Running away for the second time didn’t have much of a price to pay after all. There were no beatings, yelling or anything else for that matter. My foster-father didn’t say very much to me since I came home, but thought that was kind of odd not asking me any questions about why I ran away to my real father’s house. Jesus, I ran away for two days to rat is ass out as he put it, to my father’s, on top of that, ended up in the hospital faking an illness just to avoid what was waiting for me at home, and he didn’t want to know why I did what I did?
It wasn’t till the following Saturday just the two of us, sitting at the kitchen table, when he decided to talk to me. Everyone else had finished breakfast and took off in the living room to watch television or hang in their bed rooms.He must have figured that was the time to ask me if I wanted continue living with them. Now just to go back a little, it has been a about three years they were going through the process of adopting both my brother and I. At 13 years old, I changed my mind and decided I no longer wanted to be adopted.
I couldn’t do it…to be honest, I didn’t want them to adopt me. I knew that this wasn’t the house or the family for me, and it was the last place I wanted to be spending anymore of my youth living in. I been treated like shit since I was seven years old and gotten worst as I grew older. For the life of me, I had no idea why they would even want to adopt me in the first place. But I am sure Child Services was putting pressure on them to either adopt us or they were taking us back.
It wasn’t unusual for families who take in foster children into their homes just for that nice checks they get once a month for room, board and cloth allowance from Child Welfare, and I am on a mission to find out just how much my foster parents were getting all those years for my brother and I. Anyway, my foster-father reassure me that things would be different, then got out of his chair with arms wide open and hugged me.
What bothered me more than anything was that hug. That’s what he always did after the many beatings he gave me or his infamous verbal onslaught. He would have someone get me from my bedroom where I would be laying on the bed, to go see him in the kitchen….Daddy wants you. My stomach would get into a knot just hearing those words and thinking what he was going to do next. I would take my time going down the steps and walk slowly into the kitchen only to find him sitting in his chair at the table smoking his Pall Malls while pretending he didn’t notice me. I would walk closer to him cautiously and stand by and just look at him.
He put down his smokes, while getting up his chair with arms wide open and tell me how sorry he was…and all I could do was cry. I hated when he did that, and he did that almost after every beatings. So to be standing there telling me how sorry he was and that he really loved me hurt more than the beatings. But, I just hugged him back and walked away. As I walked away, I knew that one day he was going to beat me or call me names one too many times, and there was going to be a heavy price to pay, and you can bet your ass it wasn’t going to be any weekend trips to my father’s house that’s for sure. The following year later, all hell broke loose on Thanksgiving Day.