Perfect Family

Chapter Three: Adjustments

'What the hell am I doing?' He asked himself while packing a bag. He threw in the essentials: a few pairs of fresh clothes and his favorite stuffed animal he had since he was a child. It was a plush bee he had gotten from his parents years before. But he remembers what happened to them like any kid that was traumatized at the young age of seven. He remembers the blood, the guns, the man, the deaths.

He remembers it all.

He stuffed his few belongings into a small Minecraft backpack the orphanage had been forced to buy for him when he first joined their elite squad of parent-less children. The straps of the bag were covered in horizontal lines, marking every time a foster parent took him back. Most lines had already started to fade but he was unable to snatch another marker to reinforce the lines, reminding him of all the people that didn't want him. Rosemary got the award for keeping him in her custody for the longest (other than his parents, but they wouldn't be able to hold a trophy no matter how small and insignificant it looked).

'She always cared for me. She took me in when no one else would. You should be grateful for her.' He reminded himself, clutching the strap of his backpack to the point where his knuckles turned a pearl white.

He walked across the hallway, ignoring the barren walls with the bathroom as his destination. He grabbed bandages and tweezers from a cabinet that was about eye level to him. He took extra band-aids and stuffed those into his bag just in case.

He took the tweezers and pulled the bits of glass out dropping them in the sink. His hand shook threatening to poke him in his open wound, but yet he pushed on, only wincing at the blood that dripped down his arm onto the white tiles below him, only flinching when the glass hit the sink. Wincing, he sprayed Bactine onto the open wound, not letting the sharp throb of his arm get in the way of his work as he wrapped his arm up in bandages, blood oozing out from the sides.

He couldn't do it anymore. He couldn't deal with the remarks. He couldn't deal with the stress. He couldn't deal with his throbbing arm. He couldn't deal with not being special. He couldn't deal with being alone. He was done.

(Why did it always have to be him? Why did he always have to suffer from others' consequences?)

He slammed the front door open, the oak door slamming against the brick wall of his home the house. He didn't bother to close it, instead of leaving the door ajar for the crisp fall air to rush in and leave his old acquaintance shivering at night, bundled up for even a sliver of warmth.

'I should have gotten food while I was there. Goddammit. There is no way I am ever gonna go back there now that I finally got out of there. I can go dumpster diving in the worst-case.'

He walked, avoiding the cracks of the sidewalk, no destination in mind. He simply . . . wondered. After what had to have been at least an hour, he found himself at a deserted park. It was too early for kids to be out of school, yet too late for workers wandering the city streets during their lunch break.

He found a nice bush to sit by. It gave him a clear view of the memorial water fountain for some hero that passed away from some supervillain. He didn't bother to read it. He was never into that kind of thing, heroes and villains, good and evil. He thought that they were all like a bunch of babies, creating massive fights to keep people interested in causing mass destruction and high taxes. People didn't want to live anywhere near here because of the fights. But the unfortunate ones who did pay the price.

His eyes started to droop as he leaned back into the bush, enveloping him, devouring him whole. He clutched his bee plush, determined to never let it leave his side. But his clutch grew limp.