The Destiny of Violet & Luke

When I get my nerves under control the best that I can, I sink the needle into her vein, like I’ve done hundreds of times. Each time it gets to me, like I’m sticking the needle in my own skin and feeling the sting. I wince as her muscles tense a little underneath the poke of the needle. As I push in the plunger, the medicine enters her veins and seconds later she lets out this weird noise, before sinking back on the couch, pulling me down with her. I hurry and pull the needle out before we fall down completely onto the couch cushions.

“Thank you, Luke,” she says sleepily, patting my head with her hand as she holds me against her. Her throat makes this vibrating noise, like she’s trying to hum again, but the noise is trapped like I am.

I press my lips together, staring at the wall across the room, barely breathing. After a while, her arm falls lifelessly to the side, her hand hitting the floor as her eyelids flutter shut and I’m temporarily freed from her hold.

I sit up, sucking the tears back, hating her for making me do this and hating myself for doing it and being secretly glad she’s passed out. I toss the syringe down on the table, then I push to my feet. Using all my strength, I rotate her to her side because sometimes she throws up. I have a house full of quiet now, just how I like it. Yet, at the same time I don’t like it because the emptiness gets to me. What I really want is what all the other kids have. The ones I see at the park playing on swings while their parents push them higher. They’re always laughing and smiling. Everyone always seems to be, except for me. Every time I get close I always remember this feeling I have inside me right now, this vile, icky feeling, mixed with hatred and sadness that makes me sick all the time. It always wipes the smile right off my face and I don’t even bother trying anymore. Happiness isn’t real. It’s make-believe.

I throw the syringe and spoon into the box, wondering if my life will always be this way. If I’ll always carry so much sadness and hate inside me. I’m shaking by the time I get everything into the box and I feel like I need to flee somewhere—run again. I can’t take this anymore. I can’t take living here. With her.

“I can’t take it!” I shout at the top of my lungs and ram my fist into the coffee table. My hand makes this popping sound and it hurts so bad tears sting at my eyes. I cry out in pain, sinking to the floor, but of course no one hears me.

No one ever does.

Violet

(Thirteen years old)

I hate moving. Not just from house to house, but from family to family. I hate moving my legs and arms, moving forward in my life, because it usually means I’m going to someplace new. If I had my way, I’d remain motionless, never moving forward, never going anywhere. The thing is I always have to, it’s not a choice, and I never know exactly where I’m going or who I’ll be stuck with. Sometimes the families are fine, but sometimes not. Drunks. Religious freaks. Haters. Wandering hands.

The family I’m staying with now always tells me everything I do is wrong and that I should be more like their daughter, Jennifer. I’m not sure why they took me in to begin with. They seem pretty content with the child they have and I’m just a decoration, a flashy object they can show off to their friends so they can get told how great they are for taking in such a messed-up child. I’m the unwanted orphan they took in, hoping to fix me and make their family appear wonderful.

“It was so nice of you to give her a home,” a woman with fiery red hair tells Amelia, who’s my mother at the moment. She’s having one of her neighborhood shindigs, which she does a lot, then complains about them later to her husband. “These poor children really do need a roof over their head.”

Amelia glances at me, sitting in a chair at the table where I was directed to stay the entire party. “Yes, but it’s hard, you know.” She’s wearing this yellow sweater that reminds me of a canary that was a pet at one of my foster parent’s homes that never stopped chattering. She arranges some crackers and sliced cheese onto a large flowery platter and then heads for the refrigerator. “She’s kind of a problem child.” She opens the fridge door and takes out a large pitcher of lemonade. She looks over at me again, then leans toward the redhead, lowering her voice. “She’s so angry all the time and she broke this vase the other day because she couldn’t find her shoes… but we’re working on fixing her.”

Angry all the time. That’s what everyone seems to say; I’m so angry at the world and it’s understandable considering what I’ve been through, yet no one wants to deal with it. That I probably have too much rage inside me. That I’m broken. Unstable. Maybe even dangerous. All the things that no adult wants in a child. They want smiles and laughter, children who will make them smile and laugh, too. I’m the dark, morbid side of childhood. I swear they’re waiting around for me to do something that will give them an excuse to get rid of me and they can tell everyone they tried but I was just too messed up to be fixed.

“And her nightmares,” Amelia continues. “She wakes up screaming every night and she wet the bed the other night. She even came running into our room, saying she was scared to sleep alone.” Her eyes glide to the tattered purple teddy bear I’m hugging. “She’s very immature and carries that stuffed animal around with her everywhere… it’s strange.”

I hate her. She doesn’t understand what it’s like to see things that most people can’t even admit exist. The ugly truth, painted in red, stuck in my head, images I can’t shake. Death. Cruelty. Terror. People taking other peoples’ lives as if lives mean nothing. Then they leave me behind to carry the foul, rotting truth with me. Alone. Why did they leave me behind? This teddy bear is all I have left of a time when ugly didn’t consume my life.

I turn my head away from the sound of her voice and stare out the window at the sunlight reflecting against a lawn ornament shaped like a tulip, and hug the teddy bear against my chest, the one my dad gave me as an early birthday present the day before he died. There are little red, heart-shaped beads on the tulip and when they catch in the light they flicker and make dots dance against the concrete on the back porch. It’s pretty to watch and I focus on them, shoving my anger down and bottling it up—trying to stay in control of my emotions. Otherwise all the feelings I’ve buried will escape and I’ll have no choice but to find a way to shut it down—find my adrenaline rush.

Besides, Amelia doesn’t need to repeat what I already know. I know what I do every night, just like I know what I am to them, just like I know in a few months or so they’ll get tired of me and send me to another place with a different home where everything I do will annoy those people, too, and eventually they’ll pass me along. It’s like clockwork and I don’t expect anything more. Expecting only leads to disappointment. I expected things once when I was little—that I’d continue to grow up with my mom and dad, smile, and be happy—but that dream was crushed the day they died.