The Demon Watched by Angels

I began preparing for the long haul. This time was going to be different. Home seems just a figment of my old imagination.  I was forced to put my old life behind me two weeks ago. Life on the road wasn’t my plan, but when your "social worker" leaves you with some new family, what else are you supposed to do, hide and wait for him with the small hope that he’ll come back? No, not for me, He left me with no hope. He said he would be back when he would be back if I needed help, which he didn’t. Other than that, he left me with Gabe, a cat. But Gabe was a special cat. Gabe can talk, but I am the only one who can hear him. It’s not like he has that much to say, other than getting me in trouble with my powers. Gabe seems to follow me everywhere chatting his head off; I wish he would shut up. You would too if all you heard was him talking about how good fish would taste, and you can’t even answer to tell him to shut up, cause you’d look crazy. That’s one other place I would never go back to. Foster parents turn you in, cause your powers freak them out. That’s when he found me. My guardian angel, Castiel, broke me out of that hellhole and put me in a new home. But hiding your powers is hard, and that’s how I got discovered again.

three months ago:

“Alice, you have a visitor. Ms. Collins, you need to come out of your room. You have a visitor,” one of the nurses said. I never did bother to learn their names. I figured that the foster family would come back for me by now, figured that they would have thought that it was just their imagination. But they haven’t. It’s been four months now that I have been here. But maybe they were right, I am a monster, I just needed to own up to it. “Ms. Collins, Alice…”

“I’m right here,” I said opening the door. “Who is my visitor?” I never get any visitors, and when I do it’s some sort of doctor that they have flown in to deal with my “issues.”

“He says that he is your new social worker. He definitely looks the part.” Great, another new social worker for Alice the freak. We walk around the corner and I see him, and he absolutely looks the part. Trench coat, suit and tie, confused face, probably thinking ‘how crazy is this girl?’ I hate those kinds for social workers. All equipped with their holier than thou attitude. We walk into the room and he turns around fully, then says, “I would like a few minutes with Ms. Collins.” Great he is one of those ‘I’m going to try to relate to you’ types. He offers that we sit down at the table.

“I know about your powers,” he whispers. It takes me by surprise, but I have practiced for this moment for weeks.

“What powers?” I reply. There, threw it back in his face.

“The powers that got you put in this place. I have been observing you for a while now…”

“How long?” How long has this guy been stalking me? "How long have you been watching me?"

“About nine months now, when your powers first started surfacing.” My 17th birthday, that’s when my powers first started surfacing. I did all I could to hide them, but my foster family found out when I broke the vase on the table with a flick of my wrist. It was a small argument with my foster brother, and then next thing I knew, police were taking me away to the loony bin “for my own protection”. That was the biggest load of BS I had ever heard. “I am here to take you out of here, you are going to stay with a new family. “

“Hell no! And why should I trust you? You know me, but I am supposed to trust some guy who says that he is a social worker? Who are you really?”

“My name is Castiel, I am an angel of the Lord.”

“Really? You sound like you belong here more than I do.” I learned never trust anyone at a very young age, right about the time my mother went crazy and committed suicide. She wrote everything down in a letter to me, saying that she never really knew what my father really was and how she just couldn’t live with me and what I would become. She said that my father, some guy named Azazel, came to her and told her what I would become. And because of what I was, I lost both parents. No one really wanted the suicide baby, everyone thought that I would have memories of her but I don’t, and I'm glad I don't. The only thing I have left is a picture. Actually, I should say had, that’s the reason I am in here. My foster brother ripped it up right in front of me, and then the vase broke and then the pieces just happened to fly at him but they hit the floor before they could hit him. I really hate foster families.