Page 7 of Broken Pieces
None of us matter to her. We never have.
We are nothing more than numbers on her roster, broken bodies she trades in for government funding and the half-hearted praise she collects at church. It is all a game to her, and she plays it well. She keeps the place clean enough to pass inspections, keeps her threats quiet enough to avoid a report.
But I see it.
I see everything.
I don’t owe her a damn thing. She will keep doing what she does best, collecting damaged kids and cashing in on our pain.
And we will all continue to do what we do best.
Surviving.
That’s all I’ve been doing.
Two more months and I’m out of this shithole.
Eighteen. Free. No more foster bullshit. No more rules. No more government assholes acting like they own me. They can’t tell me what to fucking do—not anymore. They’ve already threatened to ship me off to some boys’ home, and said I was on my last warning. One more fuckup and I’m gone. But once I’m legal, they can’t touch me. So I keep my head down, grit my teeth, and wait it out.
Skylar’s doing the same in her own way.
We’re both seniors, in our last year of high school. No doubt she’s counting down the days too.
I’ve seen the way guys at school watch her, how they try to talk to her, try to charm her so she’ll let them fuck her. She shuts it down without blinking. Doesn’t give them shit. A single glance, a scoff, sometimes nothing at all. She doesn’t hand out pieces of herself for free.
I’ve got a part-time job after school. Shit hours, shittier pay. But it’s something.
I’ve been saving every cent I can, scraping together whatever it takes so when I hit eighteen, I can walk out and never look back.I’m not expecting it to be much better than this shithole I’m stuck in now. Probably some crumbling apartment, a mattress on the floor, a busted lock on the door. But at least it’ll be mine.
Not this old bitch’s house with the stale cigarette stink and the way she watches me as if I’m a loaded gun ready to go off.
I just need to hold out. Two more months. That’s it.
And if I can survive that… I can survive anything.
I cut across the courtyard, boots grinding against dirt and gravel, hands buried deep in the pockets of my jacket.
Every inch of this place is shit.
The swing set is nothing but rusted chains and metal that groans when the wind cuts through. Silence hangs heavy once the doors shut and the screaming dies out, wrapping the house in something colder than night.
It’s “home”. Sweet fucking home.
I dig a hand into the inside pocket of my jacket and pull out the joint I’ve been saving all day. The shake in my fingers has nothing to do with the cold. It’s this place. It’s what it does to me. The longer I stay, the harder it is to breathe.
I fucking hate it here.
Lighting up is the only thing that keeps me from tearing this whole place apart. A hit or two, and the static in my head quiets down enough to think straight.
At least Skylar keeps me distracted.
A fucked-up distraction, but one I can’t shake.
Even when she isn’t around, she crawls into my head, her voice chewing through my thoughts with the edge of a switchblade. She’s a storm I never saw coming, and now she’s everywhere.
In every silence.
Every corner of this shitty house.
