Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
"𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄 𝐎𝐍 𝐂𝐇𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐍, don't do this!"
What I'd hope to hear. I'd hope someone cared. I'd hope someone would be there to hold me back, tell me "Don't do this Christon, it doesn't have to be like this." No ma'am. That's not what happened.
The thought of someone actually loving me, and not just sliding me a bowl of mac n cheese across the counter occasionally for an extra $650 a month.
A foster kid. Even worse, a lonely foster kid. Who ever heard of a foster home only fostering one kid? Lame. Lame lame lame lame lame. That's my life. Lame. Lame and sad.
Really, my legs were swinging over the opened window, my sneakers coming into contact with the packed snow. I pressed my knee against the window as it slid closed, a sneaking out tactic I'd learned so long ago. My legs shot up and down, moving down the zig-zag stairs like the flash.
"Taxi!" I hailed, my arms waving wildly as I ran across the alley way. I checked my pockets, making sure the deck of tens was still in my pockets.
"Where too, little lady?" The old man spoke, draping his arm around the passenger seat as he glanced back at me. He had a thick boston accent, a little round, moles scattered here and there, rather greasy skin, thin hair, and a thick moustache. I remember every face I see. Just in case I ever have to describe someone to the fuzz.
"Uh, the Hotel du Pont on eleventh?" I smiled, scavenging through my backpack.
He gave me a concerned look, but nonetheless didn't question it and started driving. I didn't blame him, a lonely fourteen year old girl hops in a cab and requests a hotel. Suspicious, eh?
"What's a little girl like you going to some fancy hotel, eh?" The man asked.
"Would refrain from using that line on young girls, Freddy." I spoke flatly.
"Hey, how'd you know?" He chuckled.
"Boston?"
"Yeah, yeah!" He laughed.
"Lucky guess." I smirked.
"Hey, even better question, what are you doin' in the 25th precinct, eh? Dangerous place for a kid don't ya think?" He questioned.
"Nah." I sighed. "I was born here." I awkwardly chuckled, watching the streetlights as they passed by.
45 minutes passed by of easy conversation. Turns out he wasn't a total pedophile, just your average taxi driver from Boston.
"We're here, kid." He sighed, his voice tired, most likely from driving folks around all night.
I passed him some money, and gathered my belongings.
"Twenty five—"
"Keep the change, Freddy."
"See ya around, kid." He smiled, as I pushed the door closed and looked up at the hotel.
"Here goes nothing." I walked up with my backpack tightly pulled onto my back, my hands gripping the straps in fear.
You're just someone's kid going back to their room.
I walked in and smiled at the attendant. He seemed to play it off. I walked by a woman, holding her small son's hand.
"Checking out of room 287, please." She spoke.
I smirked to myself and grabbed a business card off one of the counters, strutting into the hall in which I grabbed a phone off the wall. I punched in the digits to the hotel, my fingers quivering as I did so.
"Hotel du Pont, how can we help you?" A soft voice spoke.
I made my voice a little lower, I already sound pretty mature. "Hi, I was wondering if I could check back into my room? Our flight was delayed and this is on short notice." I spoke.
"Of course! What room were you in, and last name for confirmation?" She spoke.
Shit!
I shuffled through my backpack, and grabbed my mirror, using it to see behind me and read the small words on the little boy's backpack. Thank God for overprotective parents.
"Room 287, last name Da Silva." I lightly laughed.
There was a long, intimidating pause.
"You're all set! We'll see you at the front desk to retrieve your card!" I could practically hear her smiling through the phone.
"Thank you so much! Bye bye!" I chuckled, putting the phone back.
I treated myself to a mini dance celebration before brushing myself off and walking over to the front desk.
"How can I help you, young lady?" The man spoke.
I turned around and waved at a passing woman carrying her luggage, pretending she was my mother, before turning back and smiling at the man. "My moms putting the luggage in our room, and told me to get the key card? We're room 287. She talked to a lady on the phone." I smiled.
He promptly grinned back. "Yes, what is your last name, young lady?"
"Da Silva!" I exclaimed excitedly like a child.
"Perfect, here's your card back." He smiled, handing me the smooth plastic card.
I smiled at the man for what felt like the hundredth time, and skipped along to the elevator.
It was then, something happened, that I hoped to God I would somehow forget.
