“This isn’t happening,” I thought. “This can’t be happening.”
The words revolved in my head like a turntable.
“This isn’t happening, this can’t be happening.”
It’d only been 24 hours since I was taken. Snatched out of my family’s trailer home, never to see it again. As reality hit, I sat motionless in a hollow white room.
The squeak of the solid steel door brought me to my senses. A husky man in a police uniform walked in. He sat down, his crystal blue eyes burning into me like laser beams.
“Do you know why you’re here?” he asked.
“No,” I said.
“Well, we have it on good authority to suspect your parents of robbing a few convince stores around town. Do you know anything about that?”
“No,” I said, expressionless.
The officer teetered in his chair, cocked his head, and gave me the look. That stern look that parents give kids when they want to know something. My mother perfected that look, but on him it was pathetic.
“There’s nothing to tell!” I shouted, my echo booming off the walls. “My parents didn’t do it. If anything you stole me from them. You’re the criminal!”
The officer sighed. “Alright, I’ll tell Mr. Weston to come get you. We’re done for today.”
He got up and left the room. A faint buzzing filled my ears. Looking around, the steal rods on the window made me feel like the criminal. I had to get out of here.
Mr. Weston walked in the door. He’s the social worker assigned to “look after me.” He’s the one that coaxed me out of the linen closet, after the police broke into my house.
“We’re going to take you some place safe,” he’d said.
I remember my heart beating against my thighs as I clutched my legs to my chest. Bending down, he extended his hand. I stood up slowly, making plans to get away.
Standing straight, blood rushed to my ears. My vision sharpened. The hair on my skin stood up. Every part of me was on...