All Chapters of Foster: Chapter 1 - Chapter 10

"Thank you so much for coming," The woman threw a smile over her shoulder as she pushed open the door with her forearm. One thing instant was the smell of children — for a woman housing no more than ten, the place reeked like thirty. It didn't stop there, it looked like thirty, also. Toys were strewn across the floors, the walls were lined with sheet paper and decorated with crayon, half-eaten meals decorated almost all bare surfaces; and though the room itself lacked children dancing like lice, the windows of the far face of the room presented lively images of the tots swarming the backyard. Nine of them... No, eight. "I didn't know what to do, she refuses to move so I can't take her to the doctor,"

The weather is warm, but it's the only expected outcome of a sticky spring evening. These evenings have never and most certainly will never be my favourite -- the evenings where the weather proves point blanc that it can only ever truly be warm in the hours after a storm. And it makes perfect sense; air with high moisture contents holds heat far better than if it was dry. Even though I know I often tell myself 'I wish it was warm', I feel naked without a monster sweater or my dandelion yellow puffer (the bubble coat which I hold very close and very fondly to my heart, may it momentarily rest in peace).

As I watch the man lift his watch to his eyes with a sigh, I climb to my feet. I know what he's about to say -- all I need is a glance to the distant clock of the microwave to confirm it. "Well, I've gotta get going, kiddo," And I was right. All I do is shift to my toes and slide my arms around the man's neck. He needs to iron the shirt, I notice it the second I embrace him... but I won't tell him that. I feel safe as he wraps his arms around my ribs and holds me the very way he has since I was a child. The feeling even lingers after I step away from him with a small smile and speak

He doesn't run away though -- instead, he weaves through my legs, purring as hard as he possibly can. -And all I can do is chuckle. The cat only loves me when he's hungry or I'm busy; and he's only loving me because I'm leading him to the pantry door. I know it and I can feel it as he nudges my legs and shoves his face in the bag when I bend over and retrieve the cat food. "Yeah, I know, dinners coming," I can't help but speak in the very baby voice he made me adopt, strangely so due to the fact he was middle-aged, at the youngest. Perhaps cats just don't grow up, maybe you have to

"Bully," I flash my eyebrows upwards as I speak a brief word. It's then that I shove him away, and the boy stumbles. I'm the one he should be afraid of; he can never and will never anticipate what impulses I could have and act upon; I could shove him, like I have many times of the evening. I can simply start crying, completely take him off guard and make him feel awful for teasing me (it is a stunt I have pulled before, one that worked with great impact). Nothing teaches an ass he's an ass quite like the good old waterworks -- and I can really get them going.

Sasha. I can't get the damn girl out of my mind. I wish I don't know the way through the neighbourhood -- I wish I can rely on my phone and focus on the sound of direction prompts; I wish I was so occupied by anything but the girl. The obsession is killing me. Without the company of another woman, I'm left with nothing but her wide, bright green eyes and naughty smile -- the wry smirk of sorts that suggested nothing other than her knowledge of something no one else does. It's the only thing I have the capability of thinking about. Not eve

I don't know how long I've been awake when I'm finally aware of consciousness -- the one thing I do know is that I dreamt of Sasha last night. I still feel the effects; the effects aren't just an innocent sweat and fast heartbeat... I can't bear to think about the exact detail of what she's done. She makes me feel dirty; she makes me feel like the very same dirty-old-men I'd rather die and than see her with. Maybe she doesn't make me feel that way, maybe she simply accentuates aspect is already here; the aspect that wants nothing less tha

What would I do if Damon one day, took me by the hand and smashed his lips against mine in the same way actors do in shítty, paid pörn? Maybe it would be a scenario like a specific adult video I had seen while browsing last night; 'dad mistakes me for my mom!' Or maybe it was simply 'dad, stop, I'm not mom!' I guess I'll never know unless I attempt to hunt down said video I have no intention of watching. I've leant fu

"This will be your third beer tonight, are you sure you wanna have another one?" He asks the question but he's already handing me one. I accept; soon enough I'm settled into a perch on the middle of the sofa and hidden partially beneath a knitted blanket."I'll need it if I'm sitting through 'Terminator', besides, you've already had three -- you're actually going for four," 

There's just something insane about the taste of Sasha's lips I'm afraid I'll never be able to successfully pinpoint. They're sweet, even in the lingering laces of beer. It's the taste that makes me forget entirely that what I'm kissing is majorly made by yeast -- It's the taste of my daughter's lips that drives me away entirely from the taste of beer. Yeast. Fermented yeast. That, alone, makes me think of a single-celled fungus; it makes me cringe. Yet again, I'm not disgusted by the thought. I'm fine with it, all because of the sole fact that Sasha's lips taste a way I'm afraid I'll never be able to successfully pinpoint.