Being in a group home wasn't ideal for anyone, but for the six teenagers, it was the best they could get out of the crappy system. In other's eyes, it was an odd way to form a friend group bonding over being in the same abusive home. But in their ey...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
I stuff my face into my pillow, my bed shakes as Alea tumbles off hers, tangled in blankets. "Alli." I clench my jaw, wiping the frizzy curls out of my face and peeking over the wood guardrail at her sheepish-looking figure on the ground.
"Sorry!" She grins. "I move a lot in my sleep," she informs me.
"I know," I drawl out, a sarcastic smile resting on my face. "News flash, I sleep above you. It's like trying to fall asleep in an earthquake."
Quinn bites her lip, peering up at Ares who is smoking a cigarette. "Do I move a lot when I sleep? I try not to."
Ares shakes his head, blowing the smoke toward the chipping white wall.
"You know Walker wouldn't want you smoking that in here," I tell him, sitting up fully and leaning against the exposed brick.
"He's not here right now, and it's not like there are any smoke alarms this place is a dump." Ares mumbles, avoiding my gaze. Weird.
"Walker doesn't care about stupid smoke alarms, he just doesn't feel like getting his ass beat trying to protect you when Robby comes in here ragging because your smoking." Jack snaps. He makes a good point, we are all smokers, some more than others. Well, besides Quinn, I've only seen her do it once when we were fourteen.
The door bursts open and Karla walks in, a big yellow envelope in hand. She glances boredly at all of us before stopping at me. "From DCF, happy birthday." She smiles fakely before stomping out of our small room.
Once she slams the door behind her Jack rolls his eyes. "Funny."
They all watch me as I open the envelope. My mind races at the different scenarios these could lead to, new home? No, a social worker would be here. Long lost sibling? I hope not, being a product of my mother is equivalent to being the daughter of a war criminal who kills dogs, like Cruella.
I pull out a yellow paper. In big, bold, black letters it reads RUTH MILLER PRONOUNCED DEAD AT 3:45 AM DECEMBER 8TH.
Under it are more boxes, explaining the cause of death—murdered by a fellow inmate at Rose County Jail for those who are wondering—and a bunch of other things.
"Oh..." I trail off quietly.
"Well!?" Jack asks impatiently. "Did you have a secret rich grandpa or something?"
I shake my head, passing the papers to him. Turning toward Ares I nod toward his cigarette, he follows, no questions.
Leaning back onto the brick again I take a long drag of the almost burnt-out bud.
"Oh..." Jack copies my reaction. "Well, you're an orphan. Yay...?"
"Jack!" Quinn snaps, grabbing the paper roughly out of his hands, reading it then passing it over to Alea.
