"You little bitch!"
The slow numbing in my chest spread like ice on a winter's night. I knew what I had done. I knew that this would happen. It always ends like this. As I looked up through the overhanging bangs of jet black hair, the shattered dismay wept from my foster's drugged figure. There was another fire spreading from when Todd lit a smoke, but passed out before he could use it. "Sara? Shouldn't someone put it out?" His real daughter made a noise in the back of her throat before spitting on me and pushing past. Out the door. Again. The fire was transforming the multi-stained carpet into a burnt crisp of ashes. Flashing between Todd's unconscious face, the closed front door, and the rapidly growing flame, I grabbed a cup and filled it with tap water to splash on the fire. He flinched and lurched as the lukewarm water slid into the crevices on his face. As his bloodshot eyes burned into my soul, I let out a sigh.
There was no stopping it now.
The connection of his week-old sock with the inside of my ribcage radiated heat and pain. I wish I could say I didn't remember the details. I wish I could say that I retreated into the back of my mind until it was safe to come out. I wish I could say that I did something- anything except what actually happened. I wish I didn't remember how it felt for him to show me my arm, and then snap it in pieces. I wish I could say that it ended there. Gods, I wish it did. I wish I could say that was the most painful snap that day.
"You little fucker. You're lucky to be under this roof. You wouldn't be here if I wasn't getting paid to care about you! You need to learn for once in your pitiful goddamn life, you little rat." If people were voices, Todd's gravelly, uneven tone was as uncomfortable as they came. Seeming like the ideal barbeque dad I saw on commercials, his domestic life demonstrated the stereotype of an alcoholic druggie.
Terror arose from my skeletal structure as he reached for my backpack. The grey and brown satchel carried all the possessions I couldn't fit on my person: an extra tank top, underclothes, basic toiletries, and the Journal. Gods, the Journal. It held everything no one had said to me. It was the only thing I could say would always be there for me. The only thing I trusted. The drugged motion of his arms as he picked up the Journal and flung the bag into the wall behind me was terrifying, like seeing a mechanical beast malfunctioning. He gripped the Journal by its back cover, allowing the pages to dangle down and sway in the drafty room, before reaching for the matchbox.
No! Please, I'm sorry. Please! I'll leave! I'll stop. Just please, I need that book.
That's what my mind was screaming, but my mouth refused to release any audible pleas. It was already too late. One page. Gone. My silent cries remained unheard by him. As the salty leaks dripped to the ashy floor I kneeled on, a pitter patter of water leapt through the windows. He stopped. Thank the Gods, he stopped. One page too late, but still: he stopped. Whether it be from a flash of pity, or to close the windows, I didn't know. The discarded Journal was now resting on the floor. Cautiously, I reached for it. Todd was occupied now. Sara was out—probably at a club or a party getting drunk.
I couldn't handle it. It says... it says on page 4 that the strongest don't run away from their problems, but towards them to face the issues head on. But... I wasn't not strong enough. I'd been running face first into problem after problem as long as I could remember. Abusive foster home after abusive foster home... I can't keep track of it. I was done. I was leaving, and never coming back. Not to the system, to this hellhole of a foster home.
I can't believe I ever called this place a type of home.
So I did. I put on my hoodie, shrugged on my bag, secured the Journal, and ran. I ran fast, and I ran far. Never again would I look back. That's what I thought, at least.