Beginning Of The End

Shattered

Felix's P.O.V.

_

Opening my eyes, I squint as the harsh sun glares down from above, as if mocking my presence outside in the early morning. The blue sky glowing, and birds out singing; this day is already beautiful. Luckily, my hoodie was over my face somewhat, and my clothes were relatively covering my skin, or I would've had a gnarly sunburn.

Sitting up, I lean against the little overhang of the roof. I feel my bones cry as I shift to a sitting position. I must've been up here all night, and from the feel of it, I didn't move at all. Respecting my weakness, I remain sitting and pick up the journal next to me.

Admiring it's delicacy, I run my hand down the spine. It's leathery touch is always a comfort, because every one of my most important memories are in here. From the day I could write, I've written what I can. Opening the book, I read the first page I open to.

Monday, Jan 16: 7:23 A.M.

   Today is the day. The day I get out of this hellhole. Today, I'm getting adopted. For the past week, a nice family has been visiting me, and leaving me items and promises of eventually going home with them. And today is the day we sign the official documents; the pages that free me from this prison.

Monday, Jan 16: 4:24 P.M.

   I'm waiting in the lobby. Yes, I am thirty-six minutes early, but I'm so excited! Their name is Mr. and Mrs. Carter. They're each maybe about thirty years old, but look 20, and have one son who is 16. Older than me, but still could be my friend.

Monday, Jan 16: 5:10 P.M.

    Well, still no word from the Carters. They're probably running late, had to get ready for the big day. I know it took me a while to get ready, but these guys probably have documents at home they needed to fill out. That son of theirs could be giving them trouble, too

As I scan through the text, I remember clearly that day. About an hour and a half went by, but still no sign of them. Every thirty minutes I would update my journal, each getting more and more doubtful. Finally, an hour after closing, I was forced to my room.

The feeling of almost having the one thing that would make your life perfect, and then it's taken and shattering right in front of your eyes, which were already sore from the crying, is the worst in the world. There is no comparison with words equal to the amount of pain and ridiculousness that feeling gives off. Most of the time, it's irreversible.

Frustrated, I slam my journal shut. Wiping my eyes, I set it down on the shingles of the roof, and I feel my throat tightening, and the waterworks approaching again, and I'm not talking about the dark clouds rolling in from the distance. Deciding not to get caught in the downpour, I try to stand up.

But when I do, I can feel my whole body pop as I moan in protest. Every bone feels like it was squished and pressed together in a trash compacter. Every muscle sorer then a bodybuilder on a good day. How in the world did I fall asleep up here, and how long have I been up here?

Glancing back down at my journal, I can't help but pick it up with haste, afraid of what would happen if it was taken from me. This little leather journal holds most of my life memories, and to lose those would be to lose myself. I'm already going crazy as it is.

Living in a foster home has been a living hell. The other kids group up on me and others who don't necessarily fit in, the workers don't get us, and the food is terrible. The last time someone spoke a word back to me was in school, when I was getting scolded for my grades.