Relinquish(2)

Sometimes, I feel like a butterfly trapped in a Mason jar. The world is moving and happening on the other side of the glass, while I’m stuck inside. But today, the lid comes off this hopeless jar and I escape. Flying free, with endless possibilities.

I open the black, torn suitcase and grab a pair of distressed shorts. Shimmying them on quickly, hues of red and blue paint my legs from the sun shining through the ratty quilt hanging over the window, acting as a curtain.

I grab some magazines by the bunk bed, which usually holds more kids than there is mattress, when the door slams open to my room.

“Charlie, you need to hurry downstairs and do Tee’s hair before the school bus pulls up. Get a move on,” Aneta grumbles, jostling a small baby on her large hip. I smirk and toss the magazines in the suitcase before zipping it up, having to push and step on the damn thing to zip it up.

Aneta sighs loudly, making sure I hear her irritation. I blow out a breath from the exertion of closing my suitcase and look toward a pissed-off Aneta.

Her caramel-colored, frizzy hair is pulled into a tangled ponytail, which shows she hasn’t seen a brush in a couple days. Her overly large, white shirt is stained and torn in multiple places, hanging off her large frame loosely. And oh, God, she has no pants on, exposing her thick thighs. I hope she has underwear on today. Aneta is the foster parent of this fine establishment, which is a two-story house with more kids than beds. I couldn’t even tell you the name of the child she’s switching from hip to hip, because we have so many kids coming in and out of here, it’s hard to keep track. I’m sick of this f*cking place—of all foster care homes, to be exact—and today being my eighteenth birthday…I’m f*cking out of here.

“Not happening,” I sing, pulling on my worn flip-flops. I’m the one who does all the kids’ hair, makes sure they’re bathed—hell, I even have to cook for them. It can be difficult at times, but it’s even more frustrating with the ones who require special care. Most of the foster care homes take in kids who have special needs, because the foster parents receive a bigger paycheck in return. The temporary parents find themselves in over their heads, and make the foster kids do the work by taking care of each other. During my years of high school, I skipped out on the fun, crazy things kids do ‘cause all I could think about was one of the toddlers not being fed. But those kids, the cute, squishy-face ones… they get adopted quickly, thankfully. But today, I’m only thinking of myself. Otherwise, I’ll never leave.

“What do you mean it’s ‘not happening’?” Aneta snaps. “And what the hell do you think you’re doing with that?” She points at the suitcase on the floor, a look of despair splintered across her greasy face as her eyes widen.

“I’m eighteen. My sentence as a ward of the state is done,” I explain, pulling the busted-ass suitcase off the floor. “You’re the one who signs up for all these kids then hides in your room behind your computer for me to take care of them. I’m done. Find another victim of the state to be at your beck and call.”

“It don’t work like that, I’m afraid,” she huffs, rolling her eyes and pursing her lips.

I stop, my heart beating faster than my lungs can take in air. The thought of staying in this piss-smelling prison causes a mini panic attack to combust in my chest. I can’t stay here. More than most of the time, there’s hardly any food. Bugs and mice the size of house cats share the tight living space, and the so-called ‘disciplinary actions’ of the foster care system can cause more mental damage than most can handle. When one of the kids acts out, their punishment is taking visits away from those who have loved ones, and cleaning up the fecal matter of those who can’t control themselves and expel wherever they’re sitting. I’ve witnessed enough suicide attempts, seen enough breakdowns of those who are mere children because they can’t handle the Division of Family Services (DFS) system. I have fallen off the path of sanity more often than I can count through the years. My morals surely could be tested as the acts of a juvenile delinquent. Not every child who walks in the door of the system is bad, but it’s what foster parents like Aneta try and accomplish.

My face scowls with determination toward Aneta. “I don’t care if you send the damn police after my ass. Nothing is stopping me from leaving today.”

“Charlie, you’re not going anywhere.”

“Try and stop me,” I threaten, pushing past her.

“Charlotte Evans, you cannot leave until your social worker has a judge sign off on your release. If you step a damn foot out that door, I’m obligated to call the police,” Aneta screeches, using my whole name to emphasize her point. The house shakes from her feet pounding against the stained linoleum floor as she chases me toward the staircase. The walls, marked and scuffed from children sliding their hands down them instead of the railing, pass by as I descend the steps.

“Then call them! I’ll even wait a few minutes to give them a head start,” I sass, struggling with my suitcase down the steep stairs. She’ll call them. I know she will. She loves calling the police on me. Every time she and I get into an argument, she does just that, telling them I’m violent and out of control. It’s always a lie. She’s just a drama queen.

“Where will you go? You have no job, no money, no family.” She snorts the last part, causing my head to snap in her direction. She knows how much not having a family bothers me, so of course she would make it obvious I have nobody to run to in my darkest hour. I never had weekends away from this hellhole, a family fighting with all their might to get me back home, or some cute little couple who couldn’t have kids to come see me. I’m utterly alone, and it’s the worst feeling ever.