Goddammit.
My foster father is a large man—broad in the shoulders and round in the gut. He’s a retired police officer, but judging from his skills as a foster father, I’m guessing he was a terrible cop. I’ll miss the free rent once I leave this place, but if it means I won’t have Brody coming in and out as he pleases, to do what he pleases?
Fuck. Sign me up.
I don’t acknowledge him, except for a passing glance. But I can feel his gaze on me as I begin pulling my artwork—sketches, paintings, lots of abstract images—from the walls. I need to pack these a little more carefully than my clothes; I value them more than anything, except maybe my tattoos. All my own artwork, all immoveable from their place inked permanently into my skin.
He watches me in silence for a few moments, invading my space like he’s got a fucking right to. When he gets sick of me ignoring him, his heavy steps enter the room as he comes to stand behind me. I pause only long enough to give him an unimpressed look before going back to my art.
“I won’t be long,” I say pointedly. “Just need to finish packing up, and the social worker’s office is being nice and arranging a cab to come get me.”
“Shame,” comes his response. I hear two more footfalls, then he stops so close to me that I feel his breath blow through my hair. He settles his hand on my shoulder, turning me around to face him. “Seems only yesterday you came through our door. Now you’re going back through it, out into the big wide world.”
“Yup. That’s how turning eighteen works,” I say blandly.
For some inane reason, that seems to amuse him. He chuckles and leans in. I’m afraid I’m gonna trip over the art I just packed up, so I side-step before I can break anything, and he comes with me.
I’m used to this stupid fucking dance. We’ve been doing it for years.
It starts with him tucking a lock of my hair behind my ear, moving his fingers down my neck. They’re rough, years of work embedded in the callouses.
From a wanted lover, this touch might send a thrill down my spine. From Brody, it just makes my whole fucking body feel like ice.
I allow him his exploration of my body, the side comments of how hard it is to say goodbye, as one rough hand cups my tit and the other slides down my exposed midriff. I allow him the idea that maybe I’ll let him have a parting memory of my body and the heat between my legs he’s so eager to press against. I let him think that even though I’m free now, he still has some sort of hold over me.
I let him have that for just a moment before I grab his hand and look him in the eyes.
“Since it’s so hard to say goodbye, maybe we should get your wife up here too.” I keep my voice bland, although my jaw is tight. “You know. For moral support.”
His face hardens, his expression turning sour. “Excuse me?”
“Melissa. She’s downstairs getting dinner ready, right? If goodbyes are so damn hard, why don’t we make it a family affair? I can call for her—”
Brody yanks his hand out of my hold and steps away from me. I watch him with a detached sort of satisfaction as his face goes red.
“You know, I’m actually glad you’re leaving,” he spits out. “Useless, ungrateful little whore like you? Living here all these years, and you’re still stuck up and uppity like you’re something. Well, let me tell you something, little missy. I’ve seen a lot of bitches like you in my time on the force. All of you end up on the streets, spreading your legs for rent or begging for it. You think you’re something, all that attitude. Well, you’re nothing. Less than nothing. I’m glad to see you go.”
I shrug. “That makes two of us.”
The redness flares deeper on Brody’s cheeks, almost a mottled purple in some places. “Ungrateful bitch. I hope you rot like Jared.”
The final insult comes when he pauses at my door. I have a new piece of art on the wall next to the doorway, its placement intentional since I see it every time I leave my room.
It’s a sketched portrait of Jared, his eyes closed like that day I saw him on the slab—except in the drawing, I took out the sag of dead muscles and the waxy pallor of his skin. He looks like he’s sleeping. He looks peaceful.
Brody’s gaze lingers on it, and I feel the preemptive hardening of my heart as I realize what my foster “father” is about to do. I look away as his hand comes up, tearing the paper from the wall and crumpling it up.
“Ugly fucking mug,” he mutters, still clutching the wadded paper in his fist as he slams the door behind him.
The air is thick when he leaves, and as I turn away from the door, dizziness floods me. My hand shoots out to brace against the wall as I breathe through it, trying not to pass out.
This happens sometimes. Sudden waves of nausea and dizziness hit me, usually exacerbated by stress.
I don’t remember a lot of my childhood, but from what I’ve been told, it wasn’t a good one. I was picked up on the streets when I was eleven and put into the system, and before that, my life is a big fat blank.
All I know for sure is that it wasn’t good.
Doctors say my body shows signs of old injuries, and although nobody knows who my parents were, there’s a good chance they were drug addicts. The kind of memory loss I have is usually associated with trauma, abuse, and neglect.
I huff a laugh as my vision slowly starts to clear.
If only my memories of this place would conveniently lose themselves too.
I steady myself against the wall, eventually pushing away from its surface. Brody doesn’t matter, and neither do his words. He’s a piece of shit. A washed up cop who can only get his kicks molesting foster kids half his age.
It’s alright, though. In a few hours I’ll be free of him, and my only demons will be the ones that hide within my mind.
The halfway house is surprisingly nice.
It has ten bedrooms, none of which have to be shared among the tenants. There are only eight of us here—me and seven other “youths in transition.”
Given our collective circumstances, we all bear the markings of a shitty life. Some of us are heavily tattooed, and I notice a girl with track marks so numerous I’m surprised she has any veins left. Most of us are quiet, and those of us who aren’t hang out with the other needless extroverts, blessedly leaving the handful of us who want to be left alone outs of it.
On the second day after my arrival at the halfway house, I have my scheduled meeting with my caseworker.
Ms. Nielson is a stout older woman with dark skin and long, silky black braids. She’s one of the few people in the system that I actually like, though she’s still very much a product of her job. She smiles at me as I sit down and take my seat in silence.
She’s always the first one to speak. I like that. She doesn’t try to make me make the first move like a lot of social workers try to do—like they’re playing a fucking game of chess or something.
“Hello, Sophie. Good to see you again. How are you doing?”
“Fine.”
Her eyebrows drop a little at my one-word answer. “Are you sure? Adjustment periods can be rocky. And the last few months have been a constant adjustment. Dealing with Jared’s passing, graduation, all of that. Now you’re no longer with your foster family, and your next moves are crucial.”