𝐓𝐄𝐌𝐏𝐓𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐒 |𝟏𝟖+ (#𝟏)

𝚃𝙷𝙸𝚁𝚃𝚈-𝚃𝚆𝙾 |

32
AMBER JACKSON
--------------------------------------

Eight years ago.

I shouldn't have come here, but that was the only way I could get out of existing in that house with people who didn't want me. You'd think a sophisticated suburban family who sent annual homemade Christmas and Easter cards would be a good fit for being a foster parent, but it soon became clear that they only took me in to be a live-in babysitter for their three children, whom they had taken on a trip to Connecticut to visit their grandparents. I wasn't upset about it, but that doesn't mean I don't curse the air from time to time because of the persistent terrible luck I've had throughout my life.

I guess life wasn't as cynical this time since I didn't have to keep my door locked because I was afraid the father would find himself in my bed. I suppose it was because he was more interested in what was going on between his paralegals' thighs. And yet just because there was no molestation doesn't mean I'm in a better circumstance. It never has been. The last time I could truly claim I was happy was when I was six years old and lived with a cancer-battling mother, the memories of which are slowly fading.

People lined the walls with red Solo cups in their hands, dancing against each other, chanting the words to songs they shouldn't be singing, smoking, kissing - everything possible. I mean, these kids were out of control, to put it mildly. When their parents were away for the three-day visits to Albany, New York for work every few months, the Whitcomb family home was the place to be. Elijah, Tyler, and Raina Whitcomb were always the hosts, and I'm not sure how they don't get caught. Though, I'm sure it has something to do with their father being a police chief.

Due to the rowdy bodies jumping in place at the sound of Chief Keef's voice screaming from the speaker, my journey to the kitchen is slowed. With how readily 'nigga' slips through their lips, you'd think this room was packed to the brim with black people. I finally stroll into the kitchen and head to the keg beside the kitchen island, picking a cup from the stack and filling it halfway - I didn't want to get drunk with these folks again, and when everything was said and done, I had to walk fifteen minutes back home.

I was on a mission.

"I never expected to see you again. I suppose embarrassment isn't a feeling you're familiar with." Raina says next to me, her legs barely covered by the pink tiny tennis skirt she was wearing and a white cropped long sleeved shirt that suited the width of her chest. Her feet were covered with pink demonias with platform heels. The outfit was cute and complemented her style perfectly, but that doesn't mean her attitude was exactly what you'd expect from someone who puked pink all over the place.

"Sure, but I'm not the one who lives in a house full of serial rapists." I enlighten her, raising my drink to my lips to suppress a slight smile in response to her vicious stare. "My brothers did not rape you. After all the proof of you flinging yourself at them, do you honestly imagine anyone would believe you?"

"They won't believe me since the county is begging for favors far up your father's ass. I'd be careful about siding with them. I'm not the only one it's happened to." I tell her as a solemn smile runs over my face before she stomps away, most likely to alert them of my presence. Rolling my eyes, I recall how Raina despised me for a variety of reasons before I revealed what her brothers had done. We were the same age, in the same grade, and in the same classes, and before I came here to my next unfortunate situation, she was the brightest and most promising student, always academically on top. I changed that.

When I told the school about what had happened to me, they covered it up - not just because of who Elijah and Tyler's parents were, but also because the school didn't want to damage their reputation - and I had to deal with all the ugly glances and sneers that everyone had. They still continue to talk, but after everything I've gone through, I've stopped caring. There's no reason for me to lie about a brutal assault during which I was drugged with paralytics and kept awake the entire time to remember every look and grunt that escaped their lips while they used my body. It just contributed to my existing nightmares.