The sun was bright, yet the weather cold. The clouds were slowly moving across the sky as I leaned against the stop sign, worried to come home. My foster mom would find out at some point the long, narrow cut that stretched from her elbow to her shoulder was gone. She got it simply, slipping on the ice and cutting it open on the fender of her convertible. I had quickly helped her up when it happened.
The pain was subtle at first, I didn't feel a thing. Then it stung, and I noticed the dampness on the sleeve of my coat. Quickly noticing, I told my mom to look away from the cut. She did, and I helped her through the door. I quickly wrapped the healed arm in bandages, staged a call to the doctors, and fed her some "Pain-Away" medicine which was really a mint leaf, and told her the pain would be gone instantly.
After that, I sped down the street. Here I was, leaning against a stop sign, trying to bandage the cut to no avail. Tears began to fill my eyes, making it hard to see what I was doing. I told myself not to give up, and I watched my breath turn into steam in the air.
I finally got the bandage on, and I smiled to myself. As I walked back home, my brain went over the last 13 years of my life in my head.
My mom, dad, and two uncles died in a fire when I was only a few months old.
I was quickly taken in by my current family.
I was home schooled my whole life.
I found I don't want to care about people.
That last one made me cringe, as I didn't mind the caring part. It was the cost that came with it. The cost you would be crazy if you thought I chose it. Wait, forget crazy, you'd be a psychopath.
A thought suddenly entered my head that made me stop in my tracks. For highschool, I was being sent to public school. In school, I would have to sort out a family tree. One that sprouted from the name of Katrina who-even-knows-what-my-real-last-name-is. They'd expect me to, even if I was adopted, know. But I don't. In fact, I only know one name, which I don't even know where it fits in the tree.
Brewster Rawlins.