In response to Martha Redbone

“She’s really quite a lovely woman,” the social worker assured as she ushered Gracelyn out of the car. “I’m sure you’ll get along well with her.”

Gracelyn rolled her eyes subtly as she slammed the car door. In the span of three years, Gracelyn had lived in six different foster homes. The social worker always promised that she would thrive, that somehow a stranger would provide the love her parents never managed to come up with.

“I know it’s been rough on you.” The social worker glanced at Gracelyn, sacrificing her usual enthusiasm for a quick gaze of remorse. Gracelyn didn’t say anything. Her mouth was dry and metallic, barren from nerves that never seemed to die.

“I really hope you’ll give this home a chance, though.” 

Gracelyn stole a cautious peek at the social worker’s face. She swore that on the surface of such professionalism, a tear was washing over the skin of a truly fragile human being. Gracelyn swallowed her hostility for a moment, baffled as she witnessed this suffering burrow into the woman’s once sickeningly optimistic charm.

Still, she couldn’t help but remember when that supposedly well-meaning soul led her to a "temporary placement” all those years ago. Gracelyn winced when she recalled the innocent couple, standing excitedly on their porch. The man who would later do unspeakable things to her. His haunting dialogue still swam through her ears, reminding Gracelyn of where she’d been, and where she could still end up.

“This woman is single.” the social worker noted, as though reading Gracelyn’s thoughts. “The only thing you’ll encounter here is a rather reclusive cat.” She laughed slightly, then stopped when she noticed Gracelyn wasn’t reciprocating. 

Gracelyn silently retrieved her backpack from the trunk of the car. She recalled using it as a pillow once when the DCS office had nowhere to send her. She reminisced about spending the night in a lonesome room. The darkness was so overwhelming that she couldn’t tell if her eyes were open and blind or closed and paralyzed. She remembered longing for the once annoying cacophony of other children's roughhousing. The only sound in her company was that of her own heartbeat, and even it had grown weak as the hours piled up.

“Ready to go and meet her?” The social worker studied Gracelyn’s expression, which was like reading an illegible text. 

“Yeah.” Gracelyn’s voice cracked with distrust, a trait she feared would never be cured. 

“Alright then.”

The two of them approached a modest house. It wasn’t large, but well-kept and inviting. Still, Gracelyn imagined how numb she would feel when this woman sent her along to another home. Anger ran down her spine with a surge of adrenaline, which Gracelyn successfully suppressed, as she had been taught. After that aggression settled to a pit in her stomach, the only thing reminding Gracelyn of her existence was the wind, brushing her neck like Earth’s elongated sigh.

She learned to survive. Mutual love was something Gracelyn no longer prayed for, as she had in the beginning. It vanished into a fairytale, barely breathing. How could it live? No foster parent had ever been fond of Gracelyn. The worst abused her, and the best excluded her on Christmas day, forcing Gracelyn to watch every biological child receive gifts while she sat in the corner, pretending not to notice her limp stocking. Food, attention, she was a ghost who only got what was left over. When a family didn’t want Gracelyn anymore, she was packed and heading out the door the following morning, like some sort of faulty appliance being returned to the store.

The social worker patted Gracelyn's arm as she rang a dainty white bell, anxiously awaiting an answer. Little did she know, this was where Gracelyn would finally heal her wounds. Little did she know, the frail woman who shook her hand would become Gracelyn’s second chance at life.