The Purpose

October 23, 2015

The house was worn down and old. It looked like it was on the verge of spontaneously combusting with cracks surrounding the building. The roof was not built for rough weather conditions because apparently the architects and construction workers forgot they were in Chicago. It was a dull brownish red and the middle of the roof was raised a few feet higher than its right and left side. The sides of the house had a blue coloring faded to a dreary grey over the years as if all life had been drained from it. This building was falling apart and it was not suitable for anyone to live there, but yet thirty to forty growing children did.

This was home to the hopeful, the hopeless, the in between, the foster children still waiting for their forever home and family. They didn't have much, but the hopeful, young ones worked with what they had and presented themselves as the future son any parent would fight to adopt. They all got sent out to foster homes eventually, but issues and conflicts arose and some came right back to where they started. A few considered this a routine situation and had come to call this broken down place home.

They slept on bunk beds set up in rows inside one large room, so there really wasn't much privacy at all. This place was not built to be a forever home, but for those who had no choice in the matter, tensions were high, hormones were raging, and violence was their outlet.

It was not uncommon for there to be at least one report of a bloody nose or broken finger about once a or twice a week. The smell of testosterone filled the air of every room you walked in. Every day was a fight for dominance or alpha status. Some of these boys were as young as 10 and old as 17 swinging at each other as if it was a fair fight. Everyone here was the same yet no one was equal. Not many of them confided in one another and if they did, there was an unspoken rule that there could only be three people in a group of friends at a time. The intent of this was never said out loud but everyone knew that if one kid left or died, at least they wouldn't be alone. Often times, friends in these groups weren't loyal or tried to show dominance over another so these cliques never lasted long. These kids were alone there.

Dolan Wilson was one of the many troubled teens in this broken down house. His bright, blue eyes and curly, brown hair made him very likable but wasn't enough to keep him in a foster home for very long. His problems with authority always seemed to get in the way of that. Most parents prefer someone who says please and thank you, is grateful for everything given to them and is the least amount of trouble possible. Not every pair of parents had a low threshold but Dolan always seemed to know their buttons and push them with fervor. He loved annoying people and that wasn't the easiest quality to sell to foster families. It's not like he didn't want to be apart of a family, but he always let his fun and games get in the way of letting a family truly get to know him and fall in love with his personality.

Dolan loved to paint. The house had limited supplies as it is meant to be temporary, but he always managed to take what he had and find a way to make it entertaining. He was notorious for his snack art, creating faces, and people; whatever was in his head that day. He folded the wrappers, drew with ketchup, ate what he jokingly deemed "too colorless for a Wilson masterpiece". Dolan's imagination was bigger than this house and he deserved to live somewhere with enough space to fit ever idea he could ever imagine.

One day he was creating an abstract piece with different types of cereals and snacks at the protruding corner of a wall when a few boys came around and without watching where they were walking, one of them stepped onto something that resembles lips or maybe a hot dog made of flaming Cheetos.

The attacker jumped back from the crunching sound and looked down at this terrible act of destruction. He casually shrugged his shoulders and said, "sorry man" and began to continue walking alongside his two friends.

"Do you know how long it took to assemble that perfectly to line up those red Cheetos with those cheez its? An hour! Y-you need to fix it!" Dolan exclaimed, feeling his need to dominate grow stronger.

Alex, the offender in this situation, put his hands up, smiling down at him as he was nearly a foot taller than Dolan. "Bro chill. It was an honest mistake, next time don't be such a fag next to a blind corner in the hallway."

Dolan suddenly lunged toward Alex with his fists swinging. Alex stepped back quick enough to miss all of his blows and began to laugh uncontrollably. "Chillll," He said emphasizing the "l", "You don't want a piece of this. I could throw you across the room if I wanted to, but I don't like touching fags so I'd back up if I were you."

"Yeah man," Alex's henchman agreed, shaking their heads at the ridiculous sight before them.

Dolan got even angrier because Alex felt he had more control over him and had the right to boss him around so he once again stepped forward with his fists revving up, ready to react to whatever Alex decided to do.

Alex shook his head as if he felt it was tedious to go along with such a predictable situation. He swiftly threw his arm around Dolan's neck, bringing him down and knocking the wind out of him. Alex quickly walked away with his friends acting if nothing had happened, leaving Dolan gasping for air on the ground.

These types of fights were becoming common for Dolan as he always felt like everyone had a problem with him. He never won any of them. Dolan was never very friendly with anyone and always saw the worst in people. He trusted no one, except for his case manager.

Maria had been with him since he was a baby and even after the many, many times he came back from foster homes, willingly or otherwise, she never gave up on him. She didn't beat around the bush either. Maria would tell him what he did wrong, discourage his violent tendencies, and do her best to guide him, but he never seemed to change.

"You're 16 and you're still the same person I knew 3 years ago. You need to evolve and find another outlet besides your art because that's obviously not enough," Maria said for the tenth time that month to space cadet Dolan who not listening to anything she was saying. He knew she meant well, but he politely disagreed with her repeated suggestion.

"I'm fine. Don't worry about me," He exhaled, looking down at the table.

"Stop telling me not to do my job," Maria laughed while Dolan rolled his eyes at the same "joke" she'd said many times before, tired of fake laughing.

"Any new homes?" Dolan asked, sounding almost hopeful.

"Not this week."

He shrugged before quickly saying "ok" and getting out of his chair and out of the room in one swift movement, attaching his chin to his chest as he walked down the hallway.