disclaimed

...

Third foster home this month, and your bones are tired. You are eleven, and your hands shake at night. You want to grow up; you want control. There is a fire burning deep within you, and you want to be free.

Sirens blare somewhere in the distance, and LA is cold today, the fog sitting heavily on your city. There is a trash bag under your bed filled with what little you are allowed—a couple of books, some clothes, a ratty stuffed animal—and you try not to think about it too much. It's kind of all you have, and that's kind of really sad.

You have switched schools seven times, and teachers all face with the same pity in their eyes. You are not a wilting flower, a bird that's been run over. You are nothing to pity.

You have brittle bones and thick skin, a pretty mouth that spits out pretty lies when needed, and you are not hurting.

...

You are born of fire. Of death. Of rage and destruction. A thousand supernovas exploded to herald your arrival.

And, somehow, you, little one, were lost among the stars. And monsters with a drive so strong that they could only be parents—they burned every last thing in the hopes of finding you among the ashes.

Pink skinned and small, you were welcomed on Earth—those villagers found a little baby and, as many humans do, cared fiercely for you. Loved you. Protected you. Hid you. Shielded you from the very creatures that intended to do the same. And so they had to die.

And you were shielded once again.

...

The nuns make you get the belt yourself, whenever you mess up. Something about needing to understand that you had sinned, that God was punishing you. You hate Him, when they talk about Him like that.

What kind of—if God is merciful. If God is kind, good, just—all these adjectives that the nuns keep using—then why do you get moved from a foster family the very second you start to get attached?

You keep the lashes hidden under oversized sweater, and God is not saving you.

...

One day, your skin grows thick.

Your words bite and your tongue lashes, your eyes narrows and jaw sets. You are not the world's to take. You called Mrs. Brody Mom by accident, and found yourself at St. Agnes's the next day.

There is nothing in this world that you can't provide yourself, and you are not hurting.

...

You

are

not

hurting.

...

You're not very good in school—most of your teachers call you unmotivated, but all you hear is stupid. Days pass in a blur—weeks and months of your life fading into Fs and UNSATISFACTORIES splashed across papers littered with misspellings and grammar errors.

One kid asks if you can even read.

You leave the school that day with a three day suspension, and he with a bloody nose.

You do not feel remorse.

You're not sure if you can.

...

Sixteen. You find sixteen with a closed heart and open palms.

Your hands have never felt more at home than when they are gliding over a keyboard, and you lift one off the back of a van as a birthday present for yourself.

Your body is light, your head heavy. Whatever you're smoking in the cold of Miles's apartment is good, and you think that you can do this.

You choose a new name for yourself—new ID that tells the world that you are independent, new social, new identity—and you go on.

...

There are things that happen, sometimes, at night. Things you refuse to talk about, you think, but maybe you only feel that way because everyone else refuses to see it.

Your hands shake, if you think too much about it.

But here's this—when boys begin to like you (boys, you remind yourself. Just boys. Not men or wolves or monsters—), you are not confused. You are not lost.

You are not hurting.

...

When you meet him, you are awkward and gangly; long limbs in a body used to short ones. Stuck halfway between child and adult, you are catching up to yourself. Miles is new. Good.

He knows things about computers that you didn't, but you do soon. The Rising Tide welcomes you as a fellow rebel and teaches you things you never thought you would know.

The universe opens up around you.

...

Here is what you believe, at twenty—the world is round.

We are alone in the universe; your van is the only home you need, and you do not love Miles. You do not care about the family that abandoned you, the homes that didn't want you.

...

Here is what you know, at twenty—the government lies, and Miles makes you feel these intense, warm things in the pit of your stomach.

Drink and drugs can make you forget about the family that abandoned you, the homes that didn't want you. Your van is drafty and you have to sleep with a bat nearby, to feel safe.

The world is shit, but you are okay.

...

It's—hacking SHIELD—that's more a power play, than anything else, to be honest. You want to remind the rest of Rising Tide that you are still good—you are still good enough for them. You deserve your position within the organization.

Getting caught—that wasn't planned, but it earns you major cred. But—they all.

They.

They are all so good. And you—

you want to be better.

...

You are not hurting.

And that is not a lie. Not anymore.

...

i just really loved the idea of exploring skye's past. so.