Chapter Four
967 Words
There’s a certain kind of silence that comes with loneliness.
It’s not peaceful, not the kind of quiet that soothes you to sleep. It’s heavy. Suffocating. The kind that presses against your ribs and settles in your bones, reminding you that you don’t belong anywhere.
Ava learned that silence early.
The orphanage wasn’t the worst place in the world. At least, not when she was small enough to believe things would get better. The building was old, its walls peeling like sunburnt skin, and the floorboards creaked no matter how lightly she stepped. The windows barely kept the cold out, and in the rainy season, water leaked through the ceiling in fat, lazy drops that stained the wooden floors.
But it was home.
She remembered the long, dim hallways that smelled like floor polish and something close to detergent. The rows of bunk beds lined up in the girls’ dormitory, each with mismatched sheets—some thin and frayed, others thick enough to burrow into. The metal dining tables where they ate watery soup and dry bread. The cracked tiles in the bathroom where they lined up for their turn under the cold showers.
She remembered the laughter, too. Kids playing tag in the narrow yard, dodging patches of overgrown grass and the single, crooked tree that never quite bloomed. Whispered stories under threadbare blankets, giggles muffled by tiny hands until Miss Patrice, the night supervisor, banged her cane against the bedframes to shut them up or simply yelled at them to keep their little 'trap doors' shut. And they'd giggle but quickly rush to their respective beds.
But mostly, she remembered waiting.
Waiting for someone to come.
Waiting for someone to pick her.
They never did.
Foster homes came instead.
The first smelled like cinnamon and wood polish. Mrs. Parker baked fresh bread every morning, filling the house with warmth, and Mr. Parker had a deep, booming laugh that made his entire belly shake. They had two boys of their own—twins, a year older than Ava, both with curly blond hair and bright blue eyes.
For the first time, she had a real bedroom. A small one, but it was hers. The bed had a pink duvet, the shelves held real books, and the closet had clothes that actually fit instead of being hand-me-downs.
She thought she’d stay forever.
But forever only lasted six months.
Mrs. Parker sat her down one evening with a soft, sad smile and told her she’d be moving. They had only signed up to be short-term foster parents. They never planned to adopt.
Ava didn’t understand.
She cried herself to sleep that night, curling under the pink duvet one last time. But in the morning, no matter how much she wished otherwise, she still had to pack her bags.
The second home was quiet. Too quiet.
The Russos were an older couple who barely spoke English. Mr. Russo worked late. Mrs. Russo barely spoke at all. Their house was clean and orderly, but it never felt like home.
They didn’t hug her. Didn’t ask about her day. They fed her, made sure she went to school, took her to doctor’s appointments when she got sick.
That was it.
At night, she’d press her face against the cool windowpane and wonder if she’d ever be more than just another obligation to someone.
When they moved to another state, she wasn’t invited to come along.
The Finches had six other foster kids crammed into a three-bedroom house. She shared a room with three girls, two of whom had been there for years. They already knew the rules:
1. Don’t take too much food.
2. Don’t complain about the cold showers.
3. Don’t expect anyone to care.
The Finches weren’t cruel. Just indifferent. They took in kids because the checks from the state were steady, not because they wanted a family.
She stayed there the longest—three years. Long enough to understand that love wasn’t a requirement for keeping someone.
But at least she wasn’t alone.
The Monroes should have worked.
They were nice. Too nice. They had a daughter her age—a perfect, blonde, straight-A student who didn’t know what to do with a foster sister who had scars on her knees and knew how to fight.
Mrs. Monroe wanted her to wear pretty dresses and go to ballet class. Mr. Monroe bought her books and told her she was smart.
For the first time in years, Ava had parents who wanted to keep her.
But she didn’t know how to be kept.
She broke curfew. Talked back. Got into fights at school.
One night, after another screaming match, she packed a bag and ran away.
She spent the night in an abandoned lot, shivering under the stars, before the police picked her up the next morning. When they took her back to the Monroes, she saw the decision in their eyes before they even said the words.
She didn’t belong there.
She didn’t belong anywhere.
She never blamed them.
By sixteen, she stopped pretending.
No more families. No more homes. Just a group home with too many kids and not enough beds.
She learned how to get by. How to hustle. How to fight off perverts who thought foster kids were easy prey.
How to stop hoping.
Ava exhaled, her fingers gripping the fence as she stared at the ruins of her past.
The orphanage was gone, just like all those homes. Just like every single place that had promised her stability and then taken it away.
And yet, something in her chest still ached.
She closed her eyes for a moment, forcing herself to breathe.
It doesn’t matter. The past is the past.
She opened them again.
It was time to go.
Time to stop looking back.
- Writer
