The archive of the forgotten

It is my fault

"So how is foster care?" I ask Salem, a boy who is currently sixteen and cannot wait to escape the system. He is quite new in the system but he is resisting everything we try to do help him, I am a youth psychologist. I understand how most of these children work. They're either orphaned or have unsuitable parents. Sometimes both. I feel absolutely bad for these children, small or not. I hate the way these grown ups have treated them, it makes me mad and I do not know why. "You wouldn't get it" Salem responds. I smile, "How would you know Salem?" "You've never ever been in the system." I look up and smile. "How do you know Salem?"

I arrive home and throw my bag on the floor while slamming the pile of files on my desk. I take off my glasses and sigh. I pinch the bridge of my nose while rubbing my short stubble with the other hand. Scruffy suddenly emerges from the kitchen and wagging his tail very enthusiastic. I pet the mutt over his scruffy head where he get's his name from. I have absolutely no idea what kind of dog scruffy is, he was a stray dog and it seems that my heart has a soft spot for everything that doesn't have a place to call home. I remember that I found scruffy, I was considering bringing him to an animal shelter but I decided to keep him with me till he was healthy again. In those few weeks I discovered that he was not the one who needed me but I needed him. He made my life a lot better. My brother says I am too kind, it makes me impressionable. I do not think being too kind is a disadvantage. I like being kind.

I do not remember a lot from my childhood, I do not know why. It all seems to be blurry in my mind, one of the few things I remember is a nightmare that kept coming back and back. A monster, such a white face and black hair. I shudder.

I pour a galss of wine and start to cook while putting on some music. I give scruffy a part of the duckbreast I am preparing. I am dancing through the kitchen trying to make sure I do not burn myself on anything. Ever since I have been out of foster care I have given myself the task that every single day I need to cook something delicious, because my whole life had been dominated by at most average meals. I want to enjoy eating, I want to cook something I am proud of. That is also the reason why my brother always comes to my house to eat, partly because than I pay for it partly because he has not cooking skills and my victorian house is too big to eat alone in. I take the brussel sprouts out of the oven and sing my heart out to the queen song on the radio.

My brother enters the house, yes he has a key, no I didn't give him one, yes he took my spare and yes I made a new spare because I did not know. But that is a whole other story. He plops down on the sofa. "How was your day?" He says while grabbing the files. I walk up to him and grab the files from his hands. "those are private!" I say with a smirk but I do mean it. "Come on, what kind of information about the foster system could possibly be new to me?" I shrug as I put the pots and pans on the table. "You should set the table." He groans and begins to help me.

Elias, my brother is not my real brother. I met him when we were in a certain foster home together, there were about twelve other kids but none were as kind and brotherly to me as Elias. When something happened all the kids needed to go to a new location, and coincidentally Elias and I were both sent to a group home. We were quite happy there, built our own sense of home. Confided in the other and began growing up, we almost began to resemble a real family and now, we really are. Elias and I are quite different, Elias' family came from spain and both my parents were french. French artists, hedonistic as can be, famous friends and famous foes, father died of aids mother began killing herself slowly with herion. I was seven when they found me in a damp basement, emaciated and not even scared. It was a normal day for me.

But my point is Elias and I do not look alike at all. I am blonde and have pale skin, elias is tanned and has black hair. I have a messy stubble and elias is clean shaven and has a lot of piercings, he has always admired the punk style. I am however shaped to look like the upper part of society, although I do not belong there. Well, I do according to my salary but not according to my history and family. Although you might not think it is true Elias is quite smart, he is a theoretical physicist. Not that I exactely know what it it.......

"You know I've been thinking a lot lately." I say as we're eating. "You always think a lot Saros." He says and yes, I do always think a lot. "My point is, I was studying these kids and I began to realise that there is one common denomenator." I say. "And what is that? Trauma?" Elias asks. "Yes of course but I mean something else. See... when a small child gets hurt again, and again and agin" I feel involuntary tears in my eyes as I try to swallow them. "They start to ask themselves what they have done to deserve it. They try to understand why they are not fit for love. They start to doubt things about themselves, they slowly start to hate themselves because why else would father be mad? Why else would mommy hit you? Why else would you never be chosen to be taken home? You are simply not good enough. And so we produce people who not only hate the world but are disgusted by themselves." Elias puts his hand on my shoulder. "It is not your fault" he says. I frown, "Elias I was never......" He ignores it and grabs something from his pocket. "Look what I found, our first picture together." I gasp as I see the monster in the picture, only this time she has a human face.

It is my fault.

Thinking of working this one out. Love the beginning, want to explore more about Elias as my head is pretty clear on who saros is etc.