Foxton's Fate

Chapter 3-Darien

I wake up and for a second forget where I am. Drowning in the comforting silence. Usually, it's not this quiet, shouldn't be this quiet. Sometimes there are other kids impatiently getting ready to go or arguments coming in loud and clear from the next room. Regardless of what home I've been put in, it's never been this type of quiet. The same type of quiet that wants to lure me back to sleep, since my dreams are better than reality except I don't. I told Evelyn I'd make the best of it, try to be better than the times I was before the things I'd told her again and again before but maybe this time will be different.

Thinking things will be different is risky and hoping that things will be is even riskier. Dangerous even but at the end of the day, the only thing that drives me forward is the hope for the future.

I look around the room all of the furniture is in the same dark wood: desk, bookshelf, dresser, and nightstand. With the bed in the middle with navy blue sheets and an old painting of a sailboat lost at sea framed on the wall. Other than that it's not decorated, which part of me is thankful for. Two times ago I had to stay in a floral bedroom, where everything had flowers on it from the bedding to the curtains. Making me feel like I was staying at an overly decorated bed and breakfast, it didn't last long though.

Here with the dark wood furniture and navy blue highlights, it feels more like me. Like I can see myself here, which is rare. A few times ago I got a room that was practically dedicated to rock and roll, with New Wave and British Invasion posters plastered on the walls of the apartment and my guardian was a man who worked for a nightclub. At first, it seemed perfect but then in the end I ended up with scars. This means that even if the room is perfect it's the people that matter.

I take a closer look at the painting. It's acrylic with an uneven amount of paint on some areas, making me know it's authentic but not the kind of authentic that's put up in museums instead more like the authentic that was probably made by someone my uncle was friends with. I lived with an art dealer for a month, meaning I know my art enough to categorize it. I can tell when a piece is worth more than I'll ever make and what type of medium was used. So I might not be getting the best grades but I have enough first-hand experience with life to understand more things than the average 17-year-old does.

Before I move onto the bookshelf, searching through the old books. They're the only things in this room that seem like they've gotten good use out of them. I read the book covers, surprised to see that they're all classics: Keets, Shakespeare, Hemingway, Wilde, Dickens, and Twain.

I wonder who used to read them, if it really was my uncle then there's more to him than I originally thought. "You find anything?" I hear before looking to see him standing in the doorway, even though I just met him yesterday he looks familiar. Either that or he reminds me of someone. Though I think it's because he looks like me but older, he has my same ruffled dark hair but he covers it with a backward baseball cap. He's about the same height as me, give or take a couple of inches. Though we both have tan skin, his is more sunkissed which is probably from being in the salt and sea where the closest thing I got was the Great Lakes when there wasn't a frost warning. The only thing that's different between us, is that he has dark hazel eyes well I have blue ones.

"I'm-I'm just looking." I stammer and he nods, "well if you do you can read it if you want. I've read all of them a hundred times over." He tells me and I nod since usually, people don't want me looking at their things even if they do put them in my room. Though he seems nice enough I think before grabbing The Catcher and The Rye. It's the paperback meaning I can carry it with me, which I'll probably need since I know better than to try to fit myself in where I don't belong on the first day.

Before I put on a pair of jeans that are a little too big around the waist, probably since they used to be someone else's though I don't know whose. Before I throw on a tight black t-shirt, again that used to be someone else's and throw on my jean jacket. The one that used to and always will be mine, the only thing that I can proudly say I was the first one to wear before I fold up the book and slip it into my pocket.

Before I head into the kitchen, "I'm heading out, Mr. Foxton." I tell him and he smiles. "Me too, I can give you a ride if you want?" He asks and I shrug since I'm fine with walking. "I can walk?" I suggest and he just shrugs. "Please, I insist. It's on the way to work and if you really want to learn my name it's Richard and hopefully, if you like me you want to call me Dick too much." He tells me and I laugh, since maybe I shouldn't have judged him too fast after all. "Thanks," I tell him before we head out to his Ford pick-up and we drive away.