[Sequel to Infatuated]
𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒘𝒆𝒅𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒏𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒂 𝒃𝒓𝒐𝒌𝒆𝒏 𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒎𝒊𝒔𝒆.
Charlotte is headed into her third year at Columbia University on her way to become one of her generation's best writers. With wedding bells ringing for h...
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1 YEAR & 8 MONTHS EARLIER...
I stood in front of Hope's office a week later. I actually felt more prepared this time and came a bit earlier so she wouldn't get mad at me again.
"Well look who's actually here on time," Hope says sarcastically.
She stands to the side, letting me in. Her office smells like lavender this time and she's got some meditative music playing in the background.
"So what're we talking about today?" She asks once she closes the door.
I sit on the comfy couch and wait for Hope to take her seat. "Is today a good day to talk about trauma?"
Hope snorts. "Everyone has talked about their progress in life and finding a new meaning and you want to visit your past?"
I furrow my brows. "Is that not what therapy is for? To talk about the past that shaped you as a person even if it was negative?"
"We don't have to, but if something is still bothering you we can uncover the meaning behind it," she says. She clicks her pen and looks at me to begin.
"I was molested at a young age when I was in foster houses and I can't really seem to let that go whenever I meet a girl. Like my entire sexual drive disappears and I feel disgusted," I admit, not caring whether Hope judges or not. Not that she would out loud.
"At what age did this happen?"
"I was twelve. I remember moving to this house with a few other kids. At first everything seemed nice," I say, "We had toys, video games, board games, and all sorts of junk food that was offered to us. The foster dad always had a short temper. He would get annoyed too quickly."
"How many kids were in this house?"
"About six or seven. The more kids the parents had, the more checks they would receive. Well after a few days of showing us that they were the 'cool' parents, they began to get more strict. No noise after 9 p.m., no playing outside until we finished our chores, and the last one that made our foster dad get mad was that we couldn't be out of our rooms until they said we could."
"Was that like some sort of power trip? Did he not want kids out of the room for a reason?"
I shrug my shoulders. "He said we would make the house dirty whenever we were all out of our rooms. Our foster mom wouldn't say anything and let her husband do all of the 'parenting'."
"Would she even be in the house?"
"Sometimes. She often liked to go out with her friends. She would use the check money to splurge it on herself or her husband. They wouldn't buy enough groceries so we would just live on leftovers, junk food or sometimes sleep our hunger away."
"I'm sorry you had to go through that, but did none of the social workers ever come in to check on you guys?"
I shake my head. "No, never. Not even when little boys cried that a man touched them inappropriately or when a girl broke her arm."
