Brighter Places [🗸]

2. being a foster kid was hell

Sharp yells cut through my sleep.

I have to blink, letting out a heavy yawn as sunlight breaks into the room. I throw an arm over my face, shielding myself from the sun. At least, as much as I can. 

Another yell.

A string of curses escapes my lips as I sit up in my bed, sinking into the mattress before I rise to my feet, stumbling out of my room and into the halls. 

"Jason!" Ms. Willis' voice pierces through the air, and I'm not ready for this bullshit. Not today, not tomorrow. Not ever. Unfortunately, this bullshit is my life.

"What?" I call out, running a hand through messy waves and making my way down the end of the hall, where Willis is leaning against her armchair, raising a glass of something to her lips.

"Finally." She says, eyes cutting into me. "You sleep till like what? Ten? It's ridiculous."

I glance at the digital clock behind her. "It's seven." I reply, evenly, my arms curving around my torso. There's still a solid hour and a bit before school even starts, if that's what she's worried about.

"Alright, look." She raises three fingers, meeting my eyes before saying slowly, "Do the laundry, make breakfast, and then get out of here. Got it?" She says, eyes narrowed and sharp as she adjusts her bathrobe.

"Yeah, okay." I mutter in response. "I'll get it all done, alright?" I raise both hands into the air, shifting from foot to foot as I casually glance at the living room clock once more.

Ms. Willis stares at me, that hard, emotionless stare that I'm way too familiar with. "Then get a move on. Don't linger here." She waves a hand, and I roll my eyes, making my way out of the living room. 

While I make my way down the hall, I take in the ornate place that I've spent a good six years of my life in. My hands graze the hardwood rails, eyes find the expensive-ass chandelier hanging from the ceiling.

The whole place is dripping with money, and I can't tell whether I like it or not.

It's nice to live in a massive place, complete with decorative designs and detailed shapes. It's nice to have things, really. Ms. Willis buys shit for my sister and I, mainly because there is an image to preserve. If we look like we're dripping in stuff, it won't occur to anyone that anything could be wrong. That anything could be not-right.

The lines are so fucking blurred that Ms. Willis can spend a shit ton of money on me while simultaneously calling me a faggot whenever she passes by me— and no one will bat an eye.

I slip into my room, shutting the door behind me and leaning against it. 

Unfortunately, there are many more memories that have fucked me up into the royally screwed-up person I am today—and I can probably withstand Ms. Willis' snide comments for one more year.