This is the beginning of a story I was attempting to write a few years back- didn't get very far. It's still unedited and eternally under construction, but I hope you enjoy what's there.

Frederick Deacovitch

There isn't much that can make me squirm. I can handle things that creep and crawl. I can handle smells and stains. I can handle blood and guts and pain. Mrs. Hathehorne is the exception. "Freddy! Get your carcass out of bed and make yourself useful! I'm not taking care of all you brats out of the goodness of my heart!" Could the woman be any louder?
"I'm coming, M'am!"  I yelled. I shifted my feet out from under the blankets, the cold bit at my toes. Damn, it's snowing outside. Well, isn't life a peach. Now I have to be cold the entire day. I rummaged through the pile of clothes that made up most of the cushioning in my so-called mattress, tugging out a tattered mauve sweater, and proceeding to pull it down over my head. The sweater itched against my bare skin, either that, or the fleas had decided to seek warmer living quarters than the freeze outside.  
"FREDDY! GET YOUR ASS DOWN HERE!"
I jumped out of my pallet and into some jeans two sizes too small and bolted down the stairs, stubbing my toe in the rush. I winced. Fuck.
"How may I serve you, ma'm?" I asked as reached the first floor and entered the kitchen. At least at this hour it was a kitchen. The room served as kitchen, living room, and bathroom to the abundance of Mrs. Hathehorne's cats. Even now, a great fat tabby squatted to the side of the stove and turned its fat head towards me. It sneered, eyes narrowed and nose held high, then promptly stood and sprayed a foul smelling liquid on the lower cabinets. Fucking cats. Mrs. Hathehorne looked up from the stove, glared at me, and resumed stirring the pot of gruel steaming in front of her.
Mrs. Hathhorne was not the most attractive woman. She wasn't even the least attractive woman. She was plump and from the amount of cosmetics she slapped on her face each morning, older than she wanted anyone else to know. The powder clung in the saggy wrinkles that hung like the jowls of a hound from her cheekbones.
"Unless you're looking to get your face smashed in again get over to the table and set up. You think you can sleep in around here? Maybe no food today will make you think otherwise." Mrs. Hathehorne smacked the chipped and rusted bowls into my hands and pushed me away from her.
I stepped to the table. Teague and Vince were already up and seated. Teague sat slumped over, looking at his hands, his eyes half closed, and his dank blonde hair trailing over his fingers, hiding the bruising and cuts that had transformed them into bloody appendages. Teague was new.  The first couple weeks of work were the hardest. After that, things settled down and you could get by. The blisters healed into calluses and the cuts scabbed over. Your hands became wiry, strong, and tough.
That's what Vince had told me anyway, I had never gone through that particular process. I'd been here since my mother had left me, wrapped in blankets and tucked into a cardboard box. As soon as I could, I was given a latchet and told to get to work, so there was no transition period for me. My whole life was here. I began to pass the bowls, first to Vince and then to Teague.
"Either sit down or get over here and stir this pot you ungrateful heathen, " Mrs. Hathehorne grumbled. She trundled to the adjacent room and after knocking walked inside. Make up your mind. I began stirring the pot and after judging it ready for consumption, as edible as it could be at least, I took it to the table. Vince, well accustomed to the daily routine, held out his bowl. Vince was the oldest of us. When he was seventeen, his parents were killed. He had become an orphan and was sold to the Hathehornes by Legacy. Vince looked at me, dark brown hair clipped and trimmed at his chin, accenting his strong jaw.