Brightspots
By Lyo
Legals: The Brotherhood is not mine. I just love to torture them.
Warning: Typical angst thing that got started on by a newspaper article that talked about this kind of thing. mature/not happy things discussed.
The boy slid into the table, nodding to his housemates, grabbing the newspaper out of the center of the table, flipping through it a little until the front page caught his eye. He threw the paper down, staring at the headline. Foster Home Closed; Children out on the Street. They made it sound so tragic there on the front page, so depressing. What did they know about foster homes?
There was so much that should never be said about those places. Like they were happy places filled with sunshine dreams and sugar filled hopes. Only four year olds thought like that. Foster homes weren't great to live in. Everyone he'd ever stayed at was absolute hell, though he'd heard rumors of good lives and loving parents. His housemates had that story to tell, all of them except him.
To him, they smelled of death and urine and despair. The paint was chipping away to reveal yellowed wallpaper. The toilets never worked.
He remembered his first home clearly, walking up that cracked sidewalk dressed in a jacket and tie that the state had purchased for him, sticky little hand holding tight the bag that held everything important to him in it. He was scared of the place before he saw it. He had only lived in one house his whole life, and now here he was, staring up at the door of the grey and white house, social worker on one side. She rang the bell for him, held onto his shoulder as if she was afraid he was going to bolt again.
The door opened, and he just wanted to die or piss himself, something. The pair standing there were straight out of the fifties, her hair static and starched, curling up wonderfully. Him in this hideous three piece suit, a pipe hanging out of his mouth as they hugged him, cooed over him, touched his hair and made little remarks about his eating habits. Well, she did. He just kind of stood back proudly, looking at him. "Damn fine quarterback some day. Damn fine."
He'd finished school there, wearing the cut and polished look that his foster parents, Mr. and Mrs. de Mentira, so loved and adored. He made it through most of third grade there too. That place had been nice. Plenty of other kids to keep him company, and they all were like him. Their parents were gone. They had no one. He liked the younger ones.
But the older kids scared him then. They sat on the stairs, listening to their 'parents' fighting. They made little comments about the bills, about liquor. About the bruises that Mrs. de Mentira wore beneath her makeup, the limp hidden in that polka-dotted dress she so loved. They talked and talked, never smiling or laughing.
He left that house just before Easter. They couldn't handle so many kids. All but two of the oldest were sent away.
Then it had been a flurry. No one really wanted him this late in the year. First he'd been shipped off to an orphanage, then another, then another.
Finally, the Kranke home. That had been the first place he'd seen what can really happen to foster kids. On the surface, the foster kids there wore cast-offs, a far cry from what the last home demanded, but a lot more comfortable. There were at least three kids to a room, same age groups but rarely same gender, and they ran the neighborhood like kings. Everyone was scared of them. They didn't have parents; they didn't have rules. Bruises peppered their thin arms like badges of honor as they went out to the streets. They had the power, not the parented kids. They held it all.
Late at night, the horror came. He heard it through the walls first, the muffled cry in the darkness. The slight, confusing noises, and then the sobbing. The sobbing that lasted for hours into the night. He wasn't allowed to go and see what it was. They wouldn't let him. The next three nights, there had been silence. The sobbing was too far away to hear.
Then it came to their room, the tall ominous figure of evil that leaned over Rhonda's bed, shaking her from sleep. He only watched, eyes wide in what he was seeing, only half hidden in the darkness now that the door was open. He saw her little face, crumpled in pain as the figure moved back and forth, shoving her body up and down with each movement. Then it came to a shuddering halt, pulled the covers back over the girl, and left. Just like that.
He and the other boy in the room, Thom, raced over to her bed once it had ended, sitting up with her as she sobbed, thin form heaving great breaths beneath that tiny, thin gown. He learned everything that night. He learned the answer to what the figure, Mr. Kranke, had been doing. He learned the answer to the "Where do babies come from?" question, and he learned hatred. True, black hatred that hurts your soul, makes you sick inside until you can't help but scream.
That house lasted longer than any other. He left the summer of before sixth grade, never turning back. He hated thinking about that place, watching for the black figure in the halls as they went to bed. As selfish and sick as it was, he was thrilled that he wasn't a girl. Kranke only liked girls, the smaller the better.
His new home was fine. Normal. A little neglectful, a little on the eccentric side, but they gave any one over ten open range to the neighborhood. Over twelve, bus passes. Just don't come in the house before nine at night. Simple, easy, freedom. He loved that house. He hated leaving when seventh grade ended, but two good years had done him wonders, shaped him for life.
Almost. The next home was hell. They had to be in the house, up in their rooms by 4. There was no TV. Freedom was a myth soon forgotten. There was a grand total of two kids there besides him, both older and both boys. They beat on him constantly, teaching him how to fight back.
But there was one person you didn't fight back against. Lucifer, as the other kids in that home called him. Well, actually his name was McGaffey, but in the boy's mind, he would only be known as Lucifer. He'd been just like Mr. Kranke, only this time, anything with legs worked, but his methods were different. He used it as punishment. The boy was always making mistakes. He'd spent more time down in that basement than he ever wanted to remember. Every time, it hurt. Lucifer didn't care for using silly things like lube. He loved watching the pain on their faces when they were punished, always in front of the others. There was nothing private about what he did.
He glared at the article before crinkling it up and tossing it in the trash. Those kids were lucky. No more of this bullshit. No more Mr. Kranke or McGaffey, no more drunks like de Mentira. They had freedom.
Pietro stuck his head into the kitchen, "Areyoucoming?We'regoingtobelate!WehaveameetingwithMystique."
He rolled his eyes, getting up from the table, grabbing his book-bag. "All right, all right. I'm coming."
Freedom was good. He had freedom now. Freedom from his demons. He hated his past, hated everything that ever happened to him, but there was one bright spot on it. One lovely little spot on the horizon. In his room, there was a book, and in that book, pressed neatly between the pages, was a newspaper article.
Foster home foundation gives way after mysterious earthquake. Owners found dead; children survived.
Hell of a bright spot if you asked him.
This is a spur of the moment thing that popped into my head and I just went with it. I didn't even know who I was writing about until the end. I just did a little spell-checking/grammar editing.R/R please!