Finding myself

10. Last night in my bed

Day 12

I freeze in my spot. I can't say no, but I can't agree. What do I do? Letting them take a DNA test will make me live with them. And not taking it will most likely not get me anywhere.

What if they love us? For who we are. What if they don't hit us?

They will. Why wouldn't they? There is the French fucking mafia. I don't do family and I don't do mafia unless it's for a mission.

Give them a chance! You can always escape.

Fine, if this ends badly I'm blaming you.

Before speaking I break into a sob. I need to make it believable. "I-I'll take the test," I say trying to sound as depressed as I possibly can. It's difficult to be sad about things you don't care about.

The man nods and leaves the room, most likely to get to text. Is this a test that they stick up your nose or a test that they use a piece of your hair? What kind of DNA do they need? From where. Do they need my blood?

"I'm going to need you to spit in this cup, please." Oh, this. I quickly spat in the cup. Waiting to be alone in the room. Still not removing the facade once he left. There's a one-side mirror facing straight at me. I'm not letting them see through my ruse.

I let silent tears fall as I tried to think of things that would make me cry. Nothing would really. Only one, and I won't be thinking about it. Ever. That stays in the past.

A woman comes into the room she's dressed in a white wool sweater and black leather jeans. She almost looks like she wants to be a teenager again and hasn't accepted the fact that she's in her late 20s. She looks maybe 28.

"Hello, Mari I am your-" I cut her off instantly. Tf does she mean Mari?

"No, I'm not Jesus's mother. Call me Marianne or Ms. Thibaut whatever you prefer. Not Mari." I then remembered my charade. Fuck. I look down instantly. "I am sorry, it's just my dad," the word felt like acid on my tongue. "He used to call me that a-and I just can't do that right n-now."

That was a load of bullshit. He called me bitch, bastard, useless etc. I don't even think he knew my name. I mean if he was the one to name me, I think I would have been named one of those three.

"Oh I'm so sorry Cake Pop, I'll try to stop using that nickname." what doesn't she understand from Marianna or Ms. Thibaut? I'm starting to hate this woman. "I'm your social worker Rachel. Nice to meet you!" she extends her arm towards me. I grab it, only because if I glared at her it would break the image I was creating.

She pulled my arm up and my body came with. She wrapped her arms around me and hugged me. It felt fake. Like those pity hugs you get after they find out something. The ones that make the hug giver feel better about themselves but do absolutely nothing to the one that's actually hurt.

She pulled away looked me in the eyes noting then stepped away. The fuck. I think she just tried to read me. Probably can read me easily. Well, technically they can read the emotion I give them. Which in this case is sadness. My face is like a painting. I can get anyone to see what I want. If I want them to see such emotion I put it on my face.

When I was a child I read all about facial expressions. The natural way a human's face would contort. I know just how much you need to pinch your eyebrows to look confused, angry, disgusted. I can do them all without feeling the emotion itself. Just like I can cry on command.

Rachel left the room, swaying her hips like she was proud of herself. This woman doesn't seem to stop surprising me.

The police officer, I never need to give him a name. Bill. Yeah Bill that's a great name.