No Place like Spamily (Editing & Ongoing)

Chapter 1

Four years later...

Sitting on the steps of the front porch and waiting for the only person I knew that came to take me out to park on the curve. I tapped the heel of my shoe against the pavement and picked at my nails. I was in a hurry to get away from this family.

Once again.

Ugh, it was happening again. And it never did stop after I left the other house from four years ago. I didn't know why I couldn't just stay at the building where they kept foster kids. Some family always thought they wanted me. The older I got, the shorter I was living with any one of them. I was getting tired of this. I was getting tired of feeling abandoned. I just wanted to run away from families. Who needs a family when they didn't want you? Who needs a family when you loved yourself? But that was my problem. I didn't love myself. I hated everything about me.

It was my fault nobody loved me. It was my fault I couldn't make a family. It was my fault I was ever born. Only if I would've OD'ed at child birth.

And why didn't I? My Mom was a junkie, my social worker told me. She couldn't last without a pipe. That's the only reason why I was born. Because she had forced herself onto a man so he could pass out while she did him and steal his money so she could buy more Crack and whatever the hell she was addicted too.

Who wants to love a teenager who was born a crack baby? I'm sure that was in my files. I started to notice, when I got old enough, my social worker would let me sit in on the interviews with the people who wanted to learn about me before they took me in, that she would never mention that piece of information to them, because she was the one who read out my file to them. She never let them check it out for themselves. I never asked why either. I figured she was trying to protect me from that.

I felt a presence sit next to me on the wooden porch stairs but I didn't even care. I causally ignored the person, leaned over, grabbed a stick from the ground and started to trace it along the dirt.

"Hey, um. I made you something."

I ignored the smooth male voice. He had showed me something in his hand, but I didn't even bother to look over. I was to emotional. And he didn't do anything wrong. He was the only person who really liked me in the Maybargon family.

"I'm sorry that you have to go," he whispered softly. "I wish you didn't have too." I stopped tracing the dirt and straightened up and finally looked at him. His brown eyes were filled with sympathy as well as his body language. His body was looking twisty.

I sniffled and wiped my hands on the sides of my jeans. "It's okay," I mused out. I huffed and smiled weakly. "This happens all the time," I add. "I'll be...okay." I reached up and wiped the tears away from eyes with the edge of my fingers.

He frowned, dipples appearing on his cheeks and creases on his forehead. "But this shouldn't happen all the time. You should be able to stay in one home and be happy."

"Let's face it. I'm cursed that way."

He sighed, reached down and fiddled with a twig. "Don't say that," he said a bit harshly. "You're just saying that, because..." He paused and looked up. "Well, because..."

I leaned over and finshed for him. "I'm correct," I whispered.

He recoiled from me as if my words burned him. And they did in his heart. He swallowed. "No," he answered quickly and defensively. "I was going to say because you're just in grief."

"I'm in grief in everyday of my life." I shrugged.

He straightened up, rotated his body towards me and pointed with his long boney finger. "No," he corrected me. "You are not. You know how I know?" He tilted his head. I shrugged again. "Because I did once see you smile for the four months you been here."