with a slight spring in his step. As far as he was concerned, tea could lighten him up in almost any situation.
Sighing deeply in contentment, he leaned back in his recliner and closed his eyes, taking a slow sip of the tea that was only barely cool enough not to scald his tongue. He relaxed, reclining in the chair and reveling in the peace of it all. The stress began to let up, slowly, and he felt almost as good as he would have if this had been one of his good days, with no nightmares or wrist pain or anything to reopen the mental wounds his brother had inflicted on him. In fact, he was almost relaxed enough to fall asleep right there.
But a simply mistake ended that. He used his right hand to set his cup down, and as soon as he began to move it, his wrist throbbed angrily. He bit his lip and clutched at it desperately, then hissed as the pain dissipated as suddenly as it had appeared.
"Goddamn it," George hissed as he slumped in the chair. For a few minutes, he'd managed to shake off the memories and relax... Why did there always have to be a reminder? And if there had to be a reminder, why did it have to be a physically painful one?
He pressed his hand to his forehead and sighed in defeat. Matthew won, again. Matthew was still inflicting pain on him, even if it was just a continued side-effect of what he'd done all those years ago.
"Are you happy now, Matthew?" George thought bitterly.
"If he knew, he would be," he answered himself silently. A lone tear fell down the left side of his face. He hadn't understood it then, and he certainly didn't now.
He knew that Matthew was a sadist, a sociopath, and had made George his main target because of a perceived affront. He knew that Matthew wanted him in agonizing physical and mental pain, wanted him to spend every minute of every day feeling miserable, all because of that one completely imaginary slight. But that wasn't a real explanation. That was a profile, which was better than nothing, but it still didn't explain why. It didn't explain what he had done to deserve his brother's torture.
Tears streamed down George's face now, and he was having trouble breathing. The pain combined with panic, and it left him with maddening conflicting thoughts and emotions.
Biting his lip, he looked down at his wrist and remembered the day Matthew had broken it.
He lay in his bed, curled in on himself and cradling his arm to his chest. Matthew had finally agreed to call their parents, and he could hear Matthew's voice explaining over the phone that they'd been roughhousing and George had fallen, hurting his wrist badly.
It was a lie, and part of him wanted to walk to the living room and grab the phone to tell his parents the truth. But he felt far too weak and in too much pain to leave the bed, let alone walk that far.
He wanted nothing more than to go to sleep, but he was too afraid for that, too. He had no idea what Matthew might do to him if he slept. So he just shook and burrowed into the blankets, trying to keep the pained tears at bay.
Then Jane, their younger sister, toddled into the room. At two years old, she was still unsteady on her feet, and she was also too young to understand anything that was going on. All she recognized was that one of her big brothers- and, admittedly, her favorite- was hurt.
"Don't feel good?" she asked from the doorway.
"Hey, Janey," George said softly, grateful for her presence. "Want to come here and sit with me?" Snuggling with his younger sister and having her hug him sounded perfect at the moment.
She nodded and walked towards him. She climbed into his bed and hugged him tightly, and George relaxed just a little. Surprising for a two-year-old, she seemed to realize that he wanted some quiet, and she barely made a sound, which allowed him to feel safe and calm again.
"Why you hurt?" Jane asked him after a few minutes.
George couldn't get the words to form. "I just… Matthew and I…" He trailed off. "It's nothing."
Jane accepted his explanation without question and snuggled closer to him.
But all too soon, their parents returned. He knew that he had no chance of convincing them that Matthew had done anything to intentionally harm him. Not sweet, smart, talented Matthew. And that meant his parent's anger would be directed at him. He already felt angry at how unfair that was, but there was nothing he could do.
"George?" his mother called, entering the room. "Nǐ hái hǎo ba?" (Are you alright?)
"Ní hǎo, Māmā," George murmured. (Hello, Mom.)
"Nǐ hái hǎo ba?" she repeated.
He shook his head. "Wǒ de shǒuwàn téng. Wǒ rènwéi tā de pòsuì." (My wrist hurts. I think I broke it.)
"Zhè jiùshì wèishéme nǐ de fùqīn, wǒ gàosu nǐ, bù dǎ nào zhèyàng de nánhái. Nǐ kěnéng huì bèi yánzhòng shānghài," she scolded. (That is why your father and I told you boys not to roughhouse like that. You could have been seriously hurt.)
George hung his head, even though he knew he'd done no wrong. He didn't want to fight anymore, not with anyone. "Shì de, māmā. Wǒ hěn bàoqiàn." (Yes, Mom. I'm sorry.)
"Zhè shì zhèngcháng de, zhǐshì quèbǎo tā bù huì zàicì fāshēng. Lái ba, xiànzài, wǒ huì dàizhe nǐ qù yīyuàn," his mother said, firmly but softly. (It is okay; just make sure it doesn't happen again. Come, now, I will bring you to the hospital.)
George nodded once and hugged Jane good-night. Then he stood, walking to the doorway and taking his mom's hand with his uninjured one. Meanwhile, his father grabbed Jane and brought her to bed. He didn't say a word to George, which hurt, but it wasn't unexpected. His father always acted that way around him.
George climbed into the backseat of the car, and his mom fastened his seatbelt before sitting in the front and starting the engine. He nodded off quickly, lulled by the smooth motion and the background noise, and when he awoke he was in a hospital bed with a cast on his wrist.
"Hey there, sleepyhead!" a cheerful doctor greeted. "You've been asleep for a while. Your wrist is broken, but you'll be able to go home soon." She smiled at him, and George noticed that her hands were behind her back.
"I have something for you," she said. She sat on one of the chairs next to the bed and, from behind her back, produced a teddy bear that she gave to him.
George giggled shyly and gave the bear a hug. He definitely hadn't outgrown his liking for them, even though his family tried to discourage him since, according to them, stuffed animals weren't something boys should like. He smiled at the nurse, relieved to see that his mom wasn't there and couldn't scold him. "Thank you!" he said happily.
"George, my name is Meg," the nurse said. Her face became serious. "I need to ask you some things, and I need you to tell the truth, okay?"
He nodded solemnly, hugging the bear tight.
"Your mom told me that you and your brother were roughhousing. Is that really what happened?" she asked softly.
George shook his head and whispered, "No. He-" Tears formed in his eyes. "He…"
"He beat me up, and he hurt my arm because I wouldn't do what he said!" he cried. "He keeps h-hurting me, and t-tonight, h-he…" He couldn't continue. He was crying hard, body shaking with each sob. "Why does he hate me? I didn't do anything to him!" he wailed.
"Shhh, George," Meg whispered, sitting next to him and hugging him gently. He sniffled. "I know it's hard, and I know you don't want to talk about it, but I need you to tell me everything, okay?" she requested.
George nodded and squeezed the bear with all his strength. "Ever since his birthday, he keeps beating me up," he whispered, another tear streaming down his face. "He h-hurts me whenever Mama and Dad were away and he's babysitting me and Janey. He did that again tonight, and he called me really mean names. T-tonight, though, he…" George bit his lip, unsure how to describe what had happened. How could he explain it when he barely understood himself?
"He made me get naked even though I didn't need a bath," George said finally. "And then he told me to sit on my knees. I didn't want to, because I was afraid, but… but…" he closed his eyes, swallowing as pictures of what happened flashed in his mind's eye. He hugged the bear again, worrying that he was going to end up crushing it. "But he got mad at me. He broke my wrist-" He held up his arm- "And then he pushed me to my knees anyway. And then he made me open my mouth, and he… Um…"
"He, um, he, put his thingy in my mouth," he said, looking at his hands to avert Meg's gaze. He blushed, embarrassed to say things like that to a girl of all people. "And, um, he, he moved weird. It hurt my throat a lot but he liked it. And then something icky spilled in my mouth and I spit it out."
"George," Meg said seriously, "Are you absolutely sure that's everything?"
George nodded, confused at the question. But as he thought about it, he realized why she might be asking. "Is Matthew going to jail?"
Meg sighed. "I can't send him there. But I am going to call some police officers. George, you may not know this, but it's against the law for people to do what Matthew did to you. It's called molestation and it's very serious. And him beating you up is abuse, which could also get him in trouble."
George wrapped his arms around himself. "I don't understand what the first thing you said means," he admitted.
"I'm not really the best person to explain all of it to you," Meg said gently. "But I'm going to try to explain some of it. When you get older, your body changes. Your private parts change too, and it feels good for a lot of people. That's why Matthew liked what he did. Only grown-ups are supposed to do that sort of thing, and both are supposed to agree. But sometimes, people will force it on a child or an adult who doesn't want it. That's called sexual assault or rape. When it's a child like you who gets hurt, it's a lot more serious."
George nodded. It made a little more sense now.
"And now," Meg said, "I'm going to ask some police officers to come here. I'm going to ask that you be kept overnight, and I'm going to tell your mom to come in and tell you good-night and then leave."
"Okay," George said, nodding. He'd stayed the night in the hospital after his tonsillectomy, too.
After he hugged and kissed his mom and she left, he leaned back and burrowed under the blankets. It felt nice, knowing he was far away from Matthew and no one could hurt him.
"George?" A soft voice asked from the doorway. He looked up to see two police officers. Both of them were men, though he wasn't that surprised. One of them was tall and muscular with brown eyes and dark brown hair, and another one was about the same height but stockier, and with blue eyes and mostly gray hair.
"Can we come in?" the taller one asked.
George nodded once, feeling a little too nervous to talk. They were police officers, after all.
"I'm Detective Johnson, and this is my partner, Detective Carlson," the taller man introduced himself. "Do you know why we're here?"
"Because my brother hurt me," George replied.
"Yes. And our job is to protect you. We're going to make sure he can't hurt you anymore, okay?" Detective Johnson said.
George nodded, feeling hopeful that maybe, the pain Matthew was inflicting on him was at an end.
It hadn't been, of course. George wiped a tear from his eye as he remembered when the police officers had told his mom and dad about everything he had said. They had insisted he was lying, just seeking attention, and that he was jealous of Matthew and was just trying to get revenge somehow. The police officers had documented George's bruises and broken arm, but they couldn't find enough evidence of abuse to be able to take any action.
And so the beatings had continued, though Matthew had learned his lesson and made sure no more bones were broken. His parents never saw the bruises, because George was now too old for his parents to help him with baths. Instead, they just came in to check on him every few minutes.
And the sexual abuse just got worse and worse. He was forced to perform oral sex on Matthew often, among other things. It had been so humiliating and painful that he started thinking about running away from home just to escape, but nothing ever worked.
His only solace was his younger sister. But that hadn't been nearly enough to keep him from becoming depressed and having nightmares.
He still hadn't told Jane all of what had happened. He had told her that Matthew had beat him, but he had never said that there was a sexual element to the abuse. He talked to her often, and each time he felt guilty for telling lies of omission, but he didn't want to distress her, and he still talked to her whenever he became overwhelmed.
Like right now, he thought with a sigh. Jane had told him he could call any time, work notwithstanding. Right now, she'd probably be eating dinner with her husband. He didn't want to interrupt them, but on the other hand, he really wanted to talk to her and she would want him to call, even if it meant bothering her.
Finally, George gave in and picked up his cell phone, dialing one of the few numbers he knew by heart.
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