This little boy began living here recently.

Father told me not to question it, so I don't. I just continue to watch him from afar as he plays with my toys. I'm honestly afraid to approach him, even though I know he's younger than me.

I could bully him if I want. I've never had a little brother, or any siblings for that matter, and my father has abused me all my life. And here comes this little boy parading through my house looking like he's having the time of his life? That angers me.

But I chose not to harm him. In fact, I don't even think he realized I was here until I sneezed one day and he turned around. It was five days after he first showed up.

He walked up to me and said hi to me with a toothy grin on his face. It was kinda disgusting to see, but also a little heartwarming. It's never been a happy time in this house, but here's comes this boy to brighten things. I want to smile, but I'm afraid of Father walking in and noticing. He doesn't seem to like when I'm happy.

The boy asked me for my name. I tell it to him and he says it back, although he pronounced the v like a b. Oh well, he was only a little boy, maybe one or two years younger than me.

He gets ready to tell me his name when Father walked in and told him to go to the study room. The boy doesn't understand, so Father gets irritated and drags the boy by the arm. It was the first time I ever heard the boy cry. It was also the first encounter I had seen of the boy and Father together, since the maids handled everything concerning the boy up until then.

The next day the boy comes in the main room with a bandage on his face. I instantly know that Father has hurt him and it's bittersweet; Father didn't take his anger out on me, but he hurt this poor boy instead.

The boy sits by himself in the middle of the room for an hour, just staring aimlessly at nothing, until he curls into a ball and takes a nap. I was pretty unresponsive when Father first began abusing me, wondering why the hell it was happening to me and when it would ever stop. I planned to escape this place one day.

But now this boy is here with me. Am I going to have to plan for his escape, too?

I stare at this boy as he sleeps, and it doesn't look like a peaceful sleep. It actually looks like he's shaking. Maybe he was having a nightmare about the previous day.

Suddenly, I hear yelling in the next room. It's between Father and an unknown woman. I know the voices of all the maids in the house, and this woman was not one of them.

They keep mentioning a 'him' and how Father should not have 'him'. I wasn't sure who they were talking about, but I had a feeling it was either the little boy or me.

The door was thrown open and a really pretty woman walked in, her hair pulled back and showing the frustration on her face. I began to panic, having never seen a woman look as angry as Father, but clamed my breathing when her eyes widened at the sight of me.

"There's…another one?" she asked, staring at me. I wasn't sure if I should respond, so I remain quiet.

The boy began to wake up next to me, sitting up and yawning. He blinked and noticed the woman.

"Mommy?" the boy said. The woman and I both turned to look at him. The woman gasped in horror.

"Giovanni!" she addressed Father in a shrill voice. She then narrowed her eyes and gritted her teeth. She turned around to face Father, who stood at the door. "Did you lay a hand on my child?"

"Your child?" he sounded disgusted. "That boy is our child."

I covered my mouth, trying not to gasp out loud. If what he said was true, then did that mean that little boy was my brother?

Then who was this woman? His mother, sure, but…mine, too? I never knew who my mother was, and I was instantly hoping that maybe she was my ticket out of this hellhole.

"Whatever," the woman said, picking up the little boy. She glanced over at me before turning back to my father. "I can't believe there was another woman sorry enough to have a child with you."

It took me a minute too long to process this. She said another. Did that mean that this little boy's mother and my mother were not the same person?

The woman continued. "It was a mistake to think that he should get to know his father. I feel sorry for this poor boy," she looked at me when she said that last sentence, and I frowned.

"Whatever," Father said. "He'll manage."

The woman looked at me one last time with gritted teeth. Maybe in that split moment she thought about taking me with her; I almost screamed out for her to take me, but I remained silent. She closed her eyes for a moment before glaring at Father.

"I'm leaving, and not bothering to come back," she said, beginning to storm out of the room. I felt time slow down, wanting to run after her and the little boy, escape forever from this place and never look back, too.

But I didn't have that option. The woman stormed past Father, leaving with the boy and never turning back…

Father watched her leave, and when I heard a door slam he turned to me.

"He could have grown up to do great things," he scoffed. "Oh well, her loss." He then smirked at me, and I felt like crying. He walked over to me and knelt down in front of me. I wanted to just scurry away, but any false step and he would beat me. I had tried before. Never again until I was sure it would work.

"Silver," he said, which confused me. He never called me by name. "You're my only child from this point on."

He then stood up and laughed, continuing that awful laugh until he walked out of the room and closed the door.

From that moment, I would definitely find a way to escape this place and find this boy, my brother. We would take down Father's evil syndicate together and we would go on to do our own great things.

And years later, I was able to escape. I ran as far as I could, and it was time to find a Pokémon to help fight by my side. And to find my brother.

But there was a huge problem with the second plan.

I never learned his name.

Huge DiamondShipper here. I'm convinced Ash is Giovanni's son. I wish Silver had shown up in the anime, though. Fanfiction would be a lot easier to write if he had. Writing cross-canon is more difficult than it seems.