Lotus

Social Worker

The lady had short brown hair, pale skin, subtly wrinkled. She looked tired. We both are. But she seems tired of helping children in need. I'm tired of being that child.

"Name?" She asked me abruptly, no care in her honey voice. Sweet but unreliable.

I gulped, cracking my knuckles out of anxiety. I glanced up at her briskly. My hair up in a sleek bun with my wild and kinky hair in a poof.

"Aquila Hestia Núñez." I whisper in my silvery voice, quiet and uneasy.

"Talk louder girl, you're not hiding from anyone, speak up." She grumbled, trying her best to not be rude as she tapped her pen against her clipboard.

I repeated my name to her louder. She heard me and wrote it down.

"Age?" She asked, raising a brow. I knew she thought I was older for sure, but my height probably threw her off since I was 4'11.

"15," I reply, cracking my knuckles again, tapping my foot anxiously.

She scoffed. "Thought you were at least 17. You're too developed to be 15."

I sighed as she pointed out my breasts. Already a D cup. Insecurity surged through me. People acted like I wasn't still a minor just cause I have a curvier shape. It also lead to slut shaming since I can't wear a tank top comfortably.

I ignored her statement though.

She asked me several more questions. Some about my mother; Imani. My father; Lucas or my brother, Malik. She then asked me if I did drugs. I said I smoke weed, did shrooms a couple times. I guess that's bad enough to put you in a group home.

She stated at me for a while. She had pale, pasty skin. It was pretty. But it didn't glow like she enjoyed her job. Her blue eyes didn't sparkle like she had what she longed for. Her lips didn't smile like I was a burden. She saw money in me. If she put plopped me and Malik in a group home she would get her pay and that's all she seemed to know about me.

She had a pencil skirt, black and medium length right around her lower body with a white button up blouse tucked under it. She had black shoes with a little bit of a heel on. Her nose was slim and narrow, a bulbous nose. Her top lip with fine and thin with wrinkles surrounding it with age. Her eyes were blue but not lively and bright. They were pale and bored. Her lids were hooded and sad.

"Stop staring Akita, it's rude." She spat.

I jumped in my seat, shaken from her sudden abruptness. I frowned, my eyes looking up at her.

"I'm sorry..." I glanced at her, looking for a name tag.

"Leah." She said blandly. "It's Leah."

She then shot up out of her seat, walking over to me and looking down into my eyes as if I was a lost puppy.

"Lets go. I'll be bringing you to your new home." She said with no remorse or sincerity.

I knew I wasn't going to a home. I was going to a house. Full of workers. Not parents, not care takers. Workers. Workers watching troubled children for money, not for the rewarding feeling of helping someone in need.

[If you have any feedback please comment! I am going to work hard on this book. I'm always open to ships, name suggestions etc.]