Althea

|𝟭𝟱| 𝗙𝗼𝗿𝗴𝗲𝘁

11 years ago (he's 12)

It was dark out, the rain traveling down my bedroom window. The wind forcing the tree branches to scratch against the glass.

I was never one to cry. Or sit in a corner folded up into as small a ball as I could possibly get myself into. There was only one person who truly ever made me cry and that was my brother, Declan.

But that's changed. Ever since that day I've cried quietly, secretly, away from prying ears. Away from my so called foster parents who never actually ever acted like parents.

Every time the blinding sunlight woke me up I would race to my window, hoping that her black car was out there. That she, dressed in her professional black suit with her briefcase, had come to tell whoever the heck I was staying with that it was time for me to go, to be placed in a new home.

And that usually happened every few weeks, depending on how much my current foster parent could handle until I broke them, until I disobeyed and cursed and snuck out and yelled till the point where they didn't want me anymore and she would take me somewhere new.

I've been with the Peters for two years now and they still haven't called social services on me.

No matter what I do. I tried, really I did, but anytime I even thought about stepping out of line, they would put me in my place. Mrs. Peters never really did anything which is my point. Mr. Peters however...

I have the webs and the loss of blood and the headaches and the marks and the layers uppon layers of scars to prove that.

But as I sat in the corner of my bedroom (if you could even call a dirty mattress with a pile of tattered clothes on the floor and a small window a bedroom) waiting for Mr. Peters to quite bullying his wife into sex and come into my bedroom to release whatever urges he had, I thought about how fucked up my life is.

He didn't do anything with me sexually. But he sure did do something to me mentally and physically. With the beatings and all.

"You whore! I give you everything. Food, a place to sleep, clothes on your back, those little purses you like from that expensive store! And this is how you repay me?" Mr. Peters voice was so loud and deep that it echoed off the walls and traveled to my bedroom where I could hear perfectly.

I didn't hear Meredith, Mrs. Peters, say anything so I knew she was either being silent for her own good or couldn't speak for...other reasons.

"You're just like that little shit. Ungrateful," I heard him spit before a long pause then the stomping of feet.

I leaned away from the wall. Silence. What was he doing? Surely he was coming up here. Then my question was answered when my bedroom door flew open, revealing the tall lanky man that was Mr. Peters With his patchy beard littered with grey. His bald head with sideburns for days and his belly beer that stuck out as he hunched over. He was old. Maybe in his 70's. In his right hand he clutched a bottle of beer.