A small child lay huddled in a ball on the little bed, facing the wall, the tiny dark room illuminated by only a few bands of soft white moonlight coming through the curtained window. The little boy's dark brown hair lay in mussed strands over sad eyes, eyes full of innocent, confused, six-year old sadness. He lay with his small hands over his ears, trying desperately to block the various shouts and cries coming from the room below his, though from past experience he knew the uselessness of this.

A muffled thump reached his ears, quickly followed by a sharp scream that grated ever fiber of his small being. In his mind's eye he saw his mother crumpled on the floor, hair tangled and blood seeping from her scalp. "Get, up you bitch!" The harsh voice sent shards of terror splintering through him, and he quickly rolled over and sat on the edge of the bed. If he squinted hard enough, he could make out the outline of his brother lying on the bed opposite him.

He crossed the room, bare feet padding quietly on the threadbare rug. He leaned over the small figure.

"Joel," he whispered almost soundlessly, his breath tickling the other's ear. "Joel." The child's hand absently reached up to swat the other boy away, as if in sleep. "Joel. I know you aren't asleep."

Joel turned his head to look at his brother, eyes wide. "Nope."

An outsider would think that a mirror faced the standing child: two perfect sets of matching brown eyes, hair, identical round cheeks and small child's noses. The two children gazed at each other for a moment, and as the cruel sounds from below continued, the boy who had ventured over from his side of the room began to cry, warm tears slipping down his cheeks.

"Shh," the other said, "Benji, don't cry." Then the two children crawled into the bed together, burrowing under the blankets holding each other tightly in a ritual that had become a nightly routine.