Temporary Home

Chapter 2

I climbed into the car that was going to drive me to my airport. I double checked my single, black, suitcase, and my dark red carryon bag, just to make sure I had everything. The lady who ran my foster child agency, I think her name was Mrs. Ryan, came out of my old home, saying goodbye to my foster parents and telling them that they did a very well job with caring for me in the small time they had me. Two words: Bull crap. In the three months I was there, I had maybe spoken a total of eight complete sentences. I plugged my iPod into my skull headphones, the old fashioned, big, bulky ones, they even had purple skulls on them. 

“You know, Annabeth, this could be a brand new start, dear. You could make all new friends and forget about everything. Hon, there is no need to be nervous, this family is going to be very kind, I promise you. Oh, and dear, you look fine, but couldn’t you have put on something a little nicer, and maybe some lighter colors, yes some lighter colors would be nice.” Mrs. Ryan said as she concentrated on pulling out of the driveway and going down the street. 

I looked down at what I was wearing. I thought I looked fine. I had on a black form-fitting t-shirt, that had many tiny skulls on them that were dark, like blood, red. Over top of that, I had a black shredded tee, that literally was shredded to strips. I also had on black skinny jeans and my dark red army boots. My originally dark brown hair was now a unique shade of red, with some purple mixed in. I also had one long blue streak on each side, and my hair came down to about an inch above my shoulders, and my bangs covered my eyes. Overall, I thought it was a good look, but I guess others disagree, Just to get her off my back, I replied with a stiff, “Ok”.

An hour and a half later, we pulled into the airport. I sadly looked out of my window, not with the sad fact of leaving this set of foster parents, but leaving where I grew up with my brothers and parents. Ever since that one accident, that one idiotic drunk driver drove into our lane, instantly killing my parents and one brother, the other had suffered a bit, but died too, and having me being thrown yards from the car, breaking my legs, my right arm, and then having millions of pieces of glass and metal fly into me, leaving millions of scars, and so much more, I felt living here was keeping me with them at heart. But now, I am losing that feeling, the feeling of having any connection with them at all. Leaving nothing but my scars all over me as a sad memory of losing all that mattered in my life.

I quickly cleared my mind of those terrible thoughts and turned to Mrs. Ryan, who was getting my bags from the backseat of her small car. I walked around it, and grabbed my bags from her, without saying a word, and proceeded into the airport without even a farewell to her. I heard her scream after me about being nice and to give them a chance, but I stopped giving people chances when I gave the doctors a chance to save my family. 

“Flight 897, California to New York, is now boarding.” I heard the flight lady say over the loud speaker. I looked down at my ticket, took a deep breathe and walked forward toward the plane.

I immediately found my seat and sat down and turned my music up very loud. I was seated by the window, so I only had to sit next to one stranger, thank goodness. I can not stand people in general, let alone people I do not even know. I ended up having a very strict, but kind looking woman sit next to me. Her hair was pulled back into a tight bun, not a hair out of place, and was frantically going over business papers and plans. She said a polite hello, and has not talked since, which I am so thankful for. I hate talking too. As of now, anyone is lucky to get eight words out of me, and if they do, they are usually sarcastic or negative. I can not help it, it is just my nature.

I must have fallen asleep, because I was woken up by hearing many people move around, I never was a heavy sleeper. I quickly gathered my things and boarded off the plane. I went straight to baggage claim and found my suitcase. I walked outside New York City’s airport, and hailed for a taxi. Eventually, one stopped for me and I got in to be hit by the heavy smell of hairspray and cigarette smoke. I looked to the taxi driver to find a stereotypical bald, middle aged man, with a huge gut and a cigar hanging out of his mouth. I quickly gave him the address Mrs. Ryan made me write on my hand, just to make sure I would actually go to the house, and not “forget” the address, which I have done before.