FOSTER CHILD | PETER PARKER

xx.

      FOSTER CHILD | ACT ONE
scene twenty : the bridge
     
     

Isla sighed as she hauled herself upstairs in search of her new room. She opened the door to her new bedroom, her floral print suitcase was perched up against the wall. She didn't even have to bother opening it as somebody had already done so. They didn't even attempt to put some of her clothes back in as they were sprawled all over her bed.

She opened up her suitcase and sighed, rubbing her hands down her face as she looked down at her half-empty suitcase with her hands on her hips. She wished that she had at least settled down and hid her stuff before she ran away, that way she would still have half her clothes. She knew how homes functioned, the kids were always tight on cash and followed the term 'sharing is caring' like it was John 3:16.

She started to fold her clothes, not really caring if they were folded properly or not. Her uncle used to drive her insane with how precise and neat he wanted his clothes folded to the point that she did the exact opposite to give him a taste of his own medicine.

She turned around, absently jumping over the hair that was sprawled across the floor as she made her way towards her closet. Isla furrowed her eyes brows, doing a double take as she looked down at hair on the floor, her eyes trailing up it only for a literal child to be hanging upside down from her bed, the girl's nose deep into a book.

Isla jumped, stopping abruptly and dropping her pile of clothes on the floor. "Who are you and when did you come in?" She stared the person down.

The girl rolled her eyes, flicking to the next page in her book. "Do you insist on being so loud?"

"Loud?" Isla jerked her head back and scrunched her nose, offended. "I'm not loud."

The girl didn't respond, too invested in whatever book she was reading. Isla shrugged her behaviour off, it wasn't rare to find a person who relished peace in a care home. It was hard to come by with everyone constantly finding ways to get into trouble, whether it was with the law or the caretaker.

Isla pulled the chair out from underneath the desk and pressed it against the closet. She hopped onto it, the chair wobbling as she aggressively stuffed all her prized possessions and favourite clothes behind a few empty boxes.

A letter fluttered down from one of the boxes as she moved the boxes around. Isla hissed as it glided across her finger causing her to bleed. She stuck her finger in her mouth, sucking up her blood as she picked up the letter and inspected it.

"Teresa Clinton..." Isla chuckled, throwing her head back to look down at Teresa, letter still in hand. "Any relation to Bill Clinton?" 

Teresa rolled her eyes. "Very funny." She deadpanned, flicking to the next page in her book.

Isla's lips vibrated against her finger as she chuckled. "So when did you get here?"

Teresa slammed her book shut, an irritated looking in her eyes as she glared at Isla. "In case you haven't noticed I'm purposefully ignoring you so I'd prefer if you stopped talking to me."

"God does everyone in this home have a stick permanently up their ass?"

Teresa didn't respond, consuming herself back into her book. Isla took this and an opportunity to to notice Isla going through her things. Isla picked up a box from the top of the closet, looking through it to find more about Teresa. There wasn't much in it, only  a few heirlooms and necklaces and stuff.