I apologize ahead of time if I got anything wrong about how the system works
The day he'd come to live with the Mark's was a day that would forever be vivid in his mind.
He was shuffled around a bit. First, it was the group facility where Charles truly believed he was going to lose his freaking mind over. He hated it there. The other boys annoyed him. They were way too nosy and had no qualms about asking him personal questions. Though, there were a few that left him-and everyone else-alone. They were the shy type, the kind that quickly avoided eye contact and mumbled their every response.
He'd had issues with the staff there as well and on more than one occasion, Charles got into it with someone. He couldn't stand how it was just crawling with women. He most certainly did not want them being near him all the time, especially when he was dealing with certain...issues. It was so embarrassing. But did they listen when he voiced his opinion? Nope. Of course not. He was given that rather condescending smile-in his opinion-and told that they understood but there was nothing they could do about it right now. There were other things said but Charles had stubbornly blocked it out, refusing to listen any longer.
When nearly a week passed since he was removed from his home, he was placed with his first foster family. He was woken up at the crack of dawn, told to get dressed in a hushed voice so as not to make the others stir. Bleary eyed and exhausted, Charles stumbled to grab his things and headed off to the bathroom to take care of his teeth and hair. After that, in spite of the overwhelming feeling that yearned to lay back down, he was taken to a car and driven half an hour out of San Francisco. By the time they got to the house, the sun was starting to rise.
Miss Watson put the park in park, unbuckling her seat belt. Charles stared ahead, hands tightly gripping his backpack. He hadn't let go of it the whole way over. "Are you ready to meet your foster family?" She was giving him a much too wide smile, the lanyard around her neck with far too many keys jingling every time she moved.
The house in and of itself wasn't terrible looking. It was rather ordinary and like every other one on the street. It wasn't too large or tiny and appeared to have two levels to it. There was a garden out front with large pots of flowers and gnomes and other things like that.
"This is a big step," Miss Watson had her hands clenched together. "You want to make a good impression." She started to reach out to flatten some pieces of hair that hadn't been fixed by his comb. He jerked away, heart leaping, eyes widening. She understood, pulling away, clearing her throat as she turned off the engine. "Let's go inside."
The family consisted of a man and his wife along with their four children-who, he might add, were all under the age of ten. There, in the doorway standing slightly behind his social worker, Charles kept his eyes firmly on the floor. He said nothing nor did he make any acknowledgment towards them. Out of habit, he stiffened when Miss Watson introduced him to the family, stepping aside for them to get a better view of him. Two of the younger kids, an infant that the mother was holding onto and a toddler who clung to her leg, stared at him. Their two other children were nowhere to be seen but the dad said they were probably upstairs.
"I'm going to leave you now," Miss Watson told him.
"Okay," His murmur was barely audible.
The door closed behind her, signaling this new start that neither wanted or felt ready for. But the damage was done. He was here and couldn't leave.
The silence was broken by the woman, who introduced herself as Matilda. "Would you like some breakfast, Charles? You must be starving by now."
He was, but restrained himself from outright accepting the possibility of food, making sure to pull his stomach muscles inward to muffle the sound of his hunger rumbles. "I'm fine."
She wasn't convinced. Her smile remained and she subtly-or perhaps not as subtle as she believed, for he'd caught it-made eye contact with her husband. It was a silent conversation, one that ended with her clasping her hands together and ushering her toddler into the kitchen after calling for the two others to come downstairs.
"Would you like to see your room?" The father, Kent, said politely.
He shrugged. "I guess."
His bedroom was located on the upper level at the end of the hallway on the right. It was bare except for a bed, dresser, window and closet. The walls were painted green and it must have been recent by the looks of things.
"We didn't know what you'd like so we left it for you to do yourself," Kent told him, unknowingly interrupting his thoughts. "You don't mind, do you?"
For the umpteenth time, he shrugged. "It's fine."
It seemed like the ideal temporary placement. He'd heard that some foster kids were adopted by their foster parents. His social worker had told him as much, in addition to warning him that it wasn't the case oftentimes. He didn't care. It wasn't like he was anxiously anticipating for it. He didn't even want to be there. Not the system. Not at this new house with these strange and annoyingly happy people.
But not with his dad either.
He just wanted to be alone.
Everything went smoothly at first. Charles got to know the two other children; the girl was six and the boy was eight. They were sort of unsure about him in the beginning but the little girl got over it faster. She was wild and not in a good way either. It took a week or so but once they'd gotten used to him-which was far faster than he got used to them-their true personalities came out. It was nothing too terrible, he supposed. It could have been a lot worse. They could have been just like his dad and pounced on him unsuspectingly after Miss Watson left.
No, they weren't like his dad.
But it wasn't to say that everything was perfectly fine either.
It started with a seemingly innocent request; a month into the placement, Matilda and Kent were going out for an evening of alone time. They hadn't done that since before Charles came into the picture. They'd asked him to babysit upon finding out that their go-to babysitter was busy and he was the oldest of them all so they both figured he could handle it just fine.
Truth be told, Charles didn't want to babysit.
(He hadn't been lying when he told Stephanie he didn't know anything about kids. He knew even less at the time).
In hindsight, maybe he could have said no. It might have stopped them from asking time and time again. Or maybe not. All he knew at that moment was that the pressure was extraordinary. It didn't feel like he could say no. He remembered how dad would take to dealing with the rare occasions where Charles stood up for himself.
It wasn't pretty.
Or, they might be visibly disappointed in having to cancel. They might not say it was his fault, even though it would be. And so, Charles found himself agreeing. He later regretted that decision very much when he grew increasingly overwhelmed by how hard it was to deal with them. The baby cried non stop, the toddler and the six year old kept being rambunctious and getting into massive trouble-such as squirting out an entire tube of toothpaste into the sink and playing in it with their bare hands or dumping out a bottle of shampoo and other hygiene products as part of a science experiment. The oldest son was no help either. He stayed up in his room doing who knows what, blatantly ignoring Charles when he tried-with desperation-to ask him how to get the others to calm down.
Things were just as chaotic when Kent and Matilda came back. They didn't punish him for their children's disobedience nor was he lectured. They dealt with the others, punished them and sent everyone off to bed.
But it wasn't the end of it, not by a long shot.
He was asked-no, he was told-to babysit many more times after that. Not even just that, but everything. He was always doing this or that under the guise of being their special little helper. He had to bite his tongue so he didn't snap at the babyish term.
And then one day, he really did snap.
The six year old had been grating on his nerves. Worse yet, she liked to bother when he was the most stressed: while doing his homework. Instead of going to the school near his new (temporaorary) home, he was given work to complete there. That was when he'd been struggling horribly but there was no one around to help him. Kent worked long hours and Matilda...well, she technically could have helped. She claimed she was too busy but Charles knew better; sure, she took care of the baby sometimes but more often not, she was chatting away on the phone or watching TV with a bowl of something within reach. It also meant that she didn't stop her daughter from interrupting his homework with anything more than a don't do that. He quickly got tired of her trying to yank his papers away or getting her sticky hands on them or shrieking when he didn't immediately stop to play with her.
So he exploded.
He never hit her. He'd never stoop that low. But he'd shouted. He made her freeze, made her big eyes well up with tears until she rushed off for comfort in the arms of her mother. Charles didn't even realize how much it affected him; there with his hands clenched, chest heaving, nose flaring. It only took less than a minute for Matilda to come upstairs, demanding to know what happened. She wasn't screaming, she wasn't yanking him by the collar or slamming against the wall.
But she was upset.
She was looking at him in a new way.
Perhaps a small part of him was fearful in anticipation of what might happen. It should have caused him to shrink back, to calm down instantaneously. That's what happened when he was with his dad. Those rare moments of bravery (and stupidity) didn't last long. They sizzled out faster than they appeared. But it didn't. Not here. Not now.
And it didn't end there either. The outbursts became more frequent. He wasn't trying to be difficult or to put stress on everyone. He was so angry.
At his dad for everything he'd put him through.
At his social worker, who frequently got on his last nerve.
At the dumb therapist he was forced to see.
At this new family, who, turns out, didn't care any more than his dad did about him.
And at himself.
Himself for allowing everything to happen to him.
And for being weak enough to admit it to Stephanie, who couldn't even do one thing and keep it a secret like he told her to.
Charles didn't stay there much longer. The family gave up. He was handed back shortly after. He remembered that quite well, too. The ride had been deafeningly silent. Matilda and Kent were in the car and once he was back into the building, he was ushered away but it didn't stop Charles from hearing what Matilda told Miss Watson.
"We can't take this anymore. He's just too much for us."
The woman who was taking him to the other room winced. Her hands seemed to dig into his shoulders, not noticing how he stiffened upon her touching him. She gently pushed him forward but it didn't matter. The damage was done. He heard it. He knew it. He wasn't surprised by it.
His next home was an even shorter placement.
The family was decent. They didn't make him feel like a slave or be bound to babysitting their two children-which was a huge relief from being around four. They weren't overly exciting or anything. Just...average. Alright. Nothing stood out about them. They were a typical family who decided they wanted to foster.
And everything went well for a while. Until he was introduced to their extended family and it all went downhill from there. Evidently, their decision to foster wasn't shared with everyone beforehand; so, during a random weekend get-together, they came across Charles, who was sitting at the kitchen table. At first, they believed him to be a neighbor boy that just moved in on the street. His foster mother explained the truth.
Charles would never forget their expressions.
The shock.
The poor attempt at hiding it and putting on a fake smile.
The gleam of fear.
He would later learn that their extended family didn't have a good view of fostering and adoption.
"How long has this been going on?" Cathy, the mother-in-law, asked with her hands curled around a steaming cup of coffee. She was trying to talk as quietly as possible without moving her lips. Charles knew what she was saying anyway.
Carrie, his foster mother, was preparing the dinner, determined to act like she hadn't understood the question. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't play dumb with me," Cathy wagged a finger at her. Her eyes darted in his direction before landing back on Carrie. "You know very well what I meant. The boy-"
"His name is Charles," Carrie told her.
"Charles. Fine," Cathy's voice was clipped. "How long do you plan on keeping that boy here?"
Carrie raised her chin in the air. "For as long as he needs. He's been through a lot." She turned to grab a container out of the cabinet. Cathy followed, whispering furiously.
"You're making a mistake, letting that boy into this house. What if he hurts you or Rob or the kids?"
"He wouldn't," Carrie whispered back. "How could you say such a thing? You've got no idea what he's been through."
"I would imagine you don't have the whole story either," Cathy pursed her lips. "For all you know, he could have problems. He could be severely damaged and take it on everyone else. Is that what you want? Do you want your children to-"
The chair slammed back into the table.
Charles rushed upstairs, throwing himself onto his bed.
It would have been nice if that was the last he'd heard of it; that Carrie and her husband put their foot down and shut that woman down before she could say anything more. But they didn't. His new foster mother turned out to be a very impressionable woman. She hadn't thought of the possible consequences of letting Charles into the home before her mother-in-law had said something. Things started to shift after that. He felt like he was being watched, like someone had their eyes on him at all times. And then if something happened, if something wasn't showing up, fingers pointed to him even if it wasn't true.
Once, one of Carrie's children had taken a necklace from her. It wasn't just any piece of jewelry; she'd received that from her own mother, who had died when Carrie was only eleven. She'd treasured it for many years and now it was suddenly gone. The little girl had thought it was pretty and wanted it for her stuffed bear during their tea parties. It was the first time he'd ever seen her lose her temper. His bedroom was stripped bare and searched. Her hair had been all frizzy, her nerves on edge. But there was no such luck in finding that necklace.
"Where is it?" Carrie's voice had gone low, each word punctuated.
Charles slowly backed up. He was taken back to when his dad would drink all of his beer but forget and assume that he'd done something to it. "I...I don't know."
"What did you do with it?" Carrie took quick steps in his direction. He kept backing up until his back thumped against the wall. "Huh? Is it still in this house? Did you pawn it off for some nasty little drugs?"
"No, no!" Charles cried out. "I didn't take it!"
"Where is it!" Carrie's scream rang out in the room. She'd taken him by the shoulders and shook him roughly. "What did you do with it-"
"Carrie!" Her husband's voice cut her off.
Still holding onto him, she turned and so did he.
Her husband held up the aforementioned necklace with their daughter standing behind his leg, looking shy. He cleared his throat. "Somebody thought her bear needed to accessorize a little."
Their daughter ran off after seeing her mother act in such a state.
Carrie let him go as if he'd burned her. Her mouth opened and closed several times. Swallowing,she got out of there fast, her heels clicking, husband asking her if she was okay. Their voices went out of hearing range when they went downstairs.
Charles didn't cry that much. He wasn't a baby. Last time he'd cried, his dad had beaten him with a belt, leaving his skin full of nasty, painful welts.
But in that moment, sliding down to the floor, his throat felt tight and his eyes misty.
Charles sobbed into his knees.
It was in the middle of summer when he got to his forever home.
Miss Watson had set up a meeting between him and a new couple. Charles wasn't as hopeful and optimistic as she was. Unfortunately, he had little to no power with what would happen, thus, he was forced to attend these. He met Raven and Peter Mark on a Friday afternoon. They'd been married for a few years and apparently, were unable to get pregnant so they turned to adoption. He remembered how he sat down there across the table, while they were on the other side, exhaling and smiling.
"Hi, Charles," Raven's hair was black and curly, falling at her shoulders. Her skin was strikingly pale, making the freckles on her face more pronounced. Her eyes were a hazel color and he could tell by how she was sitting that she was not an overly tall woman. "I'm Raven. It's nice to meet you."
"I'm Peter," her husband introduced himself. His hair was shorter and brown; his eyes blue and figure was thin. He gave Charles a kind smile, the kind that he saw other dads give their kids.
"Hi," he mumbled.
He didn't know what would come of it.
He didn't think they were going to be back.
A ton of paperwork later, a lengthy wait and an incredible feeling of disbelief, Charles was standing in the home of his adoptive parents, backpack slung over his shoulder. It was a surreal feeling. He'd almost thought the whole thing was a joke and they'd all start laughing at him once his hopes got up.
But it wasn't a joke.
He was there.
Adopted.
He remembered how they'd looked at him, as if he were so precious to them.
"We're so happy you're here," Raven had tears welling up in her eyes. Happy tears. Joyful tears.
He didn't know what to say.
"Would you like to go up and see your room?" Peter asked, unknowing echoing the words of Kent Earheart.
"Okay," Charles nodded.
Peter studied him for a moment. "Charles is a bit of a mouth full, isn't it?"
He blinked, trying to comprehend. "Uh, I guess so."
"Do you mind being called Charlie?"