Error. [H.S.]

24.

TW: Brief mentions of abuse and suicidal ideation.

Liam.

I hate cemeteries more than I hate knowing there's months left of working for the devil's spawn, but my gratitude for the Kleins trampled all of the bullshit.

Sarge gave me a verbalized warning after the show tonight, told me to get my shit together so I don't get stuck with a final reprimand in my file. One more and I'm booted from ESU and stuck back on patrol with no opportunities to advance my career. It's bullshit, but nobody gives a fuck about my opinion. Didn't even give him a proper threat, but like always, the entitled rich boys always win. That was a consistent story line in my life growing up - different characters, same outcome.

The foster care system failed me in more ways than one, but I would take the nights of going to bed on an empty stomach while the biological children sat around the dinner table over the social damage it caused.

Most kids went to soccer practice or swim team after school. More often than not, I spent my afternoons sitting in the school office with all of my belongings shoved in a black garbage bag while my social worker scoured the database for an emergency placement. Sometimes I'd get to pack my shit myself, other times, my foster parents of the week would drop my belongings by the school without saying a word to me. Any time I heard my name over the intercom, I knew what it entailed.

Nothing slapped a bigger target on my back than being the kid nobody wanted. The jocks got wind of it and turned it into a game of who could fuck with my life the most. They'd egg me on in the hallways, pushing me to my limits until I snapped and swung at them. Then they'd all play innocent and cover their asses to make me look like the fucking prick. Like California clockwork, the PTA mums and the rich dads would save their asses and leave me on the wire to take the blame.

The worst days were when I didn't hear my sister's name get called with mine though. That meant we were getting split up again. For some fucked up reason, teenage boys are a hell of a lot more disposable than pre-teen girls. Marley was the well behaved one, she was quiet and liked to read in her free time, so that was probably a good enough excuse for most foster parents. She was too fixated on fantasy lands in her books to be pissed off at the world like I was, so when I got too mouthy, I was the first to be thrown out. For the first year, we went as a package deal. If I got kicked out, Marley came with me, but that game didn't last for very long. The older I got, the easier it was to place me in an all-boys group home and place her with a family. She refused at first, but eventually, I convinced her to go off on her own.

It got easier after that, at least for her. She was able to get a sense of normalcy without me uprooting her every time I had an outburst. I'd visit her when I could, and I always tried to bring her a new book. The school library would only let me check out two books per week, so I resorted to stealing books from those book donation bins around town. Marley never seemed to mind; I think it honestly gave her something to look forward to.

The last time I saw her, she was fourteen and I was getting ready to turn seventeen. We were living about forty-five minutes away from each other, so our visits were limited to once or twice a week, but I finally had a plan for us. When I had gotten into some trouble earlier in the school year, the school resource officer sat me down and told me that I was venturing into the final months of my life were all of the trouble I was getting in was just petty. He scared my ass straight by telling me that in a few months' time, the same shit I was tampering with would get me years in prison.

The thought of leaving Marley for years rather than a handful of days scared me shitless. Being unable to take care of her now was already killing me but being completely cut off from her completely would feel like a death sentence.