Inner thigh has a deep bite mark, a bit of dried blood. I grab the white sweater wadded up and over her face, hiding her entire head, yanking it off, ...ossing it aside. God I had forgotten how much of a mess I had made of her face. I laugh at the gross sight leaning over me. Her dark makeup is completely smeared around her face. Her dark brown hair is matted, some of it plastered to her forehead and cheek. Her eyes are partially open, staring blankly through smudges of makeup streaked with tears. No one was going to adopt a crazy kid who saw stuff, heard voices, and forgot about the passing of time. The state was also very unwilling to let me go, they were very afraid of another child dying in a foster home and bad press. So I stayed, as other children entered and exited the home, I stayed. As caregivers came and went, I stayed.I don't remember my parents, never even seen a picture, at first I wasn't allowed to see. Now I am afraid of seeing their faces again, afraid I will remember. More

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