Skyline of concrete dreams- SwanQueen

Chapter 3

"Name?"

"Emma Swan"

"Please type your social security number here..." she gestures towards the touch-screen located on the counter and the blonde soon follows "Good."

The clerk hands her a paper with a serial number on it.

"Please take the next right here," she points to the end of the corridor "then take the elevator to the third floor and wait by room 304 to be called."

Emma thanks her politely and heads towards the elevators. As she presses the button to the elevator she can feel a vibration in her back pocket. She fishes her cell phone out, the screen still on with a text from Josh, wishing her luck and offering his help in case something goes wrong. She replies with a quick thanks and enters the elevator.

She is sitting on one of the uncomfortable and extremely unstable waiting chairs when her number is called. "Z298?"

"Yes, here" she raises her hand, lifting her backpack and following the dark-skinned woman into the room.

The office is small yet packed: the small sofa, the armchair, the desk and the huge cupboard, all fill the space efficiently, leaving almost no room for moving around. Emma scans the book-stocked shelves; medical books, physiology books, books about the family structure and behavioral 'manuals'. Emma knows those types of rooms all too well. She spent hours upon hours on those cheap sofas, refusing to talk to the obnoxiously nice social workers. This is where you're sent to if you cause troubles. And Emma? Emma had an aura of trouble surrounding her at all times.

She was never a talker. She didn't like sharing her thoughts, especially when it felt like no one really gave a shit about what she had to say. So she kept quiet. She may have been quiet, but never weak; Emma always stood up for herself. But in foster care, they don't care who started it and why, all they care about is keeping those kids quiet, so they can get their monthly paychecks. So, little, and then not so little, Emma found herself constantly visiting social workers and therapists, all trying to coax out some explanation to why she kept picking fights. They tried to get to the root of the problem, to fix her, but Emma kept it to herself, inwardly mocking their naivety.

What could a middle-aged woman, a Dr. with a career and money and probably a family who waits for her to come back home every night, possibly know? How could this woman begin to understand what Emma was going through? Being left alone, becoming government property as if she were a piece of land, being sent back and forth to all kinds of houses where she was just an additional income, getting picked on and having no one to stand for her; there's no conveying such experiences with simple words, so why bother trying? She would never fully understand that Emma wasn't the one starting those fights. She would never feel that constant need to protect herself in a hostile environment, having to defend herself when the boys in the house are going through a phase where they all want the "pretty, blonde girl", demanding her to bend herself to their will, to their urges. So, Emma ended up punching one of them in the face and another one in the nuts, hoping that would keep them away long enough, at least until her knuckles heal and she can do it again.

Emma didn't like the system and has tried her best to avoid accepting any help from them. But she needs a job. So just this time, she is going to bite her tongue, bow her head, and let them help her.

She closes her eyes and breathes slowly in an attempt to calm herself down.

This is not a session. You don't need approval, you don't need to share, you are an adult.

She opens her eyes, spotting Tammy – as her name tag indicated – already positioned on the chair with a hand gesturing to the sofa.

"Please, have a sit, Emma."