The memories are still fresh, still vivid in my mind.
I sit on my creaky mattress on the floor with only a thin blanket to keep me warm. It’s itchy, and I wonder if there are bedbugs crawling all over it. Dipping dirty fingers underneath my t-shirt and lifting it up, I inspect the marred flesh that lies beneath. Some of my burns are still fresh—still red and swollen. Some are faded scars, only a memory.
I remember every one of them.
“Ewww! You look gross!”
A young girl named Gwen pokes her head into the room and points at me. I drop my shirt quickly, embarrassed that she saw my wounds. My horrible truth.
“You look like a gargoyle,” she snickers, covering her mouth with her hand to hold back more giggles. “You should never take your shirt off.”
Tears prickle my eyes as I watch her skip away.
There’s so much noise on the other side of that cracked door. So many kids chasing each other through long hallways, tattling and bickering. Laughter and friendships. I can’t relate to any of it. I have seven foster siblings, and no one really talks to me. No one notices me. I arrived at this house over a week ago, and not one person cares about me—not even my foster mother.
Her name is Wendy, and she reminds me of my own mother. Her hair is a reddish color, cut short and cropped, her gangly frame somehow powerful and intimidating. I don’t think she drinks a lot of vodka like my mother did, but she’s still cruel. She banished me to this room all by myself, saying I was trouble.
All I did was try to eat a cookie. I was hungry. My mother hardly fed me anything.
Anger boils inside me when I think about the woman who birthed me, who gained custody of me when my father passed away four years ago.
I was only five years old when my life turned into a terrible nightmare.
The only time I’m at peace is when I’m sleeping. I dream about him sometimes—my father. He was a good man, a wise man, and he taught me a lot of things before he died. He loved history and Greek mythology. My favorite memories are listening to his stories on the front porch and watching the daylilies bloom while the breeze rolled through, as our pup, Roscoe, chased his tail in the center of the lawn.
I wish he didn’t die. I wish he didn’t die and leave me with her.
A trail of tears inch down my cheeks, a feeling I’m used to. I cried a lot, especially when she’d lock me in that dark closet without food or water for hours, sometimes days. She forgot about me all the time. Mostly when she drank the vodka.
Everyone here forgot about me, too.
I guess I’m just forgettable.
Swiping at the tearstains, I sniffle and lift my chin when there’s a soft knock at the big wood door. I blink, wondering if it’s Gwen playing a prank on me. She’s so nasty—always making fun of me and calling me names.
But the person doesn’t come inside, so I wait another minute before standing up on skinny legs and trekking over to the door. I’m cautious as I pull it open, afraid Wendy might see me and punish me with whips or burns.
I don’t see anyone at first. And when I dip my eyes down to the floor, there’s a special treat waiting for me. A cookie.
A cookie!
There, on a white paper plate, rests a yummy chocolate chip cookie.
I bend over to snatch it up, my mouth already watering. I haven’t eaten since breakfast yesterday, so my belly is singing extra loud.
But… who was here? Who left the cookie?
It certainly couldn’t have been Wendy. And it definitely wasn’t Gwen. As for all the others, I don’t think they even know I exist.
Wondering if I’ll ever know, I stand up straight, backing up into the room with the cookie clutched to my chest. Before I shut the door, my sights land on a figure at the opposite end of the hallway, poking her head around the corner. My eyes pop.
It’s a girl. She looks a little older than me, maybe eleven or twelve. Her hair is a mess of crazy brown curls, and she offers me a little wave as I watch in curious wonder.
My entire body warms in response. My heart skips a beat. I’m not sure how to react to this, how to thank this mysterious girl for her kindness.
But she doesn’t wait for an offering of gratitude. She doesn’t expect anything in return.
She just smiles at me.
She smiles.
And I think it fills me up more than the cookie ever could.
The girl disappears then, moving out of sight behind the wall, and I stand there frozen for a moment, wondering if I’ll make a friend in this scary place after all.
The thought is a comfort to me as I traipse back to the mattress and sit down, taking hungry bites out of the sweet treat, still warm from the oven.
It’s so good!
I can’t help but let my own smile slip out, and I don’t even remember the last time I did that. Maybe with my father. Maybe it was when Roscoe was licking cherry juice off my chin as we toppled over beside the fruit tree in the backyard, then joined my father on the porch to watch the rising sun.
I used to love the sunrise. It made me feel fuzzy inside, like something magical was about to happen.
I have that same feeling right now, only it’s not the sunrise. It’s not even the cookie.
It’s the girl. It’s the girl with curly hair and a crooked smile who did a nice thing for me when nobody else cared.
Swallowing down the last bite of cookie and savoring the chocolatey taste, I let out a thankful sigh and lie down, pulling the itchy blanket up to my chin.
She sees me.
“People like me might not be so different from people like you.”
I feel my limbs stiffen at her words and close proximity. She sets a paper bag next to me on the new marble sink, and I spare it a glance before returning my attention to her.
Her fluffed hair and painted lips. Her citrus scent made of lemons and sunshine. Her dress that would have most men itching to know what’s underneath it.
But I’m not that man, so my attention settles on her eyes.
Not the interesting shape, of course, or the deep emerald color, or the way her long lashes flutter with a conflicting mix of timidity and surety.
I’m struck by the vulnerability. The softness in her gaze.
It baffles me because I just insulted her, speared her with my hate and pent-up bitterness, leveled her with my scorn against the female species… and yet, she’s standing in front of me, only inches away, all sweetness and light. Any other woman would have likely fired me on the spot, told me to get lost—possibly slapped me. I would have deserved it all, but I wouldn’t have given two-shits about it. I have enough jobs to keep food on my table for a long time.
Fuck, I was goddamn sure she was coming on to me. The amount of pathetic housewives who have hit on me during a job, gawked at me with their googly eyes, and thrown themselves at me with no shame because their corporate-pieces-of-shit-husbands don’t know how to get them off is astounding.
What would make Melody any different?
She sends me another smile, prompting my fingers to curl into fists at my sides because I’m really goddamn irritated that she keeps doing that. I want her to leave me alone with her soft edges and sunshine smiles. I never asked for any of that shit.
I’m irritated, because for the first fucking time in my life, I almost feel a little bit… guilty.
Like she didn’t deserve that.
Melody turns to leave, her scent a cruel reminder of her existence, and my body finally relaxes when she’s out of sight. I close my eyes, trying to regain my wits, trying to calm the pressure in my chest. But I’m not calm, I’m never calm, and when I glance back at the little paper bag with a girly heart sticker fixed to the front that says, “Thank You”, that tension instantly reappears.