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DEMI
AGE FOUR
“Daddy, I’ll be good, I promise. Don’t give me away,” I begged as I dragged my feet. It didn’t slow him down though, he kept a firm grip on my wrist as he towed me to the front doors of the child protective services building.
“I can’t keep you, baby. Daddy’s sick,” he declared as sadness swamped his voice.
“I’ll take care of you,” I pleaded. I’d already lost my mother, though it’s because she ran away from home, not because she was sick like my daddy is, and I didn’t want to lose the only parent I had left.
His feet stopped mid stride, bending down so he was on the same level as I was. “Baby, I have to go to a special hospital. There’s nobody to stay with you while I’m getting treatment. This is what’s best for you, you’ll see,” he promised. “They’ll take real good care of you for me.”
Before I had a chance to disagree, a woman came flying down the stairs, reaching out for my overnight bag with one hand, and stretching out, yanking me to her side with the other one.
Her claw-like talons dug into my shoulder so tightly that my eyes crossed from her nails embedding into my skin.
I looked up at her and immediately had a distaste for her.
Her nose was raised in the air and her hair was pulled back into a bun so severely tight, not a hair out of place, that it stretched her face to a point where her lips looked like they’d been sucking on a lemon.
She looked mean. I didn’t like her, not one bit.
“I’ve arranged for the hospice nurse to meet you at this location,” the lady told my dad, holding out a slip of paper. “You have a room already set up and waiting for you at the facility.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Dad said, attempting to be polite but the way his teeth were grinding together said loud and clear that he didn’t like her either.
So why was he leaving me with her then?
I didn’t understand what I did that made him give me away. I’d been a good girl. I brushed my teeth every night before bed, I said my prayers just like he taught me to, and I stayed in my room and gave him the space he stated he needed so I didn’t bother him while his tummy hurts—ever.
Dad reached out, patted the top of my head then walked away, he didn’t look back, not even once to check on me. I dutifully followed her, and that walk started my journey into a life of hell.
At the time, I didn’t know that there was no hope for my father, he had been on death’s door and the state had stepped in, forcing him to give them custody of me.
I’m not sure what I would have done with that knowledge, but I wish I’d been told before that day so that I could’ve at least said a final goodbye.
AGE SIX
“Demi,” Mrs. Mulligan, my case worker hissed as I slid into her passenger seat, roughly shutting the door to the point that the entire vehicle shook.
“This is the eighth house you’ve been kicked out of.
Things need to change. You can’t keep reporting the small stuff, Demi, otherwise, you’ll never find a place to belong.
” Belong, that made me snort because I’d never fit in anywhere as long as she kept placing me with people who wanted to do things to me that were gross.
It’s not my fault that these houses have men that like to touch little girls for fathers and kids of their own, that I swear were spawns of the devil.
I ignored her, used to her incessant rambling and trivial berating.
The entire car ride to my next drop off was full of tension-filled silence.
When we pulled up to the house, my entire body started to tremble and broke out into goosebumps.
The outside of the house was your typical suburban home.
It was a pretty picture but for some reason, the couple standing on the front porch had me experiencing a sense of doom.
It settled into my bones and had me twitchy.
They smiled when necessary, they even laughed and were welcoming.
But once those doors shut behind Mrs. Mulligan, the entire atmosphere changed.
Rules were laid out for me, and absolutely none of them made any sense to my six year old brain.
Don’t touch the fridge without permission–food is a privilege not a necessity.
Household chores–it’s up to me to keep the house spotless, and if I don’t, the consequences will be dire.
Children are to be seen, not heard.
When I’m told to do something, I do it immediately–no questions asked.
Those were the top four that they said I must adhere to. I had to use the dictionary that I found in the living room later that night, after they’d drunk themselves to sleep, to figure out what a few of those words meant.
And drink they did, every morning, noon, and night.
I spent that weekend cleaning up beer bottles from wherever my foster father happened to place them when he’d grab himself another, dumping bottles of wine, and walking through each room with a trash bag because they didn’t believe in walking the few steps needed to throw their trash away, and food stinks when it sits for too long.
Something I recognized quickly when I was tasked with cleaning up their bedroom, the one room Mrs. Mulligan didn’t inspect when she dropped me off in hell.
“No,” I mumbled, tears steadily streaked freely down my puffy cheeks.
My foster father laughed, the sound was menacing and for a six year old, that sound was something that made me want to run and hide.
But I can’t, because he’d placed a collar around my neck and was leading me around the house by a leash.
“Lick it up,” he ordered, pointing to the oatmeal that I burnt that morning when he demanded I make him breakfast. Despite the fact that I wanted to puke, I shook my head even though the collar and leash tugged on my chafed, already bruised skin.
Even at my tender age, I’m defiant and refuse to do as he bids.
I can handle the beatings and humiliation.
This place was better than the last one where the dad there made me bathe in front of him.
He’d stroked his hand up and down his middle until white stuff poured out from it as I’d run the washcloth across my privates.
I never felt clean after that, it made me feel dirtier. The only reason I’m not still there was because another child told their aunt, and she reported him to the social worker.
This may not be a happy place to live, but to those looking in, I’m clean, fed, and the man and woman now fostering me, have pretended like they care.
They don’t, not really, they just wanted the check the state gives them.
Of course, it hasn’t been spent on me and my needs—I wore thrift store clothes and hand-me-downs from the church, while my foster mom had fancy nails and hair.
But the clothes she bought second hand are clean and none of them are torn or tattered so it doesn’t matter if they come with price tags or not.
My case worker told me to stop complaining, because the next place I lived might be worse than this one.
That advice, I took to heart and never, ever told about the fact that I cleaned the floors with my tongue and am led around the house on a leash whenever he got mad at me.
I don’t understand why she doesn’t stop him, though.
Aren’t mothers supposed to protect their kids? Even if they’re not really theirs?
The collar around my neck digs in deep, stealing my breath as I choked from the tension of the leash.
“Spic and span, Demi. Do you want to go into the closet again?” my make-believe mom asked, a wine glass clutched in her hand as she sways, unsteady on her feet—a common occurrence with her.
“No,” I whined.
“No, what?” she snapped.
“No, ma’am,” I sobbed.
I gagged as I swiped the floor with my tongue.
Each time I did, my foster father got a wide grin on his face—he was enjoying this a little too much.
He attached my leash to his jeans, clipping it with a metal clamp, walking me in circles until every inch of the breakfast he dumped on the floor was in my belly.
After I mopped and remade breakfast, I’m led to my room where the door was slammed shut and locked from the outside. “Daddy,” I hiccupped. “Why did you leave me?”
AGE TWELVE
“Quiet,” I told Luna as I snuck out the window. She didn’t understand why I had to do this, she asked a lot of questions of why I couldn’t simply walk out the front door instead of crawling out through the small window of my room.
The answer to that was because if I tried to leave, I’d be punished—brutally. I wasn’t allowed to have friends, I wasn’t allowed to do anything that didn’t include or benefit them in some way.
As I wiggled myself out of it, I tossed the present I made her for her birthday to her. “Happy birthday, Luna.”
“I wish you could’ve come to my party, Demi,” she said, dragging me into a tight hug that made me wince. My newest bruises were still fresh and stung—even the barest of touches made them throb. “You’re my best friend, I missed you.”
“I’m sorry I couldn’t be there, Luna. I got grounded and am not supposed to leave the house. It’s why I have to sneak out to give you this,” I said, pointing at the newspaper wrapped gift still nestled in her arms.
“You’re always in trouble and grounded, Demi,” she pouted. “Your foster parents are mean.”
“Yeah,” I said, choking back the tears, gliding my arms around her neck. “They are. Open your present so I can get back inside before they come and check on me.”
I broke every one of their cardinal rules.
Not because I’m trying to be bad, but my stomach was always rumbling so I tried to sneak food that I thought they’d never miss, but they always went looking for snacks in their drunken stupor and figured out that I raided the fridge.
I tried to keep up with my chores, but between homework and grief therapy sessions the state insisted I attend, there’s little time to keep things as spotless as they liked.
I kept my trap shut unless spoken to, and I did everything in my power to not be seen let alone heard.
When they asked me to do something, I did it post haste.
I never let their demands linger, yet I still always managed to do something wrong in their eyes. Which meant, I was always in trouble.
I heard the paper crinkle as Luna ripped away the packaging. Recently, my best friend had gotten into fantasyland things such as fairies, dragons, and magic which was why I took my time and made her a gift I knew she’d love.
“Oh, Demi, this is amazing!” Luna gushed.
Not having money of my own, I made her a paper maché dragon.
I’d always been artistic, and this was one of the activities my dad and I would do together when he was feeling okay, so I’d gotten good at making things out of scraps of paper.
I used my art supplies at school and painted it during our free period instead of getting in a daily dose of fun with my peers and Luna.
Thankfully, I had a teacher who encouraged us to use our imagination and allowed me to use that time to make Luna’s dragon stand out.
“I’m glad you like it, Luna. I’ve gotta go,” I told her, listening to the house and making sure I didn’t hear movement. I hadn’t as of yet, but it’d been long enough that I should be hearing my name bellowed shortly.
“You’re always going to be my best friend, Demi,” she whispered in my ear as she backed away. “See you at school.”
“See you at school,” I murmured as I lifted myself back up and through the window. Luna was the reason I didn't try to leave. I can withstand anything thrown my way as long as she was there. She’d become more than my best friend, she was my sister.
AGE SEVENTEEN
“We did it,” Luna enthused, bouncing on her feet. “I can’t believe we finally graduated.”
“Me neither,” I agreed, releasing a whoosh of air from my lungs as she tackled me. Her laughter was contagious and I found myself giggling alongside her.
“We even got into the same college, Demi. Our future is bright, make sure you have your shades on hand so you aren’t blinded by all the success heading your way.”
I found the easiest and cheapest degree in the handbook.
The system was paying for my tuition but it only allotted so much.
My dad didn’t have any money or life insurance for me to inherit so I’m going to work for the school to pay for what isn’t picked up by the state.
It’s going to be a long four years, but Luna’s parents got an apartment for us to share while they’re out traveling the world.
They’re good people but dismissive where Luna is concerned.
The loss of her twin, whom they lost before I met my Luna, caused some sort of switch to flip in her folks’ brain.
They fed, clothed, and kept a roof over Luna’s head, but outside of that, they hardly paid attention to her.
This morning, before leaving for the ceremony where my fake diploma was deposited in my hand, I packed what little belongings I had and stuffed my little bag into Luna’s trunk around her boxes when she picked me up, never once looking back at the house that gave me nothing besides nightmares.
My real diploma will be mailed to her parents’ house and we’ll have our mail forwarded once we get settled.
I never have to see those assholes again if I decide not to—and that’s exactly what I’ll choose.
I pulled out my sunglasses, popped them on my face and sent her a gleaming smile. “Let’s get out of here and blow this popsicle stand.”
“On to our next adventure,” Luna smirked, twirling her keyring around her finger as we waved our goodbyes to our classmates and jogged to her car.
Once she’d put the key into the ignition and fired up the engine, we blasted the radio and rode off into the sunset.
Our future was unknown, but anything was better than the abuse I’d suffered since being placed in the system.
Technically, I shouldn’t be out on my own until next month when I turn eighteen, but my case worker expedited the paperwork since I graduated.
Now, nothing was legally tying me to the monsters that hid around every nook and cranny, waiting for an opportunity to bruise my flesh and have tears streaming down my cheeks.
Fuck. Them.
I’m outta here and they can’t ever lay a finger on me again without being placed behind bars.
I made sure they could never foster again by turning in documented proof of the way they treated me.
I turned in photographs along with a written journal where I’d noted every incident, no matter how small it was.
Luckily, Luna gave me her old phone when she got a new one.
It didn’t make calls, and I never hooked it up to the internet, but the camera worked.
I never told her why I wanted it, I’d never sully her point of view on the world, but the device, it came in handy.