I'm done. I can't do this anymore. I have got to get out of here. I put on my clothes after my foster-dad leaves my room, taking with him yet another piece of my dignity. How many times has he had his way with me? I lost count months ago.
I'm Skylar, a 16 year-old foster child. My parents died when I was 12, due to a drunk driver. I've been in-and-out of foster homes for the past four years, but none of them have been as bad as the Johnsons. When I first arrived, they seemed to be alright. Suzanna was kind and told me to make myself at home, and Tom was friendly. Not long after I had gotten there did it all change. I started getting in trouble for the smallest things, like not picking up a piece of trash or getting home a few minutes late after school. Tom became more friendlier, more touchy-feely, literally. I'd be in the kitchen alone fixing myself a snack or something and he'd come up behind me and run his hands down my torso. I was disgusted the first time and told him not to touch me again, and when I tried telling Suzanna, she laughed at me. "You're a crazy little thing, making stories up like that, aren't you?"
One time I was in the living room reading when Tom sat down beside me. I tensed up and he ran his hand along my thigh, inching closer to there. Suzanna walked in and stopped. Tom told her I wanted it and she called me a slut and sent me to my room. That night when I was in bed Tom came in my room and started touching me. When I tried to scream he slapped me across the face and he raped me. It's been going on ever since, but I won't continue living like this anymore. I will no longer be abused, raped, living with a woman who allows it to happen. Yes, Suzanna knows, and she does not care.
I turn on a small light as to not draw attention to my room using a bright light, and get my backpack and a duffle bag out of my closet. I pack clothes in the duffle and everything valuable into my backpack. I check my wallet and count $75. I take a deep breath. "I'm going to do this." I whisper and quietly open my bedroom door. It's 1:00 in the morning and I know that Tom and Suzanna are asleep.
I tiptoe down the hallway and down the stairs. I hesitate, about to turn around and just go back upstairs and live another day in this hell-hole, but I can't. I need to be brave. I take a deep breath and quietly go out the front door, stepping into the cool, autumn night. Where will I go? The police station? I want to tell somebody, I want to report what has happened, but Tom's threats creep into my mind. "If you ever tell anybody, you have my word that I will make your life even more miserable. You think you have it hard now? Tell someone, and this will seem like a picnic." I think about leaving town, but I've never been anywhere but NYC. And I'm going to be reported missing, and then when I'm found I'll be sent back to the Johnsons. I have to report this. I unlock my phone and type in the NYPD address, it's 20 minutes away, but that's just by car. I call for a cab and it arrives not long after. I get in.
"I need to get to the police station." I say. The cabbie glances at me in the rearview mirror.
"Everything alright?" He asks.
"Yes, I just need to get there." Do I seem calm, confident about what I'm doing? Maybe, but looks can be deceiving. I feel nauseous, like the remnants of my last meal will come up any second. I start to panic, the fear of what might happen taking over. I need to go back home. This was a mistake. "I'm sorry, but could you just drop me off right here?" I ask the cabbie.
"Are you sure? We're not long from-"
"Please just pull over!" I interrupt, and he does.
"Do I need to-"
"What you need to do is drive away." I say through clenched teeth. I slam the door and he drives away. I step into a near alley and lean against the wall, running a hand through my hair. "You fucking coward." I say to myself and I feel a tear run down my face. "No, no crying." I say and sit down on the dirty concrete.
I unzip a small pocket of my backpack and pull out the item that has been there for me through all of this. I lift up my sleeve and look at my arms. I trace each scar, each with their own story, their own reason for being there. I need that release, to feel the physical pain so I can't focus on the emotional pain. I take the blade and press it to my skin and slide it across. I grit my teeth as my skin tears open, stinging pain causing me to whimper. I watch the blood run down my arm and make another cut, then another. I have thoughts of just ending it all. Something is wrong with me. If there wasn't, I wouldn't be forced by my foster-dad every night, I wouldn't be his toy. I look up towards the sky.
"God, if you're there, speak to me." I whisper and close my eyes. I get no response. That is my answer. If God doesn't reply to me, if even God is disgusted by me and won't be there for me, there is no hope, no reason to continue like this. I take a deep breath and once again press the blade against my skin, this time cutting vertically. Blood flows out, faster and heavier. I close my eyes and wait for blissful death to greet me...
