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The redness flares deeper on Brody’s cheeks, almost a mottled purple in some places. “Ungrateful bitch. I hope you rot like Jared.”
The final insult comes when he pauses at my door. I have a new piece of art on the wall next to the doorway, its placement intentional since I see it every time I leave my room.
It’s a sketched portrait of Jared, his eyes closed like that day I saw him on the slab—except in the drawing, I took out the sag of dead muscles and the waxy pallor of his skin. He looks like he’s sleeping. He looks peaceful.
Brody’s gaze lingers on it, and I feel the preemptive hardening of my heart as I realize what my foster “father” is about to do. I look away as his hand comes up, tearing the paper from the wall and crumpling it up.
“Ugly fucking mug,” he mutters, still clutching the wadded paper in his fist as he slams the door behind him.
The air is thick when he leaves, and as I turn away from the door, dizziness floods me. My hand shoots out to brace against the wall as I breathe through it, trying not to pass out.
This happens sometimes. Sudden waves of nausea and dizziness hit me, usually exacerbated by stress.
I don’t remember a lot of my childhood, but from what I’ve been told, it wasn’t a good one. I was picked up on the streets when I was eleven and put into the system, and before that, my life is a big fat blank.
All I know for sure is that it wasn’t good.
Doctors say my body shows signs of old injuries, and although nobody knows who my parents wer
e, there’s a good chance they were drug addicts. The kind of memory loss I have is usually associated with trauma, abuse, and neglect.
I huff a laugh as my vision slowly starts to clear.
If only my memories of this place would conveniently lose themselves too.
I steady myself against the wall, eventually pushing away from its surface. Brody doesn’t matter, and neither do his words. He’s a piece of shit. A washed up cop who can only get his kicks molesting foster kids half his age.
It’s alright, though. In a few hours I’ll be free of him, and my only demons will be the ones that hide within my mind.
The halfway house is surprisingly nice.
It has ten bedrooms, none of which have to be shared among the tenants. There are only eight of us here—me and seven other “youths in transition.”
Given our collective circumstances, we all bear the markings of a shitty life. Some of us are heavily tattooed, and I notice a girl with track marks so numerous I’m surprised she has any veins left. Most of us are quiet, and those of us who aren’t hang out with the other needless extroverts, blessedly leaving the handful of us who want to be left alone outs of it.
On the second day after my arrival at the halfway house, I have my scheduled meeting with my caseworker.
Ms. Nielson is a stout older woman with dark skin and long, silky black braids. She’s one of the few people in the system that I actually like, though she’s still very much a product of her job. She smiles at me as I sit down and take my seat in silence.
She’s always the first one to speak. I like that. She doesn’t try to make me make the first move like a lot of social workers try to do—like they’re playing a fucking game of chess or something.
“Hello, Sophie. Good to see you again. How are you doing?”
“Fine.”
Her eyebrows drop a little at my one-word answer. “Are you sure? Adjustment periods can be rocky. And the last few months have been a constant adjustment. Dealing with Jared’s passing, graduation, all of that. Now you’re no longer with your foster family, and your next moves are crucial.”
I manage to crack a half-smirk. “Careful, Nielson. You’ll make me feel like I’m in therapy, and we both know how it worked out the last time a shrink tried to scoop out my brains like an ice cream sundae.”
The look she shoots me is only marginally indulgent of my shit. “I’m serious, Sophie. You’ve been through a lot in the last few months, and that doesn’t even count your life before. Little to no recollection of your home life before the state took you in, lingering medical issues, several foster homes between your initial intake and your placement with the McAlisters. It’s important to acknowledge these things. It’s how you work with and then overcome them.” She smiles. “Which is why I’m actually quite pleased we’re having this meeting today. I have some good news for you.”
My skepticism rises at her claim to have “good news” following the laundry list of “bad news” that’s been my life for the last eighteen years.
She pulls a manila folder from her desk, and I watch her flip it open and page through the contents, looking pretty fucking pleased with herself as she does so.
“Do you remember those scholarship applications I had you submit earlier in the school year?” she asks.
I shrug. “Vaguely.”
