Justprompts

[cadet_amara]

 

 

Ten-year-old Amara Patil sat in the police station listening to the conversation around her. She wasn’t supposed to hear what they were telling her case worker, who looked very annoyed to be called out there this late at night.

 

“-she’s been nothing but a trouble-maker…”

 

“-could have killed him!”

 

“If they press charges…”

 

“-needs a special home environment…”

 

No one bothered to ask her what happened. No one bothered to even listen to her story. When she tried to tell someone they had all ignored her, what else could she do? Now, it didn’t matter. What was the point in asking for help anyway? Grown-ups always believed what they wanted and never listened.

 

“I’ll go talk to her.” She heard the familiar click of her case worker’s heels and sat up a little straighter. Mrs. Jennings was always after her to sit up straight and look people in the eye. She didn’t know why that mattered, really, but it seemed important to her. “Mara?” She said down across from her. Amara could tell she was doing her best to keep her tone gentle and soothing. It wasn’t really very comforting. “What happened, sweetheart?”

 

She hated that. Why did grown-ups always call her sweetheart? She wasn’t sweet. She wasn’t even considered nice. It always sounded so fake.

 

“Mara? Will you tell me?”

 

Amara looked at the woman, for a second she thought she would believe her and considered telling her the whole story.

 

The placement started out fine. Almost too good to be true. The family had a huge house, a cat, and two other kids just a little older than Amara. She had promised Mrs. Jennings that she would try to get along with them, and that she wouldn’t cause trouble. Of course, Mrs. Jennings assured her that she hadn’t been the problem at her last placement, and that Mr. Calihan had no business treating her like he did, and she was very, very sorry for sending her to the ranch. She had even cried, which Amara thought was a bit dumb. What was she crying for? Mrs. Jennings assured her that this place would be different. This family was special, and she stupidly believed her.

 

It started out with little things. Salt poured into her cereal, oil in her shampoo, snake in her bed, that sort of thing. She knew it was the two boys, but thought maybe they were just teasing her. After all, they played games together and showed her around school. They even helped her with her homework, which Amara appreciated. She still was struggling to catch up, and the kids here seemed to be ahead of the ones at her last placement. She could put up with stupid little pranks, it was not big deal.

 

But then the pranks became more cruel and disturbing. Urine in her morning juice, feces in her school bag, they seemed to take great joy in putting things in her food. Then they hung the family cat from a tree and blamed her. She remembered them laughing as it twitched and struggled, and for the first time in a long time she was afraid of someone. She had nightmares where they hung her from that tree and began to lose sleep. The more sleep she lost the more difficult it was to pay attention in school, and the more irritable she became. Her foster parents began to get frustrated with her, and what they considered to be her “disturbing behavior”. She tried to explain it wasn’t her, but they always took their sons’ sides. Her foster father even called her a “nasty little liar”. After that, she stopped trying to tell the adults what was going on. She would have to take care of herself, and paranoia slowly took over. She was constantly watching her back, checking everything, just waiting for their next move.

 

One morning she woke up with a pillow pressed firmly over her face. The pillow muffled any attempts to call for help, and for a split second she was certain she was going to die. Her foster brother had smirked down at her when he lifted the pillow, letting her lay there for a few minutes gasping for breath. “I can kill you whenever I want.” He bragged. “No one would care.” Amara realized he was probably right. Who would care if she were dead? And they were very convincing liars, they could probably get away with it. That was when she stopped sleeping altogether. Her teacher was concerned that she was falling asleep in class, but she refused to tell her what was going on. Who would believe some foster child over kids who grew up there?

 

The physical violence became worse then, because they knew they could get away with it. They lit her hair on fire, attacked her with sticks, things like that, making sure they always had a story to tell the adults, usually one that blamed Amara. She felt like she was trapped in an unending nightmare. She tried to run away, but they always found her and brought her back. She really began to feel like there was no hope, and maybe she should just let them kill her.

 

This morning it had finally come to an end. She was ironing, punishment for her last attempt to escape, when the younger of the brothers came in. He tried to force her to set the hot iron on her hand, when she just… snapped. She shoved him away and in one sweeping motion grabbed up the iron and hit him in the face with it. He howled and fell backwards, clutching at the painful burn like an animal in pain. Rage blinded her, and she began kicking him with all her strength. All the pain and suffering they caused her seemed to have built up and was finally exploding out of her like a volcano. She had no idea what she was doing.

 

The next thing she knew her foster mother was screaming and the father was pulling her away. The rest of the day was a blur, doctors, cops, they all spoke to her, some kindly, some trying to intimidate, but she never said a word. She just silently looked at them, waiting patiently for her fate to be decided.

 

That was how she came to be sitting in the police station. She almost felt relieved really. One of the cops told her if she didn’t tell her side of the story she would go to jail. It was an empty threat really. No one threw kids in jail. But did he really think that scared her? Jail would be better than going back to that house. She had simply stared at him, clearly unafraid. That was when they called her case worker, who was now sitting across from her, waiting for an answer.

 

She cleared her throat, speaking for the first time all day. “I just… got mad.” She lied. Amara was certain that even Mrs. Jennings wouldn’t believe her, and maybe if she said it enough she could forget the whole ordeal.

 

The woman frowned, studying the girl. She had been this child’s case worker for three years, and she knew very well she had a temper, but nothing ever violent. “Mara, you could have killed him. The doctor said you are covered in burns and bruises, Something must have happened.”

 

The girl frowned, her expression dark and cold. “I wanted to kill him.” She said with disturbing conviction. It was true. She wanted that boy and his brother both dead.

 

Mrs. Jennings looked at her, alarmed. “Mara.” She said firmly, all the attempts at a gentle tone abandoned. “Don’t you say things like that.” She warned. “Now, I’ve arranged for you to go to a group home… it’s a special facility for…” She trailed off, looking for the right words.

 

“Criminals?” The girl supplied.

 

“Amara Patil, you are many things but you are not a criminal.” Mrs. Jennings shook her head a little. “Now, I know you, and I don’t believe for one second that the boy didn’t do anything to you, but since you won’t tell we’re going to have to make due with what placement I can get.” She got up, then looked down at the girl. “Not everyone is out to get you, Mara.”

 

Amara held back an argument and nodded a little. She would never tell anyone what happened in that house. Ever. She wanted to pretend like it didn’t happen and that was exactly what she was going to do. Never in her life would she want to kill someone as badly as she had wanted to kill those two boys, and she prayed they would never meet again.