Belonging

I

But something's different. 

I gripped the soft sleeves of my tattered sweater and pulled at the loose threads, waiting for the impossible. The room was white and bare; the only furnishings being the three chairs and a table. I sat on the edge of mine. Glancing sideways at the woman, I took in her brown hair, dark brown eyes, and rushed demeanor. Probably getting a low salary and a low dedication for paperwork.

I eyed the door, rough, brass handles shiny with oil from people's hands. It slowly opened, and an unfamiliar man walked in quietly, taking a position on the opposite side of the table. A sheaf of papers laid in front of him, and he quickly picked them up, skimming through the information.

"Your name is y/n?" He asked, looking up.

I nodded warily.

"Any history, allergies, traumas, or red flags I should note?" He inquired, speaking to the woman.

She shook her head. "Nothing she remembers, she says. Her status is green, pretty stable."

"Then why has she not been adopted? She is fourteen years old. All of your other wards are younger than her."

"Um, well, sir, it's because... show him, y/n." Both adults turned toward me.

It was the same thing, over and over and over. "Well, from the information I have gathered, your name is Philza Minecraft, Mr. Minecraft. Due to your demeanor and familiarity to adoption, you probably have kids that are adopted and are not new to this facility. You are hiding something; what it is I cannot tell and don't want to see. Also, above all, you are going to be stunned that i can tell so much about you. And then you will think it is creepy how much I can read other people and then reject me."

Both their mouths dropped open.

"... well, Miss y/n, all of that was correct," The man known as Philza Minecraft affirmed. "However, your last statement was wrong. It was based on a trend instead of pure fact. And trends can change."

I nodded.

"... I'll have to think about it for a minute, Ms. Ellen. I'll have to consult with the boys." Philza Minecraft stood up from the chair and left the room, closing the door softly behind him.

We waited in silence, knowing what was going to happen. It always did. One hundred and seven times was I rejected over the past eight years of my conscious life.

The man finally came back into the room and sat back down, rifling through the papers in silence slowly. Eventually, he looked up from his work and took out a pen. "Where do I sign?"