Chapter One

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Woop!

It's the author from the future!
There's a rewritten version of this.
Read that.
Not this.
Because that is better then this.

Or don't, I don't make the rules.

Alexander Pov
"And this is your room." Mr. Washington said.

I looked at it with amazement. He must not understand how much this means to me.

"You can do whatever you want. We have a Wii, some soccer balls or if you just wanted to sleep, I guess you could do that." He said.

I'm allowed to sleep? Peter never allowed that. I've only had about two hours of sleep in the past week. It's killing me. And food? Pfft. Forget it. What's a soccer ball? Isn't it like futball but like...America?  I set my bag down and sat on the bed.

"You'll also have a brother but he's out on a field trip to DisneyLand. He'll be back in about two days." I gave a small nod and started to lie down. Sleep.

I heard a knock at the door, I bolted up and saluted. "Sorry sir!" I exclaimed.

Wait. This isn't Nevis. Washington kind of just stared at me. I slowly put my hand down. I guess things here are different.

"Yeah. You don't have to do that." He told me.

"W-why not?" I asked.

"Look, what happened to you in the Caribbean isn't normal. It's called abuse, okay? I'm not going to make you live like that. I'm not going to beat you or yell at you or anything like that." He said.

"B-but...I deserve it though." I told him.

He looked at me with shock. Almost like he was scared of what I had said.

"No, you don't. Nobody deserves that. Now come on, Martha and I made breakfast." He said, smiling.

They made breakfast? Why are they being so nice? It has to be a trick. It has to be. I slowly stood up. And followed him into the dining room. Holy motherfucker. They did make breakfast. It wasn't a lie! Wait, wait, wait. They probably poisoned it. I sat down. And nothing else. I just sat there. I want to eat so bad.

"Honey, you can eat if you want." Martha said.

I looked at her with wide eyes.
"R-really?" I asked in almost a whisper.

She nodded. I can't believe any of this.

"So, Alexander, what's your favorite school subject?"

"Español...Erm...right...America...English. I mean. S-sorry Sir." I said.

Martha and George shared a glance. A glance that held a whole conversation.

"You don't have to be sorry Alexander." Martha said kindly.

"Alec. Call me Alec. Nobody calls me Alexander. I mean nobody called me Alec but then again...child neglect." I muttered that last bit.

Another glance. Will they stop with that? I don't know which is worse being an ashtray or being pitied. I still have scars from that foster home. And then there's scars on my back and mental scars from my last one. And ones on my arms. But I'd being lying if I said I didn't inflict that. I fiddled with my woven brown bracelet.
Too stupid.
Too useless.
Too skinny.
Too smart.
Too short.

All things I can't control, yet are ridiculed for. Too stupid? I know four languages. Fluently. Too useless? Who served as practically a servant their whole life? Too skinny? Does it look like I have money? Too smart? What does that even mean?! Too short? So what if I wasn't served the best share of cards when puberty rolled around?

But I won't lie. I am ugly as fuck. My eyes are this weird blue, grey colour, my hair is a weird orange brown, my nose is too sharp, my mouth is narrow so it looks like I have lizard lips. I don't know why anyone puts up with me.

Alec. Alec. Alec?! Oh wait. That's not my thoughts. That's Martha. I looked up.

"Yes ma'am?" I asked.

"Please, call me Martha. George did tell you about our other son, Lafayette, right?" She asked.

"Sí. The one that's on a field trip to Disneyland and will be back in two days? Is he from France? His name kind of gives me that kind of inference. Is Lafayette his last name or his first? It's a pretty weird one. Last or first. Or maybe is it part of a really long name? Oh! So he's from France has a super long name and Lafayette is part of that, obviously not the first part so the last part." I said, vomiting out all my words.

When I saw Martha's shocked expression I knew I had messed up. I stood up and started to back up.

"I-I...sorry ma'am...I mean er Martha. Please don't hit me. P-please." I was a stuttering mess.

I pulled off my shirt, turned around, dropped to my knees and braced myself. "Do it already, just get over with. Don't drag it out. Please." I said.

"Son, we aren't going to beat you. We aren't like your last foster parents." He said.

You mean all of my foster parents. I spun around. "Y-you aren't going to beat me? But I deserve it! I ran my mouth! You people make no sense. Is there no sense of rules or authority here? I-it doesn't make sense to me. How would one even know if you're in charge if you didn't beat your kids? What are you waiting for? What do you stall for? If you stand for nothing, what do you fall for?" I bombarded them with questions.

"Son, could you go to your room for a minute? Martha and I need to discuss some things." He said.

My eye twitched softly. "Why are you asking me to go somewhere? I should have to ask you! Ugh. Never mind." I said, obviously annoyed.
I swiped my shirt off the floor and walked to my 'room'. Like that's going to last long.
Never get attached.
I've learned that much in the past years.

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