One Shots

Foster child

There are some things you can't forget.

For example; I am a foster child. My mother and father both died in a car wreck when I was only four years old. I don't have many memories of them, but the ones I do have I hold onto for dear life.

I keep them in the rusted, banged up metal box that I keep the rest of my belongings in.

I keep everything I need in that box. Everything very neatly put away. It stays in the corner of my room just in case I need to leave at a moment's notice.

My fosters parents tell me that this is my permanent home, but I'm not sure I can trust their words. I can hear the pity and uncertainty in their tone.

I sighed and carefully reached into my box, gingerly pulling out an old Polaroid. It was a picture of my mom, my dad, and myself. I was only three years old at the time. There were creases in it that caused the folds to become a lighter shade of yellow compared to the rest of the photo from age and being put in my jacket pocket on the rare occasion that I went out. I never left this room without it. I ran my thumb over the center of the photograph and put it back where it came from and laid down onto my bed. Listening as the metal frame squeaked in reaction to my movements.

Instead of going to sleep I stared up at the ceiling with a blank expression and let my thoughts consume me as a single tear rolled down the side of my face.