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19 | Virgil

Hey what's up you guys, 👏 yes.

ViRgIlS bAcKsToRy Is HeRe BeEcH

Chapter 19: Just as Good
  Virgil Jensen

I was adopted by Jill and Kiera when I was three, right when they were at the age when they wanted kids but didn't want to waste all their time finding a donor to get one of them pregnant and all the business. But right from the start I could tell I wasn't good enough.

They never treated me like the child I was. Whenever I'd do anything wrong, they'd yell at me ruthlessly, as if I wasn't literally three years old. Soon enough they got tired of having to pay attention to me, so they found an excuse: they finally found themselves a donor and were set to get another baby, one that would be closer to their own than I could ever be.

Jeanette was born on my birthday, so any planning that my moms and adopted family had done for that was immediately thrown out the window and I had to spend my fourth birthday sitting in the chair of a hospital room, staring at the wall. They didn't give me anything to do, they wouldn't even turn on the tv. They gave me nothing and their new child everything.

By the time I started school, I had already realized the gravity of my situation. I wasn't important to them. They didn't love me. I was just someone they used to fulfill their dreams of having a child, and was practically flushed down the drain when Jeanette was born.

I would come home every day from school, wanting desperately to tell them what had happened that day, to ask them if they could help me with the tiny bit of homework that the teacher had assigned me. But neither of them ever helped me out with anything, they never let me tell my stories, they never helped me with my homework. I had to do everything myself.

My way of making sure my stories weren't completely lost was to write them down in a journal that I had bought with my own money when I was eight. They didn't know I even made that purchase. They weren't with me. They didn't care.

When they had come in my room without knocking and I was writing in my journal, Keira had ripped it from my hands and said that only little girls write in journals, and asked if I was a girl. It wasn't a question, it was an insult. When they had gone, taking my journal with them, I have to admit, I cried.

By then, I was twelve, and going through a lot. So I had pulled out my phone, a sucky iPhone 6 that I only got because my moms both upgraded and gave Jeanette and I their old ones. I had spent the whole day looking at cat videos, funny vines (Vine had just been invented. Now I really miss it.), anything created to make someone feel better.

But nothing worked.

I still felt really bad, knowing that they would possibly be destroying the only thing I had that I actually cared about. Or worse, reading it. If they were, then they'd definitely have a few words to spill about all of the things I said about them, about how they were demon-monsters sent straight from hell.

The next morning I had to go to breakfast with them, having had stayed in my room the whole night, not even leaving to use the bathroom. I was scared. They had forced me out this time, it's not like I wanted to see any of them, with all three of their pairs of eyes staring at me as if I was a container of Vegemite mixed into the candy aisle at a store, when in actuality it felt like the roles were switched for me.

Right when I sat down in front of my plate of pancakes and bacon, I knew they were going to say something about my journal. I had said so much stuff about them that it wasn't funny. They didn't say anything right off the bat, they just slapped my journal down on the table and Jill told me to read the page that was bookmarked.