I hate this place. Not that I’d particularly liked any of the other foster homes. They had each been different—some with normal families, nice houses, well-intentioned foster parents, and others not so nice or well-intentioned. After the third foster home, the quality started to steadily decline—nobody wanted to take in a rebellious teenager who had a history of getting kicked out of multiple foster homes, other than the less well-intentioned people who just wanted me around so that they could collect a monthly check. Foster home number ten is definitely that kind of home, or trailer, to be precise.
I’m reminded once again of my lonely existence. It’s not that I set out to be a loner, but I just don’t see the point of forming any attachments, when I know that I’ll inevitably be packing up and moving again once my current foster family gets fed up with my bad attitude. Because they always do—no one has ever cared enough to put up with me for more than a year, no one has ever wanted to keep me, and I can’t blame them.
In truth, I know it’s more than just that, though. For as long as I can remember, I’ve always felt … different. Like, even if I did try, I could never really fit in. Maybe it’s because my mom’s death ripped away my childhood or because having to worry about how to provide for my own future makes my life very different from that of a normal teenager. Or maybe it’s something else, something that I can’t quite put my finger on that makes me feel like I just don’t belong anywhere—not here in this shit hole of a town, not in any of the other towns that I’ve lived in, nowhere, and something inside me knows that I could travel the entire earth and still never find somewhere to belong.
There are times when I’m standing in a room full of people and still feel alone, like if I scream at the top of my lungs, no one would even hear me. The thought is a depressing one and maybe a tad melodramatic, but it's true.
Feeling something like defeat wash over me, I fling open the flimsy trailer door and step inside. Thankfully, my latest foster mother, Janice, is out. Probably getting trashed as usual, using the money that she’s meant to be spending on food and supplies for me, no doubt. I remind myself that it doesn’t matter—I’ll be out of here in less than a year, then I’ll be on my own. The thought is a scary one, but not scary enough to want to stick around here for longer than I have to.
The trailer is a mess, as usual. Dirty dishes are piled up in the sink and the place reeks like alcohol and tobacco. Normally, I’d get to tidying up, I’m the only one who ever does. But tonight, I’m exhausted. The eight hour round trip to Rockford Cape and the five hour shift at Rodeo Ricky’s, has left me shattered.
Flopping down on my cramped bed, I don’t even bother to change out of my jeans and sweater, as I squeeze my eyes shut in an attempt to shut out my surroundings. It’s the first day of my senior year tomorrow, and it’s nearly midnight, so I need to get some sleep. But despite feeling tired, sleep seems out of reach tonight. Sighing, I get up and pull out a small metal tin from the drawer beside the bed.
The trailer is dark, the only light coming from the silvery light of the moon streaming in through the single window. Looking up at the lone silhouette against the sky, I feel drawn to it somehow.
Feeling the invisible tug, I step back out into the night, walking aimlessly until I find myself at the abandoned playground that separates the trailer park from the nearby woods. I sit down on one of the rusted swings and it creaks in response. I open the battered metal tin that I’m clutching. I have very few personal belongings, everything in my life is disposable. Everything apart from the contents of this tin.
I run my fingertips over the tattered photographs—my mom smiling widely at the camera. It’s almost like looking into a mirror.
A strip of photo booth shots from the booth at the amusement park back in Rockford Cape. Another photograph of a six year old me walking along the beach, the amusement park lights in the background, as my mom trails behind.
Then there are the drawings—it isn’t just my mom’s looks that I’ve inherited, it’s her talent, too. Every drop of artistic skill I have, comes from her. I’ve looked at these sketches countless times throughout the years, but no matter how many times I’ve seen them, they’re just as beautiful each time.
The way she captured the loneliness of the night, the vivid colors amongst the darkness that most people never really notice. I look up at the night sky and see those same deep hues in the darkness—the midnight blues and deep purple blending into black, embellished by the blanket of starlight, which makes the scene look almost mystical.
I love the night—the stillness of it, the quiet. When I look up at the night sky, the vastness of it makes me believe, for just a moment, that there is so much more than this place, this life. I feel the quiet of the night quieting the discontent in my own life and I feel something like peace wash over me. Momentary as it is, it’s the only peace I have.
The faint whiff of rotting garbage floating on the night breeze from the nearby dump reminds of my reality, though, and that peace is swept away in an instant. There is nothing more than this life and this is my place in the world.
I suddenly get that feeling again that I’m being watched, and something like primal instinct is whispering through my veins, telling me to get my ass back indoors. I find myself looking into the woods beyond the playground. In the darkness, it’s difficult to see anything amongst the trees, but I can make something out in the shadows. A figure standing in the darkness. Watching. The night air is cool, but I’m suddenly sweating. I can hear the pounding of my own heartbeat in my ears.
Run. Run. Run.
My mind is screaming at me now, trying to shake me out of the trance.
“Jazmine.” The sound of my name startles me and I can’t help the scream that rips out of my mouth as I jump to my feet.
I look up to find the man from earlier that night standing in front of me. The man with those knowing eyes. I try to gather my senses, trying to make sense of the scene. My eyes dart back to the woods, but the figure is gone.
Was that figure in the forest this man? I can’t be sure, but I doubt it, there’s no way he could have made it here so quickly, and there was something distinctly different about that figure. Something I can’t sense in this man in front of me. Still, the mixture of fear and panic doesn’t recede. In fact, it only grows stronger, because what I’d seen before was only a shadow, perhaps only an imagined threat, but this man standing before me is very real.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I demand, backing away slowly.
If I turn and run, he can just grab me from behind. He may look like an old man, but something about him tells me that he doesn’t move like one.
I’m suddenly aware of how alone we are out here and my gaze darts around in panic, trying to find anyone or anything that might save me from a potentially bad situation, but there’s not a soul in sight and I’m completely alone in the darkness with this man.
“Wait—how do you even know my name?” I ask. He could have overheard it back at the diner, but I can’t be sure.
The man is calm in contrast to my own panicked state.