Escape

Chapter 1

Beauty is what matters most in this world. I hate that it has come to this. Each person living on the Earth hides with fear of another person judging them. So why does beauty matter so much if none of us are the exact definition of perfect? Most blame it on society, or humanity. I blame it on ourselves. We put our own selves down deep into the place of depression. I have yet to figure out the reason, but whenever we look into the mirror at our reflection, the only thing we see are the pitiful flaws. For now, the word beauty or gorgeous or perfection, it's dead to me. I wish...
I shut the purple and blue journal my foster mother gave me. She's a child psychologist and sees me as a patient more than a daughter. Mrs. Clarkson told me to write down my 'feelings' every night and we would go over them every week at my 'therapist' session.
I got up and looked into the full length mirror hanging on my closet door. Mrs. Clarkson stuck post-it notes all over it stating positive quotes. She told me it would boost my confidence. I looked at my appearance so unappealing I wanted to throw-up. Sure, most people just saw a pale girl with blue eyes and cheaply dyed red hair, but all I saw was fat and ugly all over.
"Crystal, dear, would you please come down for dinner. Mrs-er-Mother has cooked some lovely steak for the family." Mr. Clarkson called from the bottom of the stairs. I sighed and rolled my eyes, opening my bedroom door and running down the stairway. In the dining room, Mrs. Clarkson was setting out all kinds of vegetables, fruits, and other side dishes into the table as their little five-year-old boy, Joshua, waited eagerly to get the okay to start eating.
"Oh, Crystal! It's great that you're joining us for dinner tonight!" Mrs. Clarkson greeted me with a friendly hug. I took it seat across Joshua and started filling my plate up with some steak, and a small scoop of green beans and a couple of grapes. Mrs. Clarkson looked over at my sad plate and sighed.
Mr. Clarkson walked to the table when the food was all prepared, the daily newspaper in his hand. The small family piled their plates with the wonderful dinner in front of them. Since I moved into my new foster home, about a month ago, I haven't really done much with the family. So it's a surprise every time I tag along, like for dinner. The Clarksons grabbed my hands and prayed over the food.
If I had to describe my foster family, it would probably go like this: The dad, Jeff Clarkson, had big brown eyes and brown hair that was cut into a precise short style. The mom, Abigail Clarkson, was the exact opposite. She had small green eyes and bleach blonde hair. Her hair is always pulled back into this perfect bun. They both, however, were very tan oddly, since they don't like the sun too much.
Then the baby, Joshua Clarkson, looked exactly like his dad, but had blue eyes and blonde hair like his mom. The little guy looks like a perfect angel, but when the parents are gone and I'm stuck watching him, he's a devil. I'm serious.
Tonight was the night for my weekly therapy, Sunday. So over dinner, Mrs. Clarkson kept looking over at me, making sure I was eating, feeling welcomed, and such. Once I finished my small portion of food and got up to go to my room, Mrs. Clarkson spoke up.
"I'm almost done with dinner, honey, you can go wait in my office and I'll met you there." I rolled my eyes and turned to the office door. I went in and took a seat. Five minutes past, and as expected, Mrs. Clarkson came in. With my journal.
"You went through my room! Don't EVER go through my room! What's wrong with you!" I shouted.
"Crystal Rose Clarkson!" She was shocked. I took a breath and calmed down a bit.
"Smith. My name is Crystal Rose Smith. According to you I'm not even part of this family. Just another sick patient." I muttered. Mrs. Clarkson took a seat. She handed me my journal with a guilty look on her face.
"If it helps, Crystal, I didn't read through any of it." She gave me a weak smile. I grabbed the journal and held it close to my chest. I tried to hold back the distance tears from what small memory I have of my real family. They left me at a foster care a when I was around Joshua's age. My mom, all I could remember, was beautiful. She had sandy beach wave hair and big blue eyes. My dad seemed big and strong with a black bushy beard and long black hair that looked like silk. I can't remember if I had any siblings or not, or if they were born after I left.
"So. May I have a look through your journal? Or would you rather read aloud some parts of it?" Mrs. Clarkson broke the awkward silence. I handed my journal back over to her and said, "Go on ahead." She opened up to this weeks entries and read through each day carefully.
"It's all the same?" She finally said.
"Yeah." I muttered. "Why is every single day the same thing?" She questioned. "Look at it this way, each and everyday I go on wondering where my parents are, what they look like, how they are doing. Everyday is a big burst of depression going everywhere and everything is effected by the mess. Everyday I suffer the same battle. 24/7 365. So all I do is just write about the battle I go through. It's never ending, because nothing ever changes in it. I always survive, I always cry, I always end up hurt and never heal."
Mrs. Clarkson shut the journal and looked at me. She threw it to the ground and stood up and walked out of the room. Tomorrow is a new day, kind of.