I would like to acknowledge a few people:
I have been blessed since trying my hand at writing. After my first story I was ready to give up. Thankfully I was fortunate enough to get some help for a very kind man (Charlie) Who helped me understand.
Since Charlie I have had several people offer advice and editing skills. At some point I need to say acknowledge and say thanks to them all. Charlie, Vicki, Marina, Robyn. At some point they all helped me.
For this story I was fortunate to have the help of two very good writers in their own rights offer to help. So I need to say thank you too, Randi and Steve. Thanks, guys, I appreciate your help.
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Life can be cruel. Sometimes it can be downright terrible.
I woke in the dark; all I could feel was the cold hard hand crushed over my mouth. I panicked, kicking, flailing my arms wildly, trying to scream through the clammy flesh covering my mouth. My eyes focused, I stared up into the cruel merciless eyes of my foster father. He leaned in close, his horrible beer and cigarette tainted breath cloaking me in his dank putrid smell, his evil spittle dripping, spraying my face. "Keep your mouth shut. Now stop kicking. I promise you will enjoy this," he said with an evil snigger.
His free hand ripped off the blankets, exposing me to his hungry eyes.
*****
As a young girl trapped in the system, I felt I had seen it all. Having endured countless foster homes since I was seven years old, I became hardened to the world. I was smart, smarter than the bastards who lectured and preached to me, every fucking day. School teachers, counsellors, all of them so smug, so confident, so fucking pompous. They thought they knew better than me what I wanted. Well, fuck that shit.
Hah, they knew shit. I knew way more than they gave me credit for. Not all foster parents are kind loving people. Some are just in it for the money. Some are just sadistic fuckers. I learned at a young age what many of the so-called devoted fathers wanted.
Even the priests at church were no better. Okay, I might be bitter and twisted. Angry with my mother who ran off with some no-good fucking loser. Angry at the world because it felt like everything and everybody was against me. My protection: I grew a thick skin, I rebelled, I fought back, and consequently moved from foster home to foster home. I hated them all; goody two shoes do-gooders. They didn't love me; they didn't want me; they didn't even care about me. They either wanted the money, the glory, or something much more despicably sinister. What is the glory of being a foster parent? They don't do it for love. They do it so they can boast to anybody who will listen how great they are. Look at me, helping this disgusting little child. I hated them, one and all.
I rebelled. I shoplifted. I thought I was so clever. I stole whatever I wanted, until they caught me. It escalated after that. My ambitions exceeded my ability. It all exploded when I stole my foster parents' car, some friends and I stole some booze from their parents for a huge beach party. We lit a big roaring bonfire, music blaring. It was cool until one of the boys decided what I really needed was a good fuck.
The kick to his nuts must have hurt like hell because he dropped like a stone. Of course, some of the other boys held me back. I was actually frightened; I saw the look in their eyes. That's when I panicked. I kicked, I punched, screamed and yelled until they freaked out and let me go. I ran I ran like the wind. Jumping in the car, I locked the doors and sped away.
I was so scared I couldn't take my eyes off the rear-view mirror. Guess I should have been watching the road. After that, all I could remember was flashing lights, the world upside down and the smell of gasoline.
I woke up in hospital. My supposedly caring loving foster parents came to visit, not to visit or check on me, just to yell and scream. Complaining that I had wrecked their car. I was a tramp and a thief. They left me there, with nowhere to go, except back to the orphanage.
I was stuck in there for months. In reality, I liked the orphanage. The nuns were nice and actually cared for us. At least I could sleep at night without worry.
As luck would have it, I was placed with another family. I hated it. The woman was old and so religious. Her husband, the fucking creep, only wanted me for one thing, and I promised myself he wasn't getting that from me.
I ran away god knows how many times. I hated it. Time after time I escaped their clutches, only to be dragged back kicking and screaming. At school, I gravitated towards the wild kids. We smoked weed, drank and hung out together; we were a gang, a crazy crowd. I know I seemed like a crazy little bitch, and I suppose I was. Clever though, smarter than the average bear. At school, my grades were excellent, I didn't even have to try. It pissed off my teachers. It was just one long never-ending lecture about how good I could be if I would just put some effort in, if I would only try. Fuck them, what did they know?
Books, they were my escape. I didn't watch television, I read books. I loved books, more than anything else in the world, I loved to read. I read anything I could get my hands on. I absorbed everything and that knowledge made me dangerous. It gave me enough information that I knew something about everything, enough to have an opinion, but not enough to understand.
One Saturday night I ran away again. This time, the party was at a friend's house. His parents were away. It was a wild night and there was plenty of good smoke and booze. I got hammered. Like always, I got drunk or stoned so I could forget. I never really fit in with any of this crowd. They were wild though, and it allowed me to hide. I hung with them for what they offered: free drugs and booze. Part of my tough exterior, my façade, meant I always showed off. I had to be the wildest, the craziest. Nothing was too dangerous or stupid. I did any stupid shit I could to try and fit in.
On this particular night, the party got way out of control. The crowd grew to huge proportions, mostly much older kids and adults. There were cars doing burnouts in the street, cutting up the neighbours' lawns, knocking over letterboxes. The music was loud, blasting, and one guy brave enough to come and complain got severely beaten for his troubles. Of course, it didn't take long before the inevitable. The neighbours called the cops to break it up.
They turned up with lights flashing. The clever kids all made a run for it. The cops chased away the more sober kids.
Me, I exploded, trying to be the big shot. I stood up to them, started calling the cops names, pushing and shoving creating a ruckus. Of course, it ended with me getting arrested, well, detained really. My foster family was called. Already at their wits end, they refused to come and pick me up. They wanted nothing more to do with me. I don't blame them really.
In their shoes, I might have done the same.
I was chucked in the police car and driven to the station. I wasn't old enough to be locked up with the other prisoners. It was after midnight, and I heard them phoning around trying to get somebody to take me. My reputation shot that down, like it or lump it they were stuck with me. they were at a bit of a loss what to do with me after that.
Strangely, the big barrel-chested cop who arrested me, the one whose ankles I had kicked, whose face I spat in, said he would take me home with him. He said he and his wife would look after me until a decision on my future could be made.
I was handcuffed to a chair in the corner until the end of his shift. When it was time to go, he came over and unlocked me. "Come on young lady."
He packed me into his car and we drove off. "Why are you doing this?" I snarled.
He gave me a big smile and sighed. "That, young lady, is a damn fine question. I wish I had the answer."
"I'm not having sex with you," I spat out angrily.
He laughed again, this time he laughed so hard I thought he was going to burst. "Chelsea, If I wanted to have sex with you, we would have already done it."
I frowned at his stupid comment. With my arms folded across my chest I glanced at him. He was big, I mean linebacker big. His brown eyes were warm. He seemed real. Scruffy, but honest. His dark hair was untidy. Obviously not cut by a barber. I just couldn't understand why he was doing this. What did he want, what was his deal?
We pulled up outside a small house. It wasn't anything special.
He left the car locked so I couldn't jump ship while he walked around and opened my door. "Come on, young lady. Let's go in and meet the family."
Gripping my arm, he pushed me in front of him. As we approached the rear door it flew open and a black woman stood staring at me. A tiny pixie-like black woman, with a wild afro hairstyle. Her huge almond eyes, warm face and friendly smile welcomed me in. "Hello, Chelsea." Her voice rich and warm. A slight accent from who knows where. Obviously not from around here. What the fuck... a black woman? I glared at him with questioning eyes. Nah, not him. She looked way too nice to live with a fucking cop.
She opened her arms, and before I could move or do anything, I was wrapped in her arms. She rocked us both as she hugged me. "Chelsea, I am so glad you decided to bless us by staying here with us. I am Serena."
"Decided," I sneered. "It's not like I had a fucking choice."
Her eyes darkened, her brow furrowed. Her voice, though, remained smooth and warmly inviting. "What will be, will be. Nonetheless, I am just glad you are here with us."
