Childhood was said to be some of the best years for experiencing, learning However, I don't remember anything. My birth parents, my hometown, nothing. The farthest that I can remember was when I was nine. I lived in the foster home, and it was obvious I was disliked. I would go out in the middle of the night, slinking my way down the hallway. I would poke my head around to corner to two aged women sitting in the dim desk lamps, pretending to do work, but just playing solitaire and gossiping about their 'no-good' husbands.
"So, any luck getting rid of Kimi?" one asked glancing over her horn rimmed glasses.
"No, we've thrown her file at every single person that has stopped by." she grunted
"Dammit! Doesn't anyone want the god forsaken thing? How the hell did she end up here anyway?"
"I didn't work here at the time, but from what I've heard, they found her in an empty trailer, no sign of anyone having been there for weeks. Some man that was going to demolish the place heard crying, so he stopped his crew and looked inside. She was just about gone." her face showed no emotion.
"Well too bad he found her, five more minutes and she wouldn't have been our problem."
Their laughter was spine-chilling, is sounded like hiss, but came out like a cackle. I winced, from both the harsh statement, and the sound. With tears in my eyes, I would crawl back into bed. Me wishing with them, that I was killed..
Years passed and I was twelve, I was taken to many different households. None of course were the right ones. The worst thing about that foster care system is that they didn't even look into the backgrounds of the people that came to adopt. The first people were awful. They just wanted me to be a servant. If I spilled coffee on the counter, or didn't make food just right, I was burned with a cigar, punched in the face, and one time I got stabbed and thrown outside. I was lying in the chilled sidewalk, the pool of blood only getting bigger. I was found by the neighbors, they tried communicating with me, but it was like white noise. I could just feel myself slipping away. The next time I was conscious I was in the hospital. My previous foster parents were arrested, and once I was healed I was put back in the system. There wasn't any welcome, no signs of concern for me almost being dead. Just eye-rolls, and whispers of disgust when I walked by.
Next home, I was fifteen, it started off normal, but descended quickly. I would spill a glass of milk one day, they told me to laugh it off. The next day I accidentally colored off the paper and on to the coffee table, I was kicked in the stomach. This went on for a while, and I would treat them as a ticking time bomb, just trying not to get them upset. The worst one was when I was playing with some kids from the neighborhood in the front lawn, and the foster mom plowed her way through. She yanked my up by my hair.
"What the fuck did I say about leaving your plates on the table." I felt the saliva spring from her face, and slide down mine like acid.
"I-I'm sorry...I forgo-" I was punched in the teeth, and thrown to the ground before I can finish. Trying my damnedest not to cry. She always made it worse when I cried. My face was in the grass, but I heard her hiss at the other children to leave, and I know they made record timing. Because before you know it, the toe of her high heels was digging into my spine.
"GET UP!" she barked. I wouldn't move, or breathe.
"Going to play that game, huh?" She grabbed a handful of my hair, and dragged me to the pond by the house.
"This is what happens when stupid children don't do as they're asked. She crammed my head under the cold water. I was trying to push up against it, she pulled me up, I gasped and was submerged again. Soon there were black dots in my vision, I knew I wasn't going to be able to last much longer. One of our neighbors thankfully saw her, and shoved her aside and helped me out of the water. Shortly afterward, there was crowd of people around my house. It took four adults to pin the crazy woman down, and the person that helped me wrapped a towel around my shoulders.
"It's okay to cry now, sweetie. No one's going to hurt you now." I shoved my face into his shirt and sobbed heavily, with my shoulders shaking and my voice wailing. He was comforting me until the ambulance and police showed up, then I never saw him again.
Due the the pattern, I believe you know what's going to happen next. Ding! That's right! I was shipped back to the system, and they were even more resentful than before. I was beginning to think they were going to plan my murder, I was always cautious around them. A couple more years passed, I was seventeen. I was taken to my last foster home. I felt like a stone, emotionless. Tired of giving myself false hopes that the next one would be better. The system no longer celebrated my departure, because they knew I was going to come back. One way or the next.
This next home, was plain awful. I remember the man (I think his name was Paul) wanted me to go with him to his shed to check out his book collection. Me being the heavy reader I am, was interested. He made small conversation on the way there, and I nodded along with whatever he was saying. Not paying much attention. Once we walked in, he ushered me to go further in, and I noticed a small little den. A small coffee table with a heavy looking crystal ashtray, a couch, chair, and a musty rug in the middle of the floor. However, the one thing I noticed, there wasn't a bookshelf, nor a book in sight. My ears pricked up as I heard the door shut, and a small lock click. He footsteps were slow, and terror filled my heart. He lifted a hairy hand, and put it on my cheek. His thumb stroking up and down, my spine shivering with every movement.
"You're so beautiful. I could just take you, all for myself." he whispered.
"No." I pushed his hand away, and moved back. Even though my brain was telling me I was already cornered.
"Shut the hell up, it's not like you have much of a choice. You're under my care, which means you'll have to listen to me."
"P-please. Don't d-do this." I stammered, still trying to find my escape.
He lunged toward me, I moved to the right, where there was a small opening. I made a run for the front door. I heard the ashtray slide off the table, and the next thing I knew, my vision was unstable and there was a ringing in my ears. I staggered into a wall. He grabbed my wrist and jerked me into him.
"No more silly games, or I swear to God, I will kill you. Do I make myself clear?"
"Yes-" he covered my mouth.
"Shh, no talking. We can't let the others hear us, now can we?" he was right up in my face, and his breath smelled like sewage.
I slowly and unsteadily shook my head.
He kissed my neck, and when he would start to suck on it, I felt like I was getting strangled by an octopus. He then removed my shirt and pants, and laid me down on the couch. He then started to kiss me from my neck down to my belly button. My heart started to sting, along with the corners of my eyes when I felt my underwear slide off. He covered my mouth again as he was entering me, and I groaned into his hand, and my tears were falling down the side of my face. He thrusted slowly, agonizingly slow. He then slid out, and turned me over, entering from the other side. I cried out, and again, his hand came from over my shoulder and onto my mouth. He thrusted a little harder and quicker this time. I felt utterly useless. Defenseless. Defeated.
After what felt like a year, he finished. He pulled out in time, because he reminded me, we don't need a useless fetus. I didn't want one either, not like this. He would then make fun of me, he would be mentally and emotionally abusive. It drew me to cut myself. I would cut on my legs, because it was less noticeable around the house. But whenever he would take me out the the shed, he noticed them, and punched me for 'ruining his masterpiece' calling me a bigger, uglier disgrace than before. He put a pillowcase over my head so he wouldn't have to see my 'horrendous face.'
Thankfully, one day his wife walked into the shed to get some holiday decorations. She walked in on us, and screamed. She ran out to call the police. He started to panic. So he slid out, and pulled on his pants. He was going to go after her. I figured there was nothing else to lose, so I grabbed his leg and pulled him to the ground.
"No! You're not destroying any other lives!" I shouted.
He then pinned me to the ground, and started punching me in the face. The blood that was dripping out, was going into my nose and mouth and I started to choke on it. I was almost out when I heard sirens blaring in the distance. He stopped. He looked scared. He jumped up, and ran out the door. I believe they caught him, but I was still lying naked on the floor of the shed not sure whether I was about to pass out due to blood loss, or from the head trauma. I remember his wife coming in with a blanket, she threw it over my shoulders, and hugged me to her chest. Apologizing, saying that she should have known and all that. I barely listened. I was too busy trying to pass out. I wanted to stop feeling, to stop thinking about everything. I just wanted it to stop.
Once I was patched up, I was sent to the system again. It only lasted about a month though, because I turned eighteen and legally I could do whatever. I went back into my room and started to pack. It was only one duffel bag because I didn't have much. Just a few outfits, a stuffed cat named Lulu, my two favourite books; Alice in Wonderland, and The Hobbit, and my hairbrush. After that, I sat on my bed and thought.
"I can do anything I want to, go to an actual school and get further with my life." I said aloud.
It took a lot of thinking, and a lot of talking to different people, but eventually I gathered up enough grants, even scored a few scholarships. Now was the tough part: applying. I struggled with staying awake, fighting sleep with three pots of coffee just to finish writing all of the different essays for each application. I gathered up some money that I made by babysitting or mowing lawns. I mailed out the different applications and just waited.