The Home I Forgot

Dane. My foster father. I remember the first time we met.

"Hey there little lady."

A man in an expensive suit crouched down to my height, his jet-black hair perfectly slicked back. The ends of it brushing his neck. His softened eyes fixed on my anxiety written ones as mine stayed glued to his shiny dress shoes for dear life.

He extended a hand out in front of me. Hesitantly, I extended my skinny fingers out and his swallowed mine as he took the lead and moved our hands up and down. His rough, calloused hand felt like it could break mine with no effort at any given second. Nothing about him screamed danger. He was the kind of man you'd see on TV with a perfect Picket fence life. Round glasses. Briefcase. A
Businessman of some kind-

I've seen this before. He was playing a part.

"How would you like to go home with me?"

His hand continued to shake mine-slowly-rhythmically.
I stayed silent.

I'd learned that my words didn't matter in this place, I'd be going with him whether I spoke or not.

Still. I couldn't help but hang onto false hope.