The boy from Neverland

The New Foster Home - Part 1

Emily's POV

I reached my hand over to the side pocket of my bag, moving around other items that I had thrown in before finally pulling out the small device and tangled headphones. If this is the only way to stop the awkward silence between myself and the cab driver, I sure as hell will take it. After fiddling with the tangled cord for a minute, I finally put on my headphones, relaxing into my seat as the soft music surrounded me. Since there was no headrest I leaned against the cold window in an attempt to be more comfortable which didn't do much but I was tired enough that my eyes began to slowly shut. The music was enough to block out the mumbling of the radio along with the noise outside leaving me to stare in boredom at the chair in front of me.

This is going to be a long four-hour drive.

I hated the silence, although it was nice to not be asked several questions from the driver, it did, unfortunately, mean I would be forced to listen to the thoughts in my head instead. I thought the music would be enough but knowing where I would end up after this long drive only made it worse. It was the reoccurring thoughts that I had grown up with wishing they could be answered, that if only my parents hadn't of given me up, maybe then would my life be somewhat 'perfect'.

Reality is a nasty thing in life, especially living a life like mine as I have realised several times that happy endings don't exist, that a perfect family doesn't exist...that you're in a cab transferring to the next foster home. I will meet a new family, supposedly kind and loving, but I have had enough experiences to see past those fake smiles. They will only compare you amongst other children as if you were nothing but a toy that could be returned. The initial steps will go as planned, all the same in their loving and caring manner until they have had enough and the toy is growing old and too broken to be cared for. They decide you're not good enough and dispose of you as if you were never there in the first place.

It really is some kind of life; unfortunately, it is what mine consists of.

I don't have much of a choice, I don't make the decisions. I only proceed on the path that others set for me. Well, that's what I've learned to do anyway. I've seen what happens to those like me that stray.

I will have to admit, a foster life is hard for someone at the age of sixteen. The chances of a family adopting you are almost non-existent. Not many families will take in a girl who only has a couple of years until she becomes an adult. Those who do are usually over the age of fifty, divorced, or too old to care. I always remember the carer at the orphanage, the one person I never wanted to leave my side. She was kind, her soothing words consistently used to remind me that 'every child belongs to a family whether you were born into it or make it your own'. I believed her when I was younger; I had hope that her words would come true, but as the years passed that belief eventually faded away.

The whole foster system is another thing entirely, a messed up system that no child should ever have to be put into. Every child has a number next to their name to show how many families are interested in adopting them. I was lucky to even have five this year. They pick a day where they sit down and talk to you as if you're a new employee, checking to see if you meet all of their requirements. No matter what age you are, this is the process you are forced to go through. The little kids think it's the best thing to happen to them, they love the attention. However in my case, if I see them looking skeptical even for a second then I'll scold them until they decide to leave. It was cruel to get a kid's hopes up, especially when their lives could change because of it.

The worst part was that if they do show an interest in you they get to take you to their home and trial you out for a week to see if you're comfortable there. No orphan in their right mind would say no to a home, you just don't know when the opportunity would come again. The only problem was that if they're unhappy then they can take you back. I can't even count the number of times I've been back and forth. They may as well ask if this child comes with a receipt. It hurt the first couple of years but I guess it was just something I've gotten used to.