If things get hard what do you do?


I vanish. It's in my blood. My father vanished when I was five, my mother when I was ten. My brother did it when I was thirteen. I'm fifteen now and just as good at vanishing. My difference? I know how to reappear.

"Where have you been?"

I look at my foster parents. I shrug.

"That's not good enough, young lady. Where have you been?"

"Out and about."

"For nine hours?"

"Yeah." They don't need to know where I've been. They don't need to know I took off because a teacher called me "the orphan".

"We can't take this anymore."

I glance warily up at them. They don't get it do they? This isn't about them. Why does it matter if they can't take it anymore?

"We called social services and-"

Not again. Not again. This would be my fifth move. Fifth. In five years. I'm not listening to them. I don't need to hear it again. I have the whole speech memorized. The whole "We tried but you're not helping. It's nothing personal." And they never understand. They never understand that it is personal. It is.

The End

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