Making lemonade

Chapter 1

His footsteps crunched on the snow as he walked down the empty streets, taking long drags from the cigarette held between his numb fingers and watching the wispy smoke dragged away by winter’s harsh winds.
His phone rang, breaking the peaceful calm of the late night. He didn’t bother to check the caller ID as he slipped the phone from his back pocket.
“Hello?” His voice was raspy, uninterested.
“Are you alright, Nick?” came the gentle voice of his newest foster mother, Karla.
“Peachy,” he replied sarcastically. Karla sighed heavily. She sounded exhausted and the smallest sliver of guilt sliced through him.
    “I’m fine. I might not be back tonight, but i’m fine,” He sighed, running a hand through his wind tousled hair.
    “Alright...” Karla relented hesitantly, choosing not to demand he return home. He ended the call without a goodbye and shoved the device back into his pocket as he took the last drag from his cigarette and ground the butt into the frozen concrete with the toe of his shoe.
            He stopped just outside the familiar home, only now the pale blue paint was peeling, the wood was splintering, and the windows had been smashed in by the occasional passerby looking for a place to sleep.
He broke the shards of glass left in the back window and pulled himself into the room that used to be his, now empty. The only remaining pieces of the life he used to live were the height markers drawn sloppily in bright red and green crayon and the carving of his and his sister's initials on the trim.
    “I love you, Nina. I miss you so much,” he whispered, crouching down to drag his fingertips along the carving.

                                     ~*~

Nick had returned to the house in the early hours of the morning, attempting to sleep but the restless three hours he got were plagued with the same dark demons haunting his every waking moment. 
     Karla had poked her head in around eight AM to find him awake, staring at the ceiling. She reminded him of the mandatory support group he had in an hour; he had hummed in response, his tired gaze never leaving the cracked ceiling as she left the room. 
         
         Nick stood outside the building long after Karla had left, taking long slow drags from his cigarette; anything to prolong the inevitable of having to go inside. His eyes felt heavy with exhaustion as he ground the cigarette butt into the ground and entered the building.
The group had obviously started, which meant when the door fell shut, all eyes were on him. He glared, his expression cold, not giving anything away as he pulled a chair from the circle and dropped into it.
“Welcome, Mr.…?” the elderly woman across from him spoke, her voice soft.
“Nick's fine,” he replied, crossing his arms over his chest. The woman smiled and looked down to scribble something on the clipboard she had on her lap.
“I'm Margaret,”
      He began to bounce his leg as the room settled into silence; it was suffocating.
“Would you tell us why you're here?” She asked.
“No,” he replied bluntly. He had no intention of letting these people know him just so they would give him the same pity-filled looks and tell him how sorry they were. The group had no reaction to his blunt rejection, they just looked to Margaret.
“Layla?” Margaret’s eyes settled on the small girl to the left of him who look utterly pissed off.
“My older brother raped me on multiple occasions, my father caught him and beat him to within an inch of his life, so they sent my father and my brother to prison and my mother committed suicide,” the girl spoke without blinking, like she had explained too many times and it no longer phased her. The group was silent, all looking at her in understanding; no judgment, only sympathy.
“It was my mother. It started after my father left and it was my older brother who saved me,” the boy sat on the right of me, he paused. “I live with my brother now. I've uprooted his life with many suicide attempts, drug abuse, and my almost magnetic pull to the wrong people. After my last attempt, I promised I'd come here. I think it's helping to know I'm not the only one,” the boy finished with a small smile. Nick chewed his lip ring, itching for a cigarette.
“My dad died when I was ten and my mom spiraled into drug abuse. She always had some kind of boyfriend or fuck buddy she brought by our house.” The words were spoken like an out-of-body experience. Nick didn't mean for them to come out, but once he felt the immense weight lift from his chest, he could breathe. He didn't stop, it all tumbled out as he dug his nails into his palms, feeling warm blood slither down his fingers. “They did things to my younger sister and I, but my mom was too high or drunk to even notice.” He took a deep breath, wincing as he clenched his fists. His head shot up as a small hand landed on his arm; the girl who spoke first had leaned over to him, a sympathetic look in her chocolate brown eyes.
“You're not alone, my brother used to offer me to his friends for a price,” she said softly, her words quiet so only he could hear them.
“Thank you for sharing,” Margaret said, her face vacant of reaction other than a smile. She had probably been trained in that particular skill, keeping a straight face as young men and women told you their darkest secrets couldn't be easy.
The group continued; all but one boy spoke. He caught Nick's attention, the multiple piercings on his face and the tattoos littering his visible skin. He looked angry, occasionally running a hand through his ebony locks, or tapping his tan fingers impatiently against his jean clad thighs. It looked more like an anxious tick, his movements jerky, and every time the boy looked down, he stopped, seeming to have caught himself.
“That's all the time we have for today,” Margaret announced. “Please remember to return on Thursday for the next session,”
Nick stood outside, teeth chattering as he attempted to light the cigarette between his trembling fingers.
“Turn away from the wind,” someone suggested. Nick turned his back to the frigid wind and successfully lit the cigarette, taking a long drag and exhaling the smoke in a sigh of relief.
“Thank you.” Nick turned back to find the boy from earlier standing with his hands shoved deep in the pockets of his dark skinny jeans.
“No problem,” he replied, chewing on his silver lip ring. Nick watched his teeth catch on the ring, turning it in his lip; the boy was nervous
“So what's your story?” Nick asked, tossing the finished cigarette. The boy looked to Nick and he immediately regretted the question. “I'm sorry, that's none of my business.” Nick hated himself even more for continuing to be curious.
“Nah, I understand, I was the only who didn't speak,” the boy said with a shrug. Nick was fascinated by the boy. He was calm, he didn't just let the urge to breathe crumble his exterior.
“I don’t have a story like yours. Hell, mine’s like heaven compared to yours. I just got in with the wrong people, I was a sex worker for a long time up in New York. My foster mom thinks it's best if I come to these meetings for a while.” he explained vaguely, carding a hand through his hair.
“Oh,” Nick replied, suddenly feeling vulnerable, but was spared the embarrassment of furthering the awkwardness when Karla’s red sedan pulled up to the curb.
“That's me, see you Thursday, I guess,” Nick said awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck as he waved bye to the strange boy.
“How'd it go?” Karla asked with a smile as she pulled away from the curb.
“I'm making lemonade out of lemons,” he mumbled unconsciously. Karla glanced oddly at him out of the corner of her eye, but said nothing to further the conversation.
The phrase was something his sister would whisper as they curled up together late at night hoping their mother didn't come home that evening.
Nick pressed his check against the cool glass of the window, watching the landscape pass In a blur of green. He wondered what his sister would think of him now, finally away from the horror they lived, finally getting better.