The Secret Life...

Part 1: A Kid in Care

I was 5 when I was placed in foster care. I still remember the day they took me, how my mom screamed bloody murder in front of the social workers but then gave me a very different look. It was one of betrayal. I knew even at 5 that I'd done something wrong. She'd told me not to say anything to anyone about what happened, but I had, hadn't I? I couldn't even do that right.

I don't remember a lot about the first house I was placed in. I remember how it smelt nice, and the people who took me in were a different colour to me. Not that it mattered. It was just an observation, nothing more. I don't remember their names now, it was so long ago, but I remember the food they gave me. Some sort of chicken. It was nice, but I didn't feel like eating much. I stayed very quiet until it was time to go to bed.

The first night, I pretended to be asleep because I thought that's what they wanted when they placed me in bed, but then when it went quiet I cried to myself, soaking the pillows around my face. I didn't like it there, it wasn't my house, and they weren't my parents. Most of all, this was all my fault.

I told my teacher about the bad men who took me. It was a slip of the tongue, I suppose. An innocent part of conversation from a kid. I never realised that my sentence was such incriminating evidence. I didn't know that telling the teacher would mean they took me away from my mom and dad, and if I'd known, I would have been more careful.

It started one night when I was in my room. I was drifting off to sleep when I heard shouting from downstairs. I opened my eyes quickly, my pupils darting around in the room. The voices weren't just my parents, I could hear other people shouting too, and this frightened me. I didn't know who it was or why they were shouting, and I was scared for my mom and dad. They'd told me before never to come downstairs if I heard shouting, but my curiousity got the better of me. My mom's shouts got louder and I was scared that she was hurt. Even as a kid, I knew I had to protect my mom.

I slipped on my monster slippers and crept downstairs, the noises getting louder the closer down I got. Mom was screaming now and I knew something bad was happening. I don't know when the bad man saw me, but mom screamed my name and before I knew it, a man had grabbed me from the bottom step of the stairs and put his arms around me really tight. He put me in front of him so that I could see my mom, but he put his hand over my mouth so I couldn't talk to her. I don't remember what he looked like, but he had a glove on his hand, and it felt warm on my mouth.

"Don't hurt him!" mom shouted to the man, but I zoned out for the rest of their conversation. My attention was diverted elsewhere, to the bloody mess in the corner of the room that was my dad. There was more red on him than the blackness of his skin, and even at that young age I knew it meant that dad was sick. He needed a doctor.

"Please!" mom pleaded, her eyes bulging dramatically as tears stained her cheeks.

"Don't hurt my little boy, please!"

I don't know why the bad man took me, but I remember my legs feeling very stiff, like I couldn't walk, and he had to pick me up from the ground. He carried me outside in my pajamas to a car that wasn't mine, and I was placed in the back. Another man in the back seat of the car put my safety belt on for me, but at this point I declared that I wanted my mommy. I think I tried to leave the car, but the man pulled me back, and he hit me on the head. It hurt, and I cried, but the car sped off before I could get out.

I don't remember fully what they told me in that car. It was a long time ago, and I think the trauma messed with my memory somewhat, but I do remember that whatever they threatened to do to my mommy and daddy was so terrifying that I wet myself. The man in the backseat told me it was okay, but he told me in a hushed voice, and he kept looking at the driver in the front as if he didn't want him to know. I decided not to cry, just in case the man in the front seat didn't think it was okay.

I don't know how long I stayed with the 'bad men' but I never left the car. Sometimes it stopped moving, and other times they drove places, but eventually, they drove me back to my house. I'd never been to relieved to see my parents in all my life, and when my mom took me in her arms, I was so overwhelmed that I was physically sick.

Mom told me she was so sorry for what happened. She said the bad men were angry at her and dad because they didn't pay them enough money, and that it wasn't my fault, but mom told me never to tell anyone about the bad men. She said I mustn't tell, or something bad could happen. I believed her, but I couldn't get the image out the bad men out of my head.