Estimated reading time: 19 minutes, 37 seconds
Your name is Adelita García, you turn 21 in just two weeks. It's like a ticking time bomb. After your birthday, you get kicked out your foster home.
You've been in care since you were just a month old. Apparently, they found you crying under a bridge, malnourished and soaked. They didn't even try looking for relatives. Your social worker has told you many times, she thinks you were the baby of a Mexican family who crossed the border but couldn't carry on with an infant. So there you were left, under a bridge, like a troll. How fitting.
You were adopted by a couple, unable to have their own children, they treated you as though you were their own. They named you Adelita after a woman who joined her fellow men to fight during the Mexican uprising. They said they felt you were a fighter. At 5, your adoptive mother was diagnosed with cancer; when you were 7 she died.
Your dad struggled alone, when you were 9, he took his own life. You remember finding him in the bathroom, blood everywhere. You ran out into the streets and screamed. Your neighbour tried to pull you into their home, drying up your tears. The next thing you recall was the flash of blue and red lights. A black body bag, carried by four officers. They sat you in the back of the car. "What's your name?" an officer asked you. "Adelita," you mumbles. The officer smiled at you, her expression was so warm and welcoming. "That's a lovely name," she smiled at you, "Where are we going?" you ask. You can hear the policewoman exhale. "We have to take you to an emergency foster placement. It's nothing to worry about, it'll be a lovely couple who look after you. It won't be for long," she reassures you, "I know, I'm in foster care,". The silence settles in. "What happened to papa?" you ask. The police officer doesn't answer, but that's all the explanation you need.
From there, you went to state care. You stayed in this crowded residential home, kicking and screaming the entire way. It was your home for 6 years. Until at, 15 the house closed, something about being underfunded. They transferred you across the county to another home. You got kicked out of there for poor behaviour.
At 17 you were brought to your current family. A... unique couple to say the least. They foster 5 other kids. One of those families who are obviously just in it for the $150 a week. That brings you to now, 20 years old, working full time for minimum wage. 'Minimum wage, minimum effort' as you often tell your manager. You're trying to scramble together the money to buy your own home. Preparing for the rest of your life with no preparation.
"I'm going out. Adelita, watch the kids," Sarah tells you. That's your foster mother, the little witch. "Excuse me, but they're your foster children. Where are you going?" You ask, "I'm going out for lunch, then I suppose I'll have to go shopping," she sighs. You raise an eyebrow. Out for lunch? "Sarah, the youngest is what? 3 months old? You can't expect-" you're cut off, "I think you'll find I can, now if you want to have a place to fall back on after your 21st, you'll comply. Now if you don't mind I'm going out," she snarls. A perfect example of a witchy foster mother being a witch. At least she should be in a good mood when she gets back. Sarah picks up her handbag and purse. She stuffs her hair into her ugly sun hat, she waves sarcastically and storms out of the house. Her car engine growls as she leaps forward. Out of sight and out of mind. "Goodbye witch," you mutter to yourself.
You hold your head in your hand; watching the toddlers run around. What kind of foster mother leaves her children when the youngest is basically 2 hours old?! Come on! She's being bloody paid for this!
One of the kids yanks your hair, the others run around, chasing one another. Scream the whole way. That woman better bloody hurry home. One toddler hands you a rag doll. It looks like they've been chewing it. You smile sweetly at the child and pick the doll up. If only these kids were more like dogs, you could throw a ball or something and they'd all go running away. If life was only that easy. "I'm hungry," one kid moans. Well thank the fucking lord, now you have to cook. You haul your body up. You open the freezer, virtually empty. You find some Pizzas and chuck them in the oven. What kid doesn't like Pizza? You fall back onto the sofa, trying to drown out the screams of little kids. Seriously though? What imbecile fosters 5 children? What's that going to get you, a big headache?
The timer pings and you open the oven door. Smoke blows in your face, and you can see the edges of the Pizza's charred. You exhale as you pull it out the oven. You try to cut it into smaller slices but end up ripping the bread and everything just goes uneven. You just chuck the Pizza onto a plate and leave it on the table. "Lunch is ready," you shout. Toddlers nearly trample you trying to get to the food. You step away and sit on the side. Honestly, you're more of a mother to them than Sarah. You pull out your phone, running through your planner. Your gaze lands on the pink writing 'work' slap bang in the middle of this evening. What a great way to spend a Saturday evening. So that'll be a no to going to town getting drunk with strangers then? All the same, your fake ID doesn't scan and people keep kicking you out of bars anyway.
The toddlers run back into the other room. You follow after them; you just know if you take your eyes off them for a second, something will get broken. You struggle to keep things like the paint and crayons out their hands. Better they make a mess when they aren't left in your care. Your phone vibrates in your pocket. 'Witch' appears on your screen, accompanied by a photo of your foster mother. You press the red button. There is no way in hell you're picking that up, even if that means she'll be in a bad mood. Alas, she keeps calling, a waterfall of voicemails left for you until eventually, you pick up.
"Hello?" you say softly, "Why the fuck didn't you pick up?" you foster mother screeches. You sigh, now you've got to come up with a good excuse. "I was... feeding the kids?" you try, "I didn't tell you to give them lunch did I? What's so hard about following bloody instructions?" she snaps. You debate hanging up the phone as you take a deep breath. "No, I'm sorry, I won't do it again," you try. You can hear grumbles on the other side of the line. "Very well then, I'll be back soon, make sure the place is tidy. Do you understand?" Sarah tells you, "Yes, I'll see you soon,". You quickly hang up. To hell are you staying on the phone with that bitch!
You work your way from the top of the house, making beds. Opening windows. You sweep the kitchen floor, trying to pick up the remains of cheese and tomato sauce. You turn the tap on and pour liquid soap into the sink. You chuck the dishes into the tub and use a sponge to get off all the dirt and food. You put them on the draining board to dry a bit. Using a cloth, you wipe the table, taking the crumbs in your hand. You shut and lock the dining room doors, and sit in the living room. You put the cushions back where they belong, taking the toys off the children. You take their toy boxes and put it back in their rooms. You brush through the girl's hair, putting it in bunches. Everything looks somewhat presentable. You finally sit down in the kitchen, resting against the table. You play music quietly.
The front door slams. You turn your phone off and hide it. Sarah storms into the kitchen, chucking down the shopping. You run and start to put away the food. "What are you doing?" Sarah snaps, "I'm putting away the groceries," you tell her. Your foster mother stands inches away from you, glaring. You can feel shivers down your spine from her look. "I didn't ask you yet, did I?" she hisses. You step away, "No..." you whimper, "So that what do you think you're doing?" she spits. You wipe her saliva off your face. You can feel your foster mum grip your hair and she drags you out the room. Her hand makes contact with your face and you fall onto the floor. You bite your lip. "I'm sorry," trying to contain your anger. You're pushed into a cupboard and the door shuts on your face. Surrounded by the darkness. You can hear as the pipes rattle and battle with each other. The water following to a tap. You swear you can see shadow men dancing in mist. Flickers of feet walking past. You can look under the door and see slippers on the oak floor. Shopping bags drop in front of the crack and all light disappears.
You peel back at the wallpaper. You've been in here long enough to know your way around in the pitch black. You flick the light switch and your eyes adjust. You pull back a false wall. You hold an old photo from when you were 3. Your running through a field, your adoptive parents are running after you. A daisy chain crown on your head. You lie down to the best of your ability and close your eyes. One day, soon, this will all change.
You're rather rudely awoken by footsteps on the stairs. You can hear distant voices as they edge closer. You hide your picture frame, putting the false wall back. You shift your body as far away from the door as you can manage. The hinges creak as the door opens. You foster fathers face glares at yours as you are dragged into the hallway. "There you are you little rat," he snarls at you. You glance sideways, the front door wide open. You handbag laying by the steps. You wait for his grip to loosen, then you run. You grab your bag and dash out the door.
A bit of fresh air never did anybody any harm. You stroll along the pathway. Your fingers brush against the fence. There's a store on the corner of the road. You dip inside, picking up a bouquet of flowers. "That'll be $10 please miss," the shop assistant tells you. You nod handing him a note. The pinks and yellows reflect the light onto your jaw. Bright colours invading your vision. You continue on your walk. until your path is stopped by a huge gate. You pull the handle, using both your hands to push the doors open. Monuments to celebrate lives sping up on either side of you. You smile, reading the beautiful messages left by family members.
You stop in front of a headstone 'Isabell and Alejandro García, Loving and kind in all their ways upright and just to the end of their days sincere and true in heart and mind a beautiful memory lost behind'. "Te amo mamá, te amo papá," you whisper. You gently rest your flowers on the soil before the grave. You always come here when you need a bit of space. It calms you, to think about the life you used to have. Your wonderful parents. You kiss the stone and turn on your heels. There really isn't a day that goes by where you don't think of them. They really gave you the best footing in life.
Your key turns in the front door. Sarah is sat on the steps. You sigh, great, now you're going to have to talk to her. "Where the hell have you been?" she snaps, "I went out, just for a stroll," you answer. You're doing your best to keep your cool. "We have an assessment this afternoon, your social worker is coming over. I can't afford for you to be going for 'little strolls'," she snarls. You chuckle to yourself, so the witch has an assessment and she needs your help? "Sorry, I'm working," you reply. Panic fills your foster parent's faces. "Working? You can't work," your foster father exclaims, "Sorry, I have to," you respond, "No, you'll have to stay here. Your social worker has asked to see you. I guess you'll have to call in sick," she tells you, "Sorry, I can't. I need the money, and you can't provide me with a good enough reason not to go," you snap. You can feel your anger boiling over. Here they go again, always telling you what to do and when to do it. "You're going to do as your bloody told," your foster father snarls at you. "If you think for two seconds I'm going to lose out on money, for your stupid assessment. You've got another thing coming," you snap, "Don't you dare talk to your father like that!" your foster mother exclaims.
"Excuse me, but he's no father of mine,"
She lifts a hand to strike you, you grab her arm. "Don't, or I will stay, and I'll tell them everything," you hiss, "Don't threaten me, little girl,". You feel your body weight push backwards. You're pinned against the wall. You hurl as much strength as you can at your foster mother, running upstairs "I'm going to work," you scream. You slam your bedroom door, kicking around your stuff hunting for your uniform. Stupid foster parents, thinking they own you. As if you're going to skip work for them, after everything they've done for you. If they fail their assessment, they fail it. You've only got to survive 2 more weeks.
You pick up your purse and backpack and jump onto the back of your bike; peddling your way along the street. You can feel water droplets fall on your neck, so you push harder along the pavement.
When you get to the cafe, you rest the bike against the wall and step inside. "Adelita, you're here!" your boss beams. You're 98% sure he has a crush on you. "Goodmorning Sir," you chirp, struggling to sound happy.
Wrapping an apron around your waist and pocketing a notepad and pen, you lean on the counter and stare into the building. You get a nudge from another waitress and you huff. Spending the day passing plates around the little coffee shop. You pick up the shiny coins presented to you as a tip. $3.50, they call that a tip? You chuck the silvers into a jar and proceed to serve.
Mary bumps you on the hip. "Hey sexy," she giggles, "Hey beautiful," you chuckle. Mary takes your drinks. "Which table?" she asks. You gesture at the group in the corner. Mary winks at you and she takes the tray. She's a lifesaver, and gosh wow, you despise crowds. You try to balance hot plates without dropping them on the door. Every plate you place down, every fake smile. It gets exhausting
Mary walks over to you and pushes $10 into your palm. "Your tip," Mary smiles. You stare at the note and scrunch it into your bra, trying to hide it from the manager. "You're a lifesaver you know," you murmur, "You need the money more than me," she responds. You're pretty sure Mary is some kind of angel at this point. You drift down the walkway, forgetting to look up. You bump into a customer. Your hair flies back. "Oh my god, look where you're going," you exclaim. Shit, that's going to cost you a few tips. "Excuse me, I don't take lightly to that kind of talk," the gentleman tells you. "I guess you'll have to be more careful in the future then," you snap. Then you notice his green eyes. You're peering at you, bright in colour. They're engraved in your memory. Almost as creepy as your witchy foster mother.
You go and lean on the bar. Your manager glares sideways at you. "What happened to your face? she asks, "What do you mean what happened to my face?" you ask, beginning to get offended. You catch your reflection in a bit of glass, and you notice a massive bruise on the side of your face. It's a deep purple, you can't believe you missed that before. "I must have hit my face on a tray or something," you respond. You manager shrugs, and she hands you a bag. "All the same, it looks bad on us. Cover it up," she demands. You shoot her a dirty look as you take the bag.
You stumble into the bathroom, pulling out her concealer. It's way too light for your tanned skin. You dab the makeup on your face. It's making you look sicker than anything else. You brush as much bronzer on as possible, trying to darken the colour. Well, now it just looks like a glitter bomb exploded on your face. Whatever makes the boss shut up.
You toss the makeup bag back into the kitchen. Picking up a tray. "Which table?" you ask Mary. You're directed towards a single table, where a man sits alone. "Here's your drink sir, can I get you anything to eat?" you ask. You look up, it's those green eyes again. Fuck, you hope he isn't still mad. "I'm fine thanks. I'd rather not have food from the likes of you," he snarls. You step back. Is he referring to the fact your Hispanic? Because that's just fucking rude. "Very well sir," you shoot him a sickly smile and walk away. "I think it's best you serve that gentleman," you tell Mary. She nods at you, clearly confused. You shrug it off; you don't really want to have a conversation about racist customers. It'll probably leed to him getting kicked out, which makes more drama. You don't really need more of that in your life.
"Break time," your managers mutter in your ear. You sigh in relief. You drop the paper on the counter and walk out. You're soaked the moment your foot exits the building.
You stand outside and search through your pockets for a cigarette. Smoke begins to rise from the end of the cigarette and you take back the nicotine. You go back into the kitchen and grab a side of fries. You look at your phone. The amount of missed calls from your foster mother is unbelievable. One message stands out though. 'Call me when you can' it's your social worker. You inhale and dial the number. It rings twice. "Hello?" your social worker says. "Hi," you reply. This is going to be a long conversation. "Adelita, sorry to brother you. I wanted to ask you a few questions about Sarah and John," your social worker tells you. "If it's about why I wasn't there this evening, then it's because I had work. I'd missed my window to hand in a sick notice. I'm sorry," you respond, trying to remain calm, "No that wasn't it. I wanted to ask you about your relationship with them and the rest of the children staying there. If that's okay?" she replies. Oh, that wasn't as bad as you thought. "Oh, well. It's great, they treat me like an adult. The other kids are great, so sweet. Honestly, it's a great home. I'm really lucky to be there," you lie. There's no point continuing to risk being moved. For the sake of two weeks? Not worth it. "Now, we need to have a serious discussion about what you're going to do after you turn 21,". You sigh, this conversation seriously? "I've told you a thousand times, I've got savings, it's all in place. I'm at work now anyway," you stammer, you do not want this conversation right now. "Well, you know, even after you're 21, I'll always be here to help you. I've been your social worker for nearly 21 years now, I'm not going to stop that because of some birthday,". As annoying as she is, you have to admit, you're pretty darn lucky she's your social worker. Your tone softens, "Alright, thanks. I'll talk to you soon," you hang up. Yeah, pretty lucky.
The rain pours harder on the roof. Thunder rumbles in the clouds, to the point where it was getting difficult to hear your music. Lighting flashes. Your break is almost over anyway. You stuff the last few chips in your mouth and put your bag back into the staff room. The rain against the roof is headache-worthy. You groan as you pick a notebook up and continue serving. You see that man with the green eyes is still here. Does he not have a family or something to go to? Mary glares at you. "I'm sorry, I can't manage much more of him. He's so demanding, it's your turn. Sorry girl," Mary thrusts his order into your hands. You groan again as you walk over. You put the plate in front of the gentleman. "Can I get you any sauces?" you moan, "Could you get some mustered please?" he asks, not looking at you, "As you wish," sarcasm dripping out your mouth. You pick up a bottle of mustard and drop it on his table. "Anything else?" you ask. "Yeah, bring me that nice blonde back, I'm still not a fan of your attitude," he chuckles. What's with this guy? So weird. "I'll do my best sir," you respond. "He wants you, Mary," you tell her. Your best friend rolls her eyes. "Seriously? Alright then," she sighs. You watch her waltz over, all smiles. She's really amazing with the customers.
The storm is slowly edging closer, the thunder gets louder. The lighting brighter. Customers begin to panic.
Lighting strikes again and the power goes out. The customers look around, mystified. "Power's out," the Chef says, "Yeah, thanks Captian obvious," you mutter under your breath. Amongst the confusion, your manager arises from the office. "Alright, everybody out," she yells. Seriously? Rude! You glare at your manager, your blood boiling. "That includes you, Miss García," she spits at you. You groan, knowing this is going to cut into your wages. You leave, picking up your bike. It's far too wet to get on it, you'll probably go flying over a fence if you do.
The rain pours harder and harder, lighting strikes. Then, darkness. The entire city out. You sigh, soaked in rain. There's another flash of lighting. You swear you just saw somebody in front of you. You stumble through the darkness. You catch your foot on a rock and fall forward. You feel arms catch you. You spot those green eyes again. It's that man from the restaurant again. Is he following you? What a stalker. There's another flash and a blinding white light surrounds you. The gentleman and his green eyes hold on tight to you. You pull away but fall in the other direction. The light getting brighter. It gets so bright it begins to hurt.
You look at the golden city, the buildings reaching to the clouds. "Oh... my... god..." You breathe. "Welcome to Azgard Miss Adelita,"
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"Where am I?" you ask, "I told you, Azgard," the man replies, "And who are you?" You mutter, "Dear Mortal, I am Thor, God of Thunder," he replies.
I'll see you all soon ;)