Ultraviolet

Chapter Seventeen: Dirty Tricks

The first few weeks at the Wilkes' home, I grew close to their son Quinton. He was shy, but friendly. Every time Mr and Mrs Wilkes made me feel like trash, he'd smile apologetically, his eyes silently promising me everything was going to be okay.

And then I noticed him watching me. At first, I chalked it up to curiosity. But as time went on I realised his eyes lingered creepily when I wore lower necklines or shorter hems. I'd feel the goosebumps rise on my bare flesh from his watchful gaze before I'd even known he was in the room.

Mrs Wilkes' favourite activity was going through my things when I was at school and then selling them. I'd grown used to my things mysteriously going missing and never turning up, but that was usually my newer clothes. Things that showed no sign of wear.

I realised something else was going on when my favourite tank top went missing. I'd only ever worn the shirt under jumpers and to bed because the pink singlet had loose threads, holes along the bottom hem, and a small red wine stain under the armpit. The only reason I kept the shirt was because it belonged to my mother in the 90's and despite how often I washed it, the tank top always smelled of the perfume she wore when I was younger. Whenever I put it on, my heart grew warm at the memories I had of her before she claimed that soap slowly burns off your skin, refused to wash herself, and started to smell of dust and rank body odour.

Mrs Wilkes could never have found a buyer, and would never try to.

Then one day, as I walked past Quinton's room, I spotted it. Under his pillow was my favourite pink tank top. I ran in and grabbed the top, stuffing it in my school bag, before Quinton who was in the kitchen noticed.

I made excuses for him. Maybe the perfume reminded him of someone. Maybe he liked to dress in girls clothes sometimes and hide the evidence from his parents. Maybe he just liked the colour.

And then I found the pictures.

At first it was just one, a small polaroid photo of me cleaning the kitchen, that had fallen out of his jeans pocket when I was doing the laundry. The picture had somehow survived the washing machine with only a tiny bit of fading around the edges, but the subject was clear. But I couldn't remember even seeing Quinton with a camera, let alone one pointed at me.

The next day, I left school early, knowing that Quinton would be out with his parents on their monthly family outing that I was never invited to. I went to his room to investigate and found a worn brown shoe box with hundreds of photos of me. Ones of me walking to school, ones of me in a bikini at the local pool when I'd thought I was alone, and, eerily, multiple photos of me sleeping.

I grabbed the box and headed to the only place I knew to go: the police station.

At this point, I had excused every incident of neglect or abuse, hoping to make this new life functional. But this was the first incident that truly terrified me.

The only officer at the station was Sherif Geiger, which looking back on it was odd. At the time, I was entirely focused on getting out of the Wilkes' home. I sat down with the Sherif and explained everything and handed him the box of photos.

I felt my heart drop as he took a passing glance at the photos, and then nudged the box to the side of his desk.

"So you're telling me," Sherif Geiger started with his thick accent and deep rough voice. "That you're worked up over a few family photos?"

"There not family photos!" I cried. "Open the box and look, there's photos taken of me while I'm asleep!"

"Quinton is a shy kid, he's probably just trying to get to know you." He reasoned.

"How do you know?" I dared him, but I already knew the answer. This cop was as slimy and creepy as the Wilkes'. They must be friends.

"Kyle Wilkes and I are close." He grumbled, referring to my foster father. "I know him and his son pretty well. Quinton would never do a thing like that."

I stood up and went to grab the box, but the Sherif's dirty hands wrapped around it angrily. I let the tears fall, unashamed of looking weak or broken. I wish I could say that I was strong and didn't let the Wilkes' get to me, that I planned to leave the entire time and that my plan had flowed flawlessly. But the truth was that there, in that very moment, realising that the head of an army sworn to protect people like me denied that I even needed protection and sided with the people who were hurting me...

I lost all hope.

I forced a smile directed at Adrianna.

"I need to finish setting up." I decided, standing up abruptly and brushing off my pants. "It was nice to meet you."

With that, I turned away, begging the tears that brewed in my eyes to disappear.

This is exactly what I didn't want from Boston. This was an escape.