Yet You're Still Here

~ 1 ~

Their eyes shine bright above my head,

Only winking now and then.

And when the tears begin to fall on this roof,

Their eyes twinkle a mischievous taunt.

They are no longer smiling.

They are mocking.

And I'm completely and utterly,

All alone.

The same mantra repeats inside my empty head, echoing around these walls of emptiness. Chanting. Teasing. Hurting. All the poem seems to do is tell me the truth, but I hate to accept it. I don't want to be alone. I want my father and my loving mother. I want to go back to our little house on Cherry Stone Lane in a cozy neighborhood with a white picket fence around the front. The Wilson family would invite us over for barbecues on Fridays, and then we'd all go home afterward to watch a movie together before falling asleep. I'd smile as soon as I close my eyes, reminiscing in the day I'd been lucky enough to have.

But none of that is real. That's the mere fantasy I wish could have been in my whole life. Actually, I haven't smiled in twelve months, three days, and four hours. I never had a loving mother that I knew, because she died as soon as I was brought into the world. I never knew a family named the Wilson's, and my father was an insane lunatic who thought the only way to breathe was to hit me and lock me away into the basement. I never had a little house on Cherry Stone Lane with a white picket fence around it because the home I lived in was in the rough parts of Houston, Texas. Also, I haven't gotten real sleep for twelve months, three days, and four hours.

All alone. That's what I am.

My expression is stoic as I crane my neck to stare upward into those taunting lights of the night. They litter every inch of the sky here, unlike in my old house. And it's a weird thing, because I was so terrified of everything in that basement before I was found. I rarely saw the stars (or what little we had), and when I did, I felt hope because of them. I had someone, or something, that I could relate to- because they were so scarce. There were barely any floating up there, and they seemed so much tinier. Only now, when I see the millions of these balls of gases, do I loathe their existence for betraying me. For so easily getting more collective and gathered and beautiful as I propel in the opposite direction within the same duration.

A wet liquid makes my cheeks feel cold due to the sadness that had melted from my core that I'd worked so hard on solidifying. I'd kept a neutral act up for as long as I could, not bothering to have any change in emotion when men in blue uniforms and authoritative voices rescued me from the depths of my cold house. Even now, as the tears fall on this roof, I keep my eyes unchanging and my mouth in a straight line. I don't make any move to stop them from flowing, although I didn't exactly do anything to get them started either.

I move my line of vision from the sky and onto the horizon where the city buildings miles away from here meet the darkness. My crying doesn't halt, halfway blinding me with a blurriness as I gaze at the same spot with no purpose for it. Why are there more stars here than in the country? That doesn't make any sense according to the science textbooks I've gone through in different schools within three month time periods, or near it. Is it supposed to give me some sort of hope? That God is here for me? I'd have to scoff at the truth in that. If there's anyone who knows God doesn't exist, it's me.

My hair gently blows in the wind that causes the tears to dry quickly. The shingles that are supporting my weight suddenly begin making an infuriating cracking noise. It's quiet, but consistent. As soon as I feel them breaking from the spot they're supposed to be in, a ball in the pit of my stomach untangles and releases a vicious feather-tickling feeling inside. I slip off of the roof and into a pit of spikes that weren't in the front of the two-story house when I arrived this morning. One impales me, directly in the heart, and for a moment, I stop breathing. I'm limp and completely still in an utter silence. The sky is a deep red color, the clouds an even darker crimson. Smoke fills the air, a corrupted pollution surrounding me in a misty form. I realize the finality of my death, and feel my soul grinning. Not me physically, but the inner emotion I feel. It's over, and I no longer have to live or push through anything.

However when I open my eyes, I'm still on the roof. My legs are still curled up to my chest in an effort to keep warm, chin rested atop my knees. That feeling of being underwater in complete silence is over, replaced with the distant sound of vehicles honking and a few crickets chirping. The air strokes my face as it softly flies through, and my heart is hammering the same steady beat without a single flaw or tick. No more adrenaline or excitement due to the thought of moving on from this horrible earth we have the audacity to call home. Colors of deep blues and shades of black have returned, crimson and blood tints gone entirely. Normalcy, or more, what I call normalcy.

The sound of the window opening just below me surfaces among the other nighttime sub-city noises. My eyes barely shift downward toward the area, and I - emotionless - wipe my face of any evidence that proved distraught. A soft voice is speaking, muffled due to the distance between it and me, and because of the nightly wind. I prop myself up a bit, contemplating jumping off to my death before thinking against it quickly and then inch down toward the gutter. A gasp is heard when my hands grip onto the metal structure and I lower myself back into the room silently.

A woman in her mid-forties smiles tightly at me after she recovers from momentary shock, hands clasped together as her eyes pierce my soul. I stare back at her with a curiosity. It's remarkable how many wrinkles you can get when fostering. It just makes your snobby rich self seem a lot older than what you actually are, what with all the manhandling, scolding, and long months involved. Then once they get rid of their purchased child/children, they have a small break before they need more quick and big cash, thus going back to the infantry market.

The pale lady with slightly graying hair reaches out for my hand, to which I lamely allow her to do. "Are you alright, Dakota? Did you get hurt?" she asks falsely. Her mouth is pinched and turned downward at the corners, her eyebrows are pulled together as if they were sewed to one another's ends, and her fingers are fumbling up and down my arms, assessing me for any injuries. But her beady old eyes are lying. There's no sign of motherly love or worry, let alone any hint of adult intelligence at all. What really gives her mendacious concern away is the fact that she said my name incorrectly. How shocking it is to see something like that in an older woman (although not that old)- someone who is supposed to be wise and caring. Or not. Not at all, actually. This display of faux concern is quite frequent and common.

Rolling my eyes inside of myself, I keep my outside expression neutral and take my arms out of her analyzing scrubbing by stepping back a pace. "I just needed fresh air," I say flatly. "I'm fine."

The truth is, I'm anything but fine. I mean, I guess not "anything." I don't know why people use the beginning part of the phrase, "anything but..." because what they mean by that is that they're the opposite of whatever emotion they are experiencing. Not just everything except for sad, happy, etc. They would be - in that order - happy, sad, (opposite) etc. So I'm not anything but fine. I feel absolutely nothing at all: not fine.

"Oh," Rose says, her eyes barely narrowing at me. "Well, your sister is looking for you. She's worried."

I roll my lips inside of my mouth, wetting them slightly before they come out again. That just might be my largest pet peeve: when someone tells me that my purchased self has a sister, brother, mother, father, or any other family member. Because I don't. I've never had a real home. I've never actually had someone who cares enough about me to be called my sibling or parent. And it's okay. I've grown accustomed to this. But that's why it's so infuriating when someone tells me I do. What right do they have to say they share blood with me, or at least have a close enough bond? They don't.

However instead of bursting out of control, I shove yet another piece of anger and pain and frustration down my throat. It falls deep into the depths of my stomach, where these emotions are piled on top of one another. Some would say it's getting full , that it's unhealthy for my fury and pain to be stuffed under the surface - like my FBI agents or social workers - but I have never regurgitated any of it. It's been compressed by a weight, and they're like sheets of paper stacked flat. I make more room, so no one needs to be concerned about me. I've been practicing for an entire eleven years - ever since I understood the world for what it really is.

A breath is released from my nose and I nod, mutely telling Rose that I would go find my "sister." It's there for half a second, that extremely tight-knitted, lipped smile, before she turns around and leaves my unpacked room with a brisk walk stuck to her feet, her fingers interlaced and palms gorilla glued together. You could even see the whites of her knuckles from the faux way she ever-so gracefully (crushingly) held them together. Honestly it seemed as if her worn bones would crack and snap off from her wrists.

I glance around at the blank and enclosed space that surrounded me with four grey walls. It's definitely cozy and nice, and it has an en suite bathroom with a walk-in closet. The window that I climbed out of is complimented by a white, beautiful curtain that reminded me of a sheer cloud. My feet are touching a shockingly squishy white carpet that hasn't a single stain or flaw. And that's only shocking because of the amount of foster kids they've brought in. In the left corner - that to me in this moment is the upper-left one - is barely covered with the two boxes I have containing my belongings.

I sigh and leave the large room that still seems like it's trapping me in a tiny area. My feet now pad against a shiny, polished wood flooring as I search the second story of this house for June The Sister. If I know her from only meeting her once yesterday, then my best guess about where she is, is her bed. She seems like an incredibly lazy person, someone I'm not. I can barely stay in the same place for an hour without squirming in discomfort unless I'm in mathematics class. I'm always doing some sort of athletic event or just running for myself publicly in general. Although that's always sort of difficult when my FBI s***h foster guardian(s) tell me I need to lay under the radar and try to stay at home or at school at all times. Sometimes I think they're just being ridiculous and that my father might not even be looking for me at all. He could've just ran away. But then I think about how if this weren't serious and the way I have to contain and switch my identity all the time wasn't occurring, then I'd just be in a regular foster system. But no. I'm under the Witness Protection Program, placed with families with FBI agents who are willing to take me up as their temporary child and mission. I'm only with the ones who've done this before, although I do move around a lot, and it's difficult to keep up with everything the agents actually tell me. On top of that, some things are hidden from me to keep me safe. They're worried that I'll go and spill my guts to everyone about my situation, but that's the last thing I want to do. However if anyone were to find out, rumors would spread like wildfire. The agency tells me that it's unlikely for it not reach local news stations or journalists digging their noses around in the dirt. Thus the secretive position they withhold against me. Who knows what they're hiding? Maybe my father's whereabouts.

Anyway, in this particular family - the Williams family - Mr. Williams is the only agent. This would be why Rose (Mrs. Williams) isn't fond of my presence or stay here. I can understand why. It must be nerve wracking to have such a trouble-magnetic girl inside of your home. I'd feel unsafe too. Although Mr. Williams isn't that bad, I could already tell that his kindness can be mistaken for unreal suck-up-er-y . Except I've been in the people-watching observatory for quite sometime, and I can tell that this man is just extremely nice. Genuinely. It's that once in a lifetime kind of person you never find, and people only think he's fake because it's not seen as much as the rude ones. It's uncommon. Nonetheless it's ironic if you ask me. Because in reality, it's usually the rude ones who are fake, trying to fit in or simply succumb to peer pressure.

"Lola!" A shrill, high-pitched voice calls out (once again saying my name with major error) behind me in my mid-step, and I freeze, wincing in annoyance. My ears make a sort of pressuring movement inside before popping back out. I turn around and see June waving excitedly, having much more enthusiasm than I've had in my entire existence. Her head is poked out of a doorway, what I'm guessing is her bedroom, with one hand gripping the side of the wooden frame and the other doing the excessive gesturing movement. She's smiling larger than anyone I've seen smile before, an honest happiness in her eyes. The girl's only a year younger than me, which is what makes her vehemence so surprising. Usually that eagerness burns out in the beginning of a girl's tween years.

"Come in here!" she continues. "I wanted to show you something!"

Her large gold hoop earrings dangle on the side of her head. The bottoms of them reach just on the top of her neck. I can see that she loves to wear accessories and makeup, but it's not over exaggerated like most dolls I've seen. Her face paint looks natural, like she barely wear any at all. She's incredibly gorgeous. You can't argue it if you've got a pair of working eyes. Her teeth are white and straight. Her face is a perfect diamond shape, her cheekbones pretty strong and lips a pretty shade of pink. Even without coloring them, you can tell that her eyebrows are any girl's desired structure. And her dark brown orbs are a chocolate so deep, that they could hypnotize you when you smile. The way that they represent doe eyes makes you choke and stumble on your own words. Everyone must adore the way her fawn-brown hair falls in these exemplary waves all the way down to the middle of her waist. And of course, she has a quintessential tan skin color without a scar or mark in sight. Jealousy starts to surface in my stomach pit of negative emotions. I've never understood why I was made like I am and why everyone else is made like they are. I feel like I'm the only unprepossessing face in the world sometimes, although I know that's the least of my worries.

June disappears into the room, and I follow inside. As soon as I enter, she shuts the door behind us and bounces over to her desk chair, the wheels on the bottom causing her to slide a bit back. She stops all movement by pressing her feet flat against the carpet. Her hands lay on the arms, her fingers tapping the piece of furniture in order: pinkies, ring fingers, the tall ones, and then the pointers.

I shrug. "What'd you wanna show me?"

She shrugs, her teeth on display with her eyes wide in excitement. "My room. You'll be in here a lot, right? Lots of spending time together and watching amateurs on YouTube failing epically. Maybe a few Netflix binge nights with ice cream when one of us goes through some trouble with boys." She waves her hand around her ceiling and walls to emphasize her hope. "This'll be our woman cave."

I stare at her for a moment, watching her bite her bottom lip in a thrilled way. There's a weird glimmer in her eye, and for a moment I believe we might have to go to the hospital and surgically remove some glitter she somehow got in there. Except I know it's purely her own stomach pit acting up. Forget about my pit of all things bad. This chick's got a whole positive reinforcement inside of her body.

One of my hands runs through my dirty blonde locks. "Look, you know why I'm here, right?" I ask, my not-so-faultless brows coming together in sympathy.

She nods, the glimmer only slightly fading. "I understand the circumstance. I'm sorry about that by the way. It's just - all the foster kids my dad has brought in were boys. They had awful situations like yours, but they could never relate to me, and instead would tease me or rebel. These guys were from broken homes, so I got why they acted like complete morons...you don't seem like that though. Plus, you're the first girl that we've ever taken in."

My eyes flicker around her baby blue walls as I suck in my right cheek and bite at the skin. It was hard to make eye contact when she seemed so faithful in a relationship of some sort between us. How do I tell her that I just don't want one? It's not even because if I leave (and watch, I will) I will be separated from someone I've come to actually like being around. It's because I just don't really know how to commit to anything. All I've known is rejection. What makes the universe say that I need to start accepting others now when no one's ever returned the favor?

When I look at June again, she's still smiling at me. "I get it if you need to settle in and everything first. I've just always wanted a sister ever since my real one passed away. I never exactly met her, but Mom and Dad said she looked just like me. So in a way I feel connected. I just feel like Sahara would want me to be happy, ya know? It's, like, she sent you here or something and. . .just consider me, okay?" The ending of her short life story summary she gave me was soft. Her voice slowly faded out and her eyes lost that glitter spec. Still, a sad grin kept herself together.

I should feel sorry for her, I suppose. Some sort of pity or sullen grief deep within me. Notwithstanding, I don't even touch base with one of those emotions I should in this moment. I've just grown up undergoing and listening to these awful stories everyone has to share. Typically, there aren't many good ones left around me to let my ears absorb. So all I can do is stand there and watch her for two seconds before saying the infamous words.

"I'm sorry," I tell her. "That's awful."

She sniffs, of course buying it, and still grins. "It's alright. You can go now, if you'd like. We start school tomorrow."

Instead of leaving, I shake my head and sit down on her bed. She gives me a quizzical look. What good is it to go back to that room and feel like I'm suffocating? Besides, I don't really want to unpack when I'm going to have to just put my things back into those boxes again. Yes, there are only two, but it's degrading to let people to see that they're worn out from being used so often. I might as well leave them alone, since I'm that lazy and uninterested in creating a new home for myself. I can't just leave her alone anyway. I may feel nothing, but it doesn't mean I don't feel for others. Not everyone like me can say that. They just create this oddly formed shell around themselves. I say oddly because it's not exactly a shell once it slowly begins cracking. That's why I use my stomach pit. It can't crack, and I can keep myself contained.

"No, I'll stay in here," I say, fingers touching the insanely soft comforter.

Her eyes widen a little, and this time, I'm almost blinded by that disco ball shine in them. "Wait, you - really?" she asks.

My shoulders bounce up before falling back into place. "Why not?"

June lets out a little squeal or yelp of some sort before flying out of her chair and tackling me. Her arms envelop my upper body somehow, my arms restricted from moving. I let out a gasp of surprise and wiggle out a bit. She rolls over, the light never fading from her face.

"Thank you," she says to me, turning so her left cheek is touching the bed and she's focused on me. "You have no idea how much you trying means to me."

I offer a slight upward turn of the right part of my mouth. "Yeah. Sure thing."

I've never actually had someone who enjoys my company before. Anyone who's taken me in is because they needed the money or did it for their career. June's excitement that happens because of my presence is ultimately different. I'm not sure I know how to adjust to it. Hopefully the stars of fate will be on my side, and possibly I can achieve some sort of stability while still keeping an indifferent stance for first impressions.