Page 34 of Sweet Poison

Perhaps two sizes too small but there regardless.

Chapter

Eleven

UNWRAPPING HIS HEART

Madden

“Dreams weren’t meant for me. Until she came along and all Ifound myself dreaming of her.” — M

Ihuddle over my dirty old backpack in the quiet and empty room, my fingers working quickly to stuff the last of the food I stole inside. The backpack I carried with me everywhere I go was once black and has seen better days. Its straps are frayed and its surface is covered in smudges and stains.

Guilt claws at me as I shove more food inside. I don’t like stealing but I have no choice. Besides, the O’ Sullivan’s won’t miss it.

The food I’m packing is nothing fancy—cans of tunas, a few loaves of bread, a couple of granola bars, and a carton of milk. It’s all I could manage to collect before I was caught by one of the uncles. Each item I tuck into the backpack guarantees thatI won’t go without eating for a few days. The last time I found myself on the streets the food lasted me only two nights and after that the pain was so intense that I passed out and woke up in the emergency room. I can’t let it happen again. I don’t know how long this new foster placement will last. Maybe a month, maybe six—until people get tired of me or until my asshole brother does something to mess it up.

Because he will. There’s no doubt he will. Milton has only ever had one goal and that is to make me as miserable with life as he is. If he finds out I’m in a good home then that will set him off. The bastard has never interfered when I was placed in dangerous homes, but he suddenly showed up when I landed in my last foster home—a place where the folks weren’t half bad.

My hands tremble slightly as I arrange the food, carefully balancing the cans with the softer items. Afterward, I tuck a blanket and a flashlight I found in Mr. O’Sullivan’s shed into the bag. I zip up the backpack with a soft click and shove it under the bed before rising from the floor and walking to the middle of the room.

The room is dark and the only light is coming from the window. I can’t help but notice how this room is a stark contrast to the rest of my life, huge and luxurious. It’s so different from the cramped spaces I’ve grown used to. The walls are light blue and a soft gray carpet covers the floor, making the room feel warm and inviting.

My old room was small and colorless while this one looks like every young boy’s dream. The furniture is all new and impeccably clean—there’s a big, comfortable bed with a crisp, navy blue duvet and matching pillows. A large desk stands in one corner, cluttered with model cars and a racing helmet.

I had one toy at home. Only one. It was a model toy of a small black McLaren but nobody knows about it. I wonder howthese people knew to design the room with a car theme. It’s obvious that a lot of thought went into this room’s design.

I don’t know how to feel about it.

My eyes move to the racing theme mural that decorates the largest wall. It’s a vibrant, dynamic depiction of cars speeding around a track, the colors range from deep blues to vibrant greens. The red cars are rendered in such a way that they almost seem to be moving, their engines roaring and tires skidding. The first time I saw it I was left speechless as I looked at it in awe. If you look at the track for long it actually feels like I’m standing in the middle of it. And how I wish that were true.

I suspect Mrs. O’Sullivan had a hand in painting it since I’ve seen her painting on every available surface of this house. It’s strange. At first, I thought the plain white walls were such a stark contrast to the happy, colorful family. But now, I understand why the walls are white.

They’re canvases for mother and daughter to paint whatever they want and decorate their home in their drawings.

It’s…strange.

But I guess it works for them and besides what do I know about what normal families do and look like? My own was anything but normal.

My family was… broken.

As I stand in the middle of the room, taking it all in, I can’t help but think about how it’s already been five days since I first stepped into this house. Five days of hiding, avoiding everyone, and not wanting to say a single word.

At first I thought that if I ignored them then they would eventually get tired of me and call my case worker but that didn’t happen. The first two days, since I refused every offer to eat with the family I was left a plate of food and snacks at the door almost hourly as if they knew I was hungry but I didn’t want to venture outside these walls. It’s safer here.

But then on my third day, I left the room to join them for dinner and that was only because one of the uncles, one called Cianne I think, would stop pounding on the door and kept harassing me with threats of coming inside and having dinner here with me.

Of course, that was more excruciatingly painful than giving up and joining them downstairs.

Tonight was my third time dining with them and it wasn’t as awkward as it was the first time. Mrs. O’Sullivan and Willow always greet me with bright, genuine smiles, their faces radiating kindness and warmth. It’s even more awkward for me because I don’t know how to react to them. I’m not used to kindness.

The family speaks in a language I don’t fully understand—sign language—but it’s clear from their expressions and gestures that they’re trying to include me. Mrs. O’Sullivan is the bridge between Willow and me, translating their conversations and making sure I don’t feel left out. Every time I look at her and how she treats everyone around her I wonder if she’s real. The same happens with her daughter, Willow. They’re the softness to the rest of the family’s harshness.

The men around them look like evil villains with their brows always pulled low and the mean looks on their faces. Each and every single one of them wear their tattoos like badges of honors. Even the grandfather, Cathan.

I wonder if those drawings on their skin is what makes people look nervous when around them. When I grow up I’ll ink my skin too. Maybe that way people will be afraid of me too.

Then there’s Mr. O’ Sullivan.

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