Page 115 of Fires of the Forsaken
I shrugged. “Not always. When I was younger, they said it was stress or PTSD. Something like that. They said with time and therapy, I’d outgrow it. I kinda did, but not really. Not all the way. And it’s worse when I’m upset. Or tired. Or both.”
Cheriour leaned back on his haunches and stared at me for a few beats. Long enough to make my skin prickle and my stomach squirm. “What happened to you?” he asked when he resumed his ADHD room scanning. “When you were a child?”
“Depends on who you ask, I guess. I’ve had a lot of people say the house fire…y’know, the one my parents died in. Well, some people swore that fire melted a part of my brain.” I laughed, even as an acidic tang coated my tongue.
“I’d like a serious answer.”
“Oh, I’mdeadserious. Shit, my one foster mother, Mira, tried to have a lobotomy done on me. It’s an outdated treatment for mental illness,” I added when his forehead scrunched. “Doctors would induce brain damage and turn people into vegetables. Made them ‘easier to handle.’ It’s notlegalanymore because it’s so fucked-up. But if Mira could’ve found a way, she would’ve had it done on me. She was a crazy old cu—”
“You haven’t answered my question,” Cheriour interrupted softly.
“Ummm, yes I did. Kinda. Butyoudidn’t answer any ofmyquestions,” I pointed out. “You gotta give before you can take, buddy.”
“Cheese.”
“What?”
“My favorite food. Cheese.”
“Interesting. I can get behind that; cheese is awesome. But,” I narrowed my eyes, “you picked the easiest question.”
His lips twitched. “A question is a question. I answered one. Now it’s your turn.”
“You’re getting off on a technicality. But, whatever…after my parents died, I spent the rest of my childhood bumping between orphanages and foster homes. And then I aged out of the system. I’ve been on my own ever since.”
Cheriour was silent for a while. “There’s more to it than that,” he finally said.
“Sure there is. But why should I give a more in-depth response when all you said was ‘cheese?’”
“Lavender,” he said. “My favorite color. You said your parents died in a fire. Were you harmed?”
“Wow. You’re sticking with the easy answers, aren’t ya? Is it only thecolorlavender you like? Or the scent too? Because Ilovethe scent.”
He said nothing. Just watched the room, waiting for me to respond.
I rolled my eyes. “Fine. But your next answer better have more than one fucking word. And no. I wasn’t hurt. Not sure how I got out—the firefighters said I must’ve jumped out a window. If I did, I don’t remember. I escaped without a burn, scrape, or bruise. But my parents…” I ground my teeth together as the phantom cries filled my ears. “You ever hear someone burn to death?”
“I have,” Cheriour said.
“So you know how awful it is. Imagine being five years old and freakingterrifiedbecause you don’t understand what’s going on, and your mom and dad arescreaming.”A big, fat, salty tear dribbled into my mouth.Pleh.I sputtered, sniffled, and scrubbed at my (very damp) cheeks with both hands. No shits given that I smeared blood and poultice all over my face. “This is why I have issues.Childhood trauma.”
“You endured the death of your parents,” Cheriour asked gently, “and then went to a caretaker who wished to torture you?”
“Well,” my voice still sounded too thick. Too raw. I cleared my throat. “I didn’t have any other blood relatives. Or, at least, not any good ones. Pretty sure I had a grandmother with dementia and an aunt who’d been locked up for drug use and prostitution. But no one else. So I went to live with the other misfit toys. And all the kids at the orphanage got fed the same bullshit line: ‘this is only for a little while. We’ll find you a family.’Except…it’s expensive for people to adopt. Those that can afford it usually wantbabies, not snot-nosed little kids with attitude problems. Heh.Snot-nosed.” I wiped at my teary cheeks and runny nose. “That’s me! Anyway, the orphanage couldn’t keep all of us, so we got sent to temporary families. And it’s a messed-up system. Most of my foster parents only took me in because they wanted that sweet government paycheck. Once I became too much of a problem, they gave me the boot.”
Cheriour’s eyes were now stuck on my face, burning a hole in my cheek. Figured. The one time Iwantedhim to look away, he gave me his undivided attention.
“I’ll be fair,” I waved a hand in front of my face, trying to dry my eyes, “they weren’t all like that. Some genuinely wanted to help. But…” I trailed off as I thought of Freda. My first foster mother, with her weathered face and kind smile. The cute button bun she’d twist her hair into. Her gnarled hands mixing food in a big glass bowl, while I stood beside her, ready to add the butter as soon as she gave me the green light.
The problem with thinking of Freda? Images of her alive were soured by the memory of her body sprawled across the living room floor.
“Bottom line,” I said, “I never stayed anywhere for more than a year. I scraped my way through high school. And then I was on my own. Government said,‘Happy 18thBirthday! Now get off your lazy ass and get a job.’So, yeah.” Sweat pooled in my palms as I dug my trembling fingers into my thighs. “That’s my origin story. Happy now?”
Cheriour still stared at me, although not as intensely as before. Mainly because Maddox was on the move again and had grabbed some of my spotlight.
I blew out a long, shaky breath and pressed a hand over my eyes. A sharp pain throbbed behind my temple. Like someone had driven an ice pick into my brain (trying to lobotomize me. Har, har.). And I was sure Maddox had heard my little outburst. Which was embarrassing because I hadn’t meant to say all that out loud. Word vomit. It came up in full chunks tonight.
“My family’s gone as well.”
