Enter Samandriel.
"Dishes, Samandriel."
"Yes, sir," Samandriel said reluctantly, getting up to clear away his family's plates, cups, silverware, bowls, et cetera. His father sat at one end of the table, his mother at the foot, five of the children on each side, the dinner laid across it. It always reminded Samandriel of a scene in Great Expectations where the main character stumbled across a long-forgotten wedding feast; the tables set and ready, but the hall untouched for fifty years. His foster siblings sat starchly at their places, waiting to be dismissed.
"Naomi, my wine," his foster father demanded.
"Yes, sir," Naomi replied and hurried into the kitchen after Samandriel, who struggled with a huge handful of plates. She pushed past him, making a saucer sway precariously. Samandriel tried desperately to regain balance, and finally dumped the dishes into the sink with a clatter. Frantically, he checked to make certain nothing had shattered. Naomi regarded him, her face unreadable, as she retrieved a wine glass from the cupboard.
Samandriel made his way back out to the dining room for another armload of dishes. His foster family watched him carefully, unspeaking, as he cleared the table. He was the newest, moved in after the group home he'd been living in didn't work out. Therefore, he was the runt, the scapegoat, the punching bag. His foster mother and father were pious, stoic folk who prayed after they woke up, before they ate, in the evening, and before they slept, not to mention services on Wednesday evenings and Sunday mornings.
He'd quickly figured out that you did not speak to 'Father', as he demanded to be called, or 'Mother' without being addressed directly beforehand. You did as they asked: holding hands during grace, attending church, doing chores at any hour of the day, get good grades and don't ever act out.
The kids who had been here longest had formed a sort of gang. There were five in all, older, lurking figures whose command was second only to Father's. Yuri, adopted from Russia only to have his new parents killed in a car crash. Luca, abandoned as a baby and with violent temper tantrums. Ian, a brutish boy who was no older than Samandriel but was easily a foot taller. He was a grunt, doing what his foster brothers commanded without question. Then there were the twins, Matt and Anna, who communicated wordlessly and always presented a united front. Matt loved stories, and would reward the newest arrivals in exchange for stolen books. He had a closet entirely full with books, and Samandriel longed to steal one or two.
The other kids were grouped loosely around the oldest five. Gabriel, almost eighteen and about to be dumped from the system, was morose and independent. Everyone left him alone, subconsciously afraid to acknowledge the truth of the system: they would all end up like Gabe one day; alone, homeless, and ultimately worthless.
Naomi and Hester were friends, an inseparable duo. Hester was kind but scheming and manipulative under her gentle shell. Naomi was plain flighty, an excellent thief. Then there was Raphael, a shrimpy boy of about eleven who tagged along with Michael and tattled on anyone who dared to put a toe out of line.
Finally, there was Samandriel, who had arrived three weeks ago from a group home when he was deemed 'unfit' for the situation. This one wasn't any better, there were less children but more chores and no books.
Samandriel reached past Anna's shoulder to take her plate, and she smiled briefly at him before returning her gaze to rest straight ahead at Raphael.
Nobody was allowed to leave the table until the dishes were collected, washed and dried. They were not allowed to assist the assigned child and the process was slow. Often, Samandriel had struggled to get the dishes done within an hour. Then, his siblings, Luca and Ian especially, would punish him for his slowness.
Most nights Samandriel did not get to bed until at least one in the morning, after chores and punishments and homework and prayers. He would collapse in bed, too tired to worry about what life would be like once he was no longer a ward of the state.
He was sixteen years old and had never had any sort of friendship in his life. He lived for the nights, when he could get five or six hours of sleep, albeit restless, and forget for a while.
I don't really have any clear ideas of where to take this story. Any and all suggestions are welcome!