Yellow (boyxboy)

Eighth Home

*6 years later

 "Wake up Alexander! Are you even listening to me, you idiot!?!"

 "Nope," I mumbled quietly, so only I could hear. Welcome to my typical morning  and the person giving me such a lovely greeting is none other than Ms. Ford, my eighth foster parent. 

I don't remember much about my first couple foster homes just that most people didn't want to take care of a kid who flinched at every sound, had nightmares every night, and refused to form any close relationships so they got rid of me as quickly as they could. Although I do remember that when I was about ten years old I ran away from my first "family" cause they treated me which so much fragility. Of course it didn't take long for my social worker, Megan Bellows, to notice my absence, so of course she and the local police were able to find me fairly quickly and returned me to my oh so worried and distressed care takers with nothing more than a slight lecture and warning. The family, which only consisted of a balding man and his poised wife and no children,  said that I was just adapting to the new environment. Well thankfully they realized that they couldn't handle a kid who needed a year and a half to "adapt" to their them. Don't get me wrong, of course I appreciated what they were trying to do for me, but I just couldn't handle it. I couldn't handle being treated like a wounded animal. 

The houses after my first were fairly standard I suppose. Some were just single parents looking for a babysitter and welfare check, others genuinely wanted to help people like me, and every place I went I was afraid to get attached. While the other kids in the different homes played games outside, I would read the few books I owned. I know that isolating myself sounds ridiculous, and that hiding from possibility is indeed impossible but for me isolation was my form of protection. 

Last year I was sent to my seventh home, and it was pretty okay. The parents were fine and not to clingy or too cautious but the other six boys there were demons. They were all larger and older than my since they were all about to age out of the system and that place was kind of like a final sanctuary for them. Not for me though... I had a few years until I would age out of the hell hole of a system but they used every opportunity they could get to either beat me up or blame me of their mistakes. I stayed there for about a year and a half until my very understanding yet fed up foster parents sent me back to the social workers and well, they sent me back saying that I was a dangerous delinquent, a criminal, and unsafe to be around. The truth is I'm not. Of course they only think that because I set their tool shed on fire. Now I know what you're thinking, why would I do a stupid thing like that? Why would I give into the discriminating stereotypes that groups all foster kids into a class of criminals. I was just the scapegoat blamed for the arson that I didn't commit. 

So here I am, fifteen years old soon to be sixteen and in my eighth home. Let me introduce you to the new temporary "family." I guess there's no need describe Ms. Ford except that she's a bitch and I live with her and three other foster kids. 

Seth is is twelve and will do absolutely anything for money then there are the five year old identical twins Jade and Violet, and they are the most precious girls always attached at the hip. I arrived only two months ago so I'm the last kid or should I say prisoner to be in the supposed care of Mrs. Ford. Oh, I almost forgot to mention that she has a spawn of her own. Her name is Angel, which is quite ironic since she is a monster trapped inside of the body of an eight year old girl. She's made it her mission to make my already miserable life worse and you wouldn't believe how many times I've gotten in serious trouble because of her actions and false pretenses. (Sorry kinda got carried away talking about Demon/Angel)

In this residence, I'm forced to attend the Blue Sky public high school. It might as well be called the Place of Pain and Humiliation where you undergo eight plus hours of torture every single weekday. That title was to long so everyone settled on calling it school. I guess I prefer school over the house. What would you prefer, staying in a crowded space full of yelling, arguments, and little food or school a place of only mild torture. Yeah i think I like school a whole hell lot more. 

"Oh shit!" I exclaimed looking at the time on my phone, realizing that I was going to be late for my daily dose of mild torture.

I'm usually the first person to leave for school because a.) I would like to spend as little time as possible in the chaos that is the Ford House, and b.) I have someone waiting for me and keeping that person waiting for too long could end in disaster.