Foster Home

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I pulled in the car with Callie, my foster parent. Cigarette in mouth I stepped out of the car into the ground.

So this is my new house. Can't say I'm that impressed. I'll be out of here in two months anyway. That's how it always happens.

I slammed the door shut harshly and grabbed my suitcase. I dropped my cigarette and stepped on it. The dirt moved around my old shoes.

My hair flying wild in the wind as I walk inside behind Callie. Blank expression held my features.

The house was fine but it didn't make a difference. It didn't matter at all.

"So your room is upstairs on the left and-" she started before she could finish though I walked upstairs. I don't really care for what she was going to say. I've been through this countless times.

When I walked into my room I saw a bed with black and white sheets. White furniture and peach walls. It's way to girly for me. But I can survive, everyone leaves me at some point anyways.

Callie walked in. She is obviously trying to hard to "connect" with me, as they always do. But the truth is that they're all liars and show their true colors one way or another.

"So I heard you like to paint" she said leaning on the white door frame as I stood still. He chestnut hair dropped down.

I nodded barely hearing her through my own thoughts.

"I bought you some paints. You can paint on the walls" she gave me a small hopeful smile. Fake.

"Thanks" I muttered barley audible. My hope had died long ago. I wasn't going to give her a chance.

"Ok well I be downstairs if you need me" she sighed walking away. Giving up on me for now.

I sat down on my bed and sighed. California stinks. I know what your thinking. What about Hollywood? Yeah well I'm in the country part. My fosters live on a farm. It's not all Hollywood glamor here.

I ran my hands threw my hair then stood up. I started to unpack which didn't take long, as I don't have a lot. I then grabbed the paints from my dresser and painted on the walls.

Painting has always just been a comfort zone for me I guess. Something that can't leave me. It's the only good thing about me. The only reason why most fosters choose me is because on my portfolio says 'artistic talent'. Its really ridiculous actually.

When I stepped back and looked I saw the best thing that I've made. In a long time. It hurt to look at.

I had painted the only boy I've ever let close to my heart. It was the night before he died. I loved Dylan so much. I stared at the painting. I don't cry. All I could do is stare at the painting. I miss him.

The door opened and turned and was ready for a fight. It never came though as Callie was at the door. I relaxed as I realized it was only her. I took a breath, she should learn to knock. She flinched at my fight position then went back to her normal composure.

"So- oh wow" she said looking at the painting I made.

"Lexi this is amazing." She said in astonishment walking towards it. I moved away from her.

"Thanks" I said not really interested in her opinion, turning around and setting the paints down. It doesn't matter to me. She doesn't know me.

"Anyways I thought maybe you would want to look around the town." She offered trying once again to make me like her in someway. It almost made me want to laugh.

"Sure" I replied and kept my face steady. She smiled at me and I gave her a blank face.

"When your ready you can take the second car" she said after a few seconds then left and shut my door gently.

I picked out clothes and left my dark hair to flow. I look in the mirror meeting my eyes. I'm not the same person I used to be after Dylan's death. The dark circles under my eyes from no sleep never disapeared. I don't smile now. There is no reason too. My cheeks were never as bright anymore. My eyes always dim now.

I forced a smile onto my face. It felt strange because it's been so long. I tried to make it real, think about something happy but even then it looked to fake. Wrong.

Displeased, the smile left my face fast. I glared at myself.

Still can't believe they still take kids who got out of jail for the foster program. I got myself into jail while I was in Wisconsin. I was caught street fighting. 

But you know it's just the same with these foster parents. They act all sweet and kind and they want to take you in. But when you do one bad thing like get a tattoo or a piercing of dye my hair. Or maybe go to jail, you're a thug. They hate you and you are gone and out of their lives as if you never existed.

I walked down stairs and took the keys. I got into the car and drove off into town.

-----

When I came back I found out that there was a wear house that did fights every Tuesday and Saturday.

It wasn't a bad town. It had various shopping centers and small family owned restaurants around.

In a month I start school here. I cannot admit to being excited about it at all. I don't do friends and I never will. There's no point in trying when I always leave.

When I got back I another a cigarette and walked around the field. There was horses and cows as you would imagine on any farm. It was pretty. Somehow the sun seemed to make a warmer tone of sunlight. It grazed over the acres.

As I walked further I saw an old barn. Inside was an old pickup truck that didn't seem to work and a collection of surfboards. I looked at the surfboards then my eyes averted to the truck.

An old 2007 red pickup. I rolled up sleeves and opened the engine. I looked through it. It's blown. I checked the tires and three were flat. The whole thing was covered in rust and dust. I opened the door and the steering wheel is missing and the brakes don't work. Some of the mechanics under the car are broken too. And there's a dent in the side.

I need something to do anyways.

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