Author's note:

Jayden has is an alcoholic, but she went through the painful process of getting off her addiction for drugs after what had happened. She's been in an orphanage for the past six months and is currently in the process of getting a new home.

Disclaimer: I own only the plot and my original characters. I don't own anything you might recognize.

It's not like other adoption stories. I know you have heard it before, but mine is different, kind of. The twists and how I write it and how the story plays out are different. Yeah, Avenged Sevenfold fathers a teenage girl who had a rough past that they find out about, (not all in mine though). But, it's different, trust me.

I was trapped, (as trapped as any ten year old girl could be in a car doing eighty down the highway. Jumping didn't seem ideal.), in a rancid, beaten down Honda, the air around felt like an emotional rollercoaster. In my case the higher the rollercoaster crept up the tracks the more I wanted to burst into tears and scream. But, then the rollercoaster would plunge into the numbness, dark as the sea.

I was creeping to the top, ready to burst, was shaking rapidly, unable to elude the violent assault of the cold, unable to take control of my rage, but I tried to force it down by listening to the tapping the rain made on the windows. I knew I'd be sick the next day, my face swelled with fire and my upper lip was slimed with snot. No matter how much I crammed my body together or sank my nails into the fatty flesh of my arm; I couldn't kink the flow of water behind my eyelids. I should have been used to this, should I have not? Things like that happening: Her getting piss drunk and passing out on the couch again, intrusting me to baby-sit myself in the rain for three hours. Why did that surprise me?

Nothing should have shocked me anymore when it came to my mother. I should have been shocked if she went a week without one of her moments happening, those 'moments' that allowed her to forget all her responsibilities in the world where she could be alone, depending on other's sympathy for her grieving period. Those moments of hers should have stopped a long time ago. It happened a long time ago and she did it to herself, she did to all of us. She acts like it was my father's fault that we left, but it's not. I know that now, maybe I always have.

"She's sorry, you know?"

Words I had heard too many times from a voice I had wished would leave sooner than later. But, knowing that him staying my mother's boyfriend wouldn't last much longer, ('cause they never did), didn't help the annoyance I felt.

I didn't say anything, like I usually did. I wasn't sure if it was for the better, bottling up my feelings, I'm still not sure even if I ended up taking my anger out on someone innocent. The reason I didn't have any friends, but one who was just as bitchy as I was.

"She feels awful and wants to make it up to you. Take you to the pool, maybe?" Right, so she can leave me there too?

"But, things will get better, she'll get better. I'm here, I'll fix things. I'll fix this."

Just touches the heart coming from a thirty-six year old, bald, unemployed drunk who turned my home from dysfunctional to dysfunctional with financial issues. He doesn't care. . He just likes my mom because of what she can do in the bedroom. Words I heard him say myself.

I looked into the rearview mirror to see his dull, baggy, green eyes. I knew I'd get slapped for saying this, something a child shouldn't say, something a child knows nothing about. But, I do.

I didn't look towards him as I spoke. I probably looked innocent with a blank, tear stained face.

"Do you know what I want to be when I grow up, Richard?" No.

"What's that, sweetheart?" He snickered with amusement. He never liked small talk with me, only when he was trying to get me to forgive my mother.

Smirking with mischief that reached my eyes I said, "An orphan."

It's funny, the type of wishes that get granted.

The withering, two-story house before me was a grayish, tan color, (to give off a calm aura). The owner hadn't painted it any grey; it came from the lack of care. The wood, you could see, had started to rot away, the paint on the trimming was beyond just chipped, and there were window panels loosely hanging. Despite that the house looked like it hadn't recovered from a storm, it was perfect. It reminded me of an old, Victorian house and held a beauty of its own.

Rather than what you would predict, the forbidden house at the end of Marcel St. was quite large on the inside. However, it needed to be because it didn't just shelter an elderly couple or a three unit family, but proximally twenty to twenty-five orphaned children. The majority of the space was filled by toddlers or other brats under the age of nine who were barely in the range of where adults wanted to adopt. Infants came next to populate a large amount because many wanted them and many didn't. That left two teenagers whom would leave one hell and enter the next when they were no longer legally tied to the orphanage, me being the second eldest at fifteen.

It was Saturday, so that meant there would be lots of possible parents waiting to adopt. To become a 'hero' and save another lost soul from spending an afterlife in hell, (like that matters to me since I don't believe in any afterlife), where most foster children were bound to end. Either from "overdose", "gang affiliation" or any of that made up bullshit that kids would prove true. For when you're an orphan, no one expects much from you because you won't get far in life. You're not allowed to succeed. But then, there are some rules I'm willing to break, (or sometimes I wish I was willing to break it).

Cars didn't liter the street; they did, but not as much as you see in movies or hear about in books. They came in and out through the day, maybe three cars at a time.

Adoption Day never bothered me, why should it? I wasn't going to drown myself in sorrow or cry myself to sleep because not a single adult glanced twice at me. I wasn't going to complain that I was destined to stay here until I turned eighteen, but then pretend that I wanted it that way. I don't pretend that I want it that way because that is exactly what I want: to wait out my years, if I haven't drunk me away yet.

It wouldn't surprise me if I did with the rate I'm going. You'd think I'd be ashamed because this is what my mother used to do to herself; this is what I hated about her. I swore I wouldn't do the same thing, I wouldn't do this to the people around me, but here I am doing exactly that, except I'm not doing it to anyone around me because I don't let anyone around, anyone that cares at least.

I tried not to think about her or anything as I made my way up to my closet size room that I was thankful for because it was too small to share. I wanted to get to sleep as quickly as possible, I didn't want any interactions, because I didn't want anyone noticing my pupils or smelling my breath or asking questions. Most importantly, I wanted to get to sleep while I was drunk enough.