Finding Yourself

Prologue

Tick.

Tock.

Tick.

Tock.

The repetitive sound echoed throughout the room. It was a pen dropped amongst the silence.

More ticks. More tocks. More abstract constructs of the universe passed with every second. 

The sound bounced off of the books on the shelf in the room. The dusty shelf that hadn't been touched by the janitors since it was installed. It echoed off of the painting on the wall- an abstract guesswork, misunderstood. The desk that sat, centered in the room, was a cold metal just like the ticking, tocking hands. 

The chair sat at the desk was also metal- an unfolded, uncomfortable chair fit for the luxury of no one. And attached to the chair, was more metal; handcuffs gleamed in the light of the closed window- the only object capable of turning the grey room of despair into something interesting. Something disgustingly joyous with a hint of doom.

A sigh broke the melody of the clock on the wall. A deep, familiar sigh. A sigh that has been in the same room fifteen times before. 

A boy sat in the chair. A sixteen-year-old boy was handcuffed to the chair of despair. How morally unethical.

Or at least, that's how he saw it.

Fifteen times. Fifteen times he had been sitting in this chair, waiting for his oppressors- his kidnappers to enter the room with a client to auction him off to. He would be taken away from his family. He would be ripped of his rights and liberty. The boy couldn't wait until he escaped their clutches, ran back to his family, and never saw his captors again. Sure, life with his family wasn't easy, but he wasn't about to leave them behind in search for happiness.

The boy heard footsteps, and dread pooled into his stomach. Here it comes: the torture.

The doorknob twisted; the door itself opened; and a big-breasted black woman walked in, holding that cursed clipboard and file. Her face drooped in distaste as she noticed the boy sitting, yet again, at the desk. Her thick glossy lips frowned, and her clean-cut bob of hair swayed as she shook her head.

"Nice to see you again, Dakota," she said with a voice as thick and rich as molasses. The boy didn't move, nor did he give her the satisfaction of acknowledging her existence. "Or not so nice," she decided, "I have some takers on you. Lucky dog. There are thousands of children in this home, and some don't ever get chosen. You take everything you have for granted, and I hate to see you here."

She grabbed a chair and two others from the side of the room. She unfolded them symmetrically. Two on one side of the table- one next to Dakota on the other side. She sat next to Dakota, her heavy body landing in the chair with a thump. The two sat in silence after that. The clock was still ticking, but this time, the woman added the flicking of papers to the silence. She had a pen attached to her clipboard, which she removed, and a chain around her neck holding a pair of glasses, which jangled when she placed the glasses on her nose. She flicked through his file, making sure everything was intact.

Then the dreaded knock, and, from behind the door, a sweet yet chilling voice cheered, "in here!" It was quiet behind the door, but as soon as the door was opened, it released an ear-deafening noise.

"Oh! We are so happy that you came to visit our dear Dakota today!" in stepped the lady of horrors- a motherly, elderly white woman with crinkly eyes and fading blonde hair curled in tight blocks. Her lipstick was so blindingly pink, it almost made Dakota as blind as she was. "Apologies for the handcuffs. I swear we show no harm to the children, here at Saint Lauder. This one...well, he likes to get up to mischief. Isn't that right, Grendale?"