Page 2 of Conan

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 handas 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 bruiseswere 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 mâché 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.

---