AN: So I was reading a discussion on LiveJournal where people were debating the 'long lost child' plotline you see in so many fandoms. Another discussion involved suicide in fanfic. Somehow my brain meshed the two concepts into this disturbing piece. Trigger warnings for this include: death, mentions of self injury, implied non-con and basically general adult themes. I seriously considered bumping it up to M before I edited it down.

I'm fairly sure this will bomb. I can't imagine anyone staying after the first chapter. Still, reviews are welcome if you have them for this... thing.


Dear Vladimir Masters,

My name is Andrew Upton. You don't know me. I was born in Newark, New Jersey, where I lived with my mother. You do know her. You screwed her over figuratively and literally. I'm sure you thought no one would realize how convenient it was for you to have an 'accident' with some paranormal tech the day she told you she was pregnant. Suzanne Kalista Upton wasn't a blip on your radar. You ran off to get rich and she had nowhere to run to when she had me.

She's dead now. I'm not giving you details. You don't deserve them. You don't even deserve this. This is not a love letter where I reach out to my estranged father and you come get me and everything is puppies and rainbows. One thing I learned in the foster care system is there are no puppies and rainbows. The puppies are vicious attack dogs and the rainbows are there to distract you as another knife's put in your back. You're a corporate bloodsucker. You know a lot about backstabbing. I don't have to explain to you just how much of it goes on at this level. Everyone wants a piece of everyone, everywhere.

I've been bounced between twenty five foster homes and group homes. A lot of bad things happened to me. I'm not listing those because you're not my friend and you're nothing that could ever be called a father. A father has a right to know what's been done to his son. But you don't have a son. And I never had anyone. I've been alone in the world since I was six years old. My entire life was spent watching my back, paranoid but not paranoid enough, afraid but always accepting it was all going to happen again, and picking up the pieces so many times it just wasn't worth it anymore.

By the time you read this, I will be dead.

God, I've loved that line ever since I was seven and I first heard it. I don't even remember where I heard it. I just remember staring at the peeling paint on the ceiling of the house and thinking it was exactly my kind of thing. A way to get the last word in without getting punched or worse for it. In fact, I've been planning this for a while. I always kept tabs on you, on where you were, and I weighed out the options. I wanted to do what would hurt you more. I know the public realizing you had a piece of shit for a son would ruin your ego. But in the end, I'm just not that vindictive. Keep your public reputation. Stay golden. Let everybody think you're a great guy.

I'm doing this for me. I'm writing this so you don't get any ideas I just missed you so huggy wuggy much I couldn't go on. How could I ever miss something I never had? I don't miss anything. I long for things, standing outside, always looking in on the things I will never have. The things I want, your wealth couldn't buy. I want to come home and talk about how my day was, I want to stay somewhere long enough I can think about how different it used to be, I want to know someone would miss me when I'm gone. These are things you could never correct. These are the reasons why I'm just going to go to sleep now. And this way you'll know, so if you were worried I'd show up and try and milk you for money, you can relax. I know it costs the government a lot to take care of kids with no families. This way there's a little bit more to go around.

Don't get any horrible mental images. It's not like you see in the movies. I'm not going to leave trails of red behind me or do anything involving any kind of blade. No, I did that kind of thing to relax, ever since I was twelve. Never deep enough I had to go to the hospital, just enough to unwind. It took all the anger and hate out of me. It was beautiful. Even though life was always bad, I never did drugs, I didn't drink, I didn't start fights. I learned a way to get rid of all the pain. That helped me out a lot. When you only have a record of getting beat up, not beating other people up, you don't get in nearly as much trouble. It's how I survived all these years in this system. If I hurt myself, they couldn't hurt me. And if you only cut your legs, none of the foster parents or social workers catch on and they don't have to worry. That's always been a relief for me. They have so much on their plates. They don't need to worry about a hopeless case like me.

I wish I could say I was some ghetto success story. I don't drink or do drugs or smoke or sleep with anything that moves. I'm not in a gang and I don't own a weapon. So I guess I'm not a failure. I'm just not a success. I barely scrape by in school and I've lost every fight I've ever been in. Sometimes I didn't even put up a fight. I've let people use and abuse me. I used to think it was better than dying. As long as I was alive, it didn't matter how many people had broken me. I thought I was being strong. I'd get my grades up one day, become a linguist and run off to somewhere far away, some country with only small towns like Greenland or Mongolia or the Faroe Islands and leave all this behind me. I'd make a new identity for myself, a new me. Whenever I wanted to die, I'd dream about my fake futures.

The truth is, though, I'm failing everything this semester. As of this writing I've also spent three weeks this night forced into things against my will that no amount of showering will ever wash away. I could run to the farthest depths of Mongolia or the furthest northern parts of Greenland and these memories, all the times I've screamed for people to stop and they kept going, they would never leave me. And I know it's all just going to keep happening. No one cares about what people do to strays like me. I'm only fourteen. I can't take another four years of this. I can't take another night of this. Everything hurts too much. I want things to stop hurting. I don't want to be afraid anymore. I don't want to do this anymore. I can't take it. I'm weak. I'm broken. I'm sorry. You must be so disappointed in me. I hope you're not. I hope that you can be happy about this, that you don't have to worry about some by-product of a one night stand showing up on your doorstep all soap opera style and destroying your happiness.

I don't want to leave a big hassle for everyone to deal with when I'm gone. I don't want them to be traumatized. Not the adults here - I mean the kids. The little ones might still have a chance to become something, someone, some day. Seeing my dead body would only ruin them. That's why I'm going to pack my stuff in a duffel bag, go to school, and cut school to the park. I've experimented with sleeping pills. No matter the quantity, it enters the bloodstream and begins to affect your motor skills at the same time. It's dependent on how much you've had to eat. Don't eat, and you can time it down to the minute. So I'm going to sit in the park clearing until that time is past, and then go lay down by the walking trail. The trail opens up at nine and school starts at eight. I'll be gone and only one person will have to see me like that. I'm hoping that way it won't end up scarring everyone I lived with. It's odd, but no matter how much hell everyone puts me through, I don't want to deal it back. I don't have it in me. Maybe the adults here are right when they say I'm not a person. People don't act like this. Sorry. I'm getting off topic again. I meant for this to be short and blunt so it wouldn't hurt you, not all emotional and rambly.

So anyway, just know it was peaceful. I just went to sleep. All your money is safe, and so is your secret. Other than this letter, nothing exists to tie you to me. Nobody ever has to know we're related. I know my Mom tried to get a hold of you when she was still around. I'm sure you were scared I would ruin your publicity. This way, though, you have one less thing to worry about. It's all over. You'll be happy to know that I already gave away most of what little I had to other people. There's nothing left to collect, no skeletons in the closet. I never did anything illegal other than stealing the sleeping pills. I'd have paid for them, but I never had anywhere near the money for it. I wonder if you could slip the pharmacy here in Charleston, West Virginia about fifty bucks? I may have gotten too much. I'm a very thorough person. If it's worth doing, it's worth doing right.

I'm sure you don't care. You probably read as far as me being dead and threw this away. But that's okay. You never wanted to be involved. These details are all things you didn't ask for and don't want. I think maybe writing this was more for me. So I could vent some anger at you that cutting just didn't get out of me. Talking to you is like talking to God - I'm sure neither of you are listening, but it takes some of the edge off of things. I don't hate you or God, though. You seem like a nice guy on the TV. I didn't mean what I said about you not deserving details. You do. I just don't want to hurt you anymore than I already did. I'm the one who ruined everything. Without me dragging her down my Mom could've had an amazing career and she'd be alive right now. She wouldn't have been in a dangerous city like Newark if it weren't for me.

But I won't drag you down, too. People would turn you and I into a media circus. The billionaire and his bastard son – a cover story for every gossip rag in the country. And I don't want to do that to you. I don't even want to tell you what happened to Mom because I know it would hurt you. I tell myself you loved her, even if you probably didn't. I try to believe you're a good man. Some part of me wants to hate you but I have to ignore it; I know the difference between me being bitter and someone really being evil. I don't think you're evil. That's why I'm taking myself out of the picture before I can do any damage to you. This way no one will hurt me or you. I know you'll understand. Mom always said you were the smartest man she ever knew. I wish I could have met you.

I love you, Dad.

Signed,

Andrew William Upton