Fates Entwined

Jump on in, the Water is Cold

I was moving.

Again.

Perks of being in the fucking system. Jumping from place to place every time someone got bored with their 'shiny new toy' was something I had become adjusted to a very long time ago. I had been in the system for just over 14 years now, at least according to my record. This had been my life for as long as I can remember, been through some really nasty places too. Abusive homes, hoarder situations, drug dens, you name it, I've lived it.

Anyway, moving days for the most part, sucked, except the fact I would be getting away from whatever shitty situation they put me in and hopefully have a bit of a reprieve from the near constant torment that plagued my everyday existence. This time I was moving from a certified New York hell hole and drug op to some other shithole in a place called Phoenix Drop. My case worker came to pick me up at 8:30 in the morning from the temporary group home they stashed me in until they could find a place. I wasn't too upset to be leaving; I learned a while ago to never get attached to people or places.

"I'm so sorry, kid." Dave, my case worker, started, "I should have looked into them more. I should have known something was up on my visits. I fucked up kid, and I wouldn't blame you if you wanted a new case worker after this one."

"Dave, just breathe. I'm fine. I'm not gonna request a shift. Just get me where we're going." I put my headphones in and ignored Dave's obnoxiously overwhelming ramblings.

Listening to some songs on full blast, probably damaging my eardrums in the process, seemed to help ease my anxieties about moving. I know I wouldn't make any friends or even hang out with anyone in my classes or neighbourhood.

The rest of the ride was quiet, save for the hum of the car engine and the faint scratch of Dave's fingers drumming nervously against the steering wheel. I kept my headphones in, though the music was barely playing anymore. It was more a shield than anything else, something to keep Dave's words at bay.

The town came into view slowly, sprawling trees giving way to neat little houses with painted shutters and carefully manicured lawns. Phoenix Drop looked like something out of a brochure, too perfect to be real.

"We're here," Dave said, his voice cutting through the bubble I'd made for myself. He pulled into the driveway of a pale blue house, the paint slightly faded but the yard pristine, lined with blooming flowers. "This is the new place."

I didn't move right away, staring out the window at the house that was supposed to be "home" now. It didn't feel any different from the others.

"Charlie," Dave said gently, "if this doesn't work out, we'll figure something else out, okay? But... try. Please." He gave me a huge grin, "They may be first time fosters, but, I have heard nothing but good things about these people. They have one son who lives with them, and a daughter who is in college. I have looked into them for months, even before the complaints came in about the New York place. They were friends with my parents back in university too, so there's that."

I gave a noncommittal shrug and pushed the car door open, stepping into the brisk afternoon air. The suitcase in the trunk was light, its wheels rattling against the driveway as I dragged it toward the porch.

The door swung open before I reached it, a woman with warm brown eyes and a bright smile stepping out. "You must be Charlie!" she said, her voice bright and welcoming. "I'm Rachel. Come on in!"

I nodded, barely meeting her gaze as I stepped into the house. It smelled faintly of lavender and something sweet, cookies maybe. The living room was tidy, the walls adorned with family photos and cheerful art prints.

Rachel led me upstairs, her voice a steady stream of words about how excited they were to have me here, how they wanted me to feel at home. I nodded when it felt appropriate, though the words washed over me like water off a stone.

When she opened the door to my new room, I stepped inside and set my suitcase down by the bed. The walls were painted a soft green, the bed neatly made with a floral quilt. A small desk sat by the window, a chair tucked neatly underneath.

"I'll let you get settled," Rachel said, hovering in the doorway for a moment before stepping back. "Dinner's at six. If you need anything, just let me know, okay?"

"Okay," I murmured, my voice barely audible.

When she left, I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the empty walls. The room felt like it was waiting for someone else, someone who belonged here.

I didn't unpack. There was no point.

Instead, I lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, and let the faint hum of the house settle into the silence around me.

The minutes dragged by, each one stretching into eternity as I stared at the patterns in the ceiling paint. The hum of the house settled into a background rhythm—soft creaks in the floorboards, the distant sound of water running through pipes, the occasional muffled voice from downstairs. It wasn't uncomfortable, but it wasn't home either.

I thought about Rachel's smile, too warm and eager, and how it reminded me of the other foster parents I'd met over the years. They all started that way—open arms, bright words, and promises they couldn't keep. I didn't hate them for it anymore; I'd stopped expecting anything different a long time ago.