Born at Good Samaritan Hospital on the 5th of November, 1975, Floyd Michael Lawson was no such thing. Good Samaritan’s that lived in that area didn’t last long. Westlake, California was no place to raise some American dream, happy family home with a picket fence. Especially so, after the crime rate continued to rise until it peaked in 1990. This being the majority of what should be deemed as Floyd’s childhood. His parent’s always lived off of high hopes that things would get better. There was always a possible job promotion coming up for his father, one that never happened. And his mother did whatever housekeeping jobs she could get, being paid under the table. Nothing ever was going to get better, and it created its own strain.
As a means of coping with this lifestyle, his father developed a drinking problem in the early years of Floyd’s life, and it was the only way that Floyd ever really remembered him as. His older brother had a few years on him, and would cling to the way their mother would speak of him. Only in the best regards, holding onto those hopes they held before. Hopes of a newly married couple set on changing their lives and making something out of nothing. But there would come a time when she would no longer keep blaming herself for the physical and sexual violence that was brought upon her as time went on.
The boy’s mother only made two known attempts to free herself from this hell. Only once did she try to take the boys with her. The first time that she tried, Floyd was no older than twelve. She had decided to drug him, but was worried about the dosage, not wanting to kill him. That turned out to be her fatal mistake. She hadn’t used what she needed to. They hadn’t even been able to make it out of the driveway before he found them. Grabbing the woman by the hair, before she even had the car started, the boys watched in fear, not knowing what to do. Their father being a sight to behold, putting fear into them, not just over what he would do to their mother for trying to leave him, but what he would do to them. His brother, Andrew, refused to continue to watch. Getting out of the car, he rushed for them both, before they would be hidden behind walls inside the house. This did little good, as he ended up being dragged inside with, leaving Floyd to hear the torment, even in his own dreams later on.
The second and last time was just over a year later, she went alone, promising that she would come back for the boys. Neither of the boys knew for sure what had happened to her. If he had caught her and did worse, finally ending it all, or if she had gained her freedom. But they never did see her again. Just incurred the rather of their father that much more. Being left to do all of those things that she had done, to run the house for him.
Two years after this, Andrew was called upon to go and pick up their father at a local bar. He was causing problems and he was the only one with a current license. Not wanting to, but doing as he was asked, unwilling to handle what came with not listening, he went. Leaving Floyd home alone as he did, this would just turn out to be yet another time that someone didn’t come back for him as promised. Instead, a police officer showed up at the home, finding Floyd. The pair had an argument in the car. Their father wanting to drive, but refusing to let Andrew go. Having tried to get out of the car, Andrew was no longer wearing his seatbelt, and their father never wore his own. A car came rushing through the light, as their drunk father hadn’t been paying attention and hit them dead on.
Floyd had lost his entire family and was sent to foster care. Once no other family found in the area would be willing to take him in, it was the only liable option. The now young man, became more and more of a recluse. Quiet, watchful, and resourceful was something that became natural for him. Feeling more like a shell of a person, he did for himself, cared only for himself. He wasn’t going to be a victim again. Only becoming aggressive when others picked on him, that soon stopped, but it wasn’t something that foster families were willing to put up with. Hopping from place to place, it was the only life he knew, until an aunt he didn't know so well heard about what had happened. Offering her home up to him, it meant moving out to Boston. Being uprooted didn't seem to change his state of mind, if anything, leading him deeper down that hole. Always skipping classes and getting into trouble. That was, until that fateful day of turning eighteen. Not bothering with his high school diploma, he had few options. This led him back to the streets, especially after one last argument with his aunt. Pick pocketing and other types of petty wasn’t enough to keep him away from starvation or lock up. He knew that much, and found his way into dealing drugs for a short while. Anything to make a quick buck and keep him going in.
Finding just the right sorts of crowds, he learned more and more about other potential "jobs" and the like. Ways to help him along this same path. Whether it was luck, or his actual capacity to not get caught, he did rather well. His only time spent behind bars was at a juvenile detention center back in Los Angeles. But in Boston, there was never any reliable evidence to hold up against him in court, until the winter of 2010. Someone had snitched him off. Gaining parole the next year, he really hadn't learned anything. Just continued on with his usual way of life, adding the luck he gained in finding an actual job and apartment through it all.