I am tired of being fostered and then chucked back into the Home.
I am so cold, my heart and my skin.
Why do I have to always ruin things?
Last time was the shortest, one month and they got sick of me.
After that the Home sent me to hospital, I was diagnosed with depression and OCD. A man, late fifties, early sixties, ran the hospital. He had thin glasses that slid down his nose continually, and had the start of grey stubble around his chin.
I was in there for a year. Being poked and prodded and having needles stuck in me before he came. A man in his twenties, the pure diagnosis of evil. He knew what I could do, what I was. He shaped me into a monster like I was made of clay.

Now I am in the back of a car, a Mercedes.
The woman driving is dressed pristinely, in a suit with her blonde hair tied back tightly.
She wouldn't tell me anything, only to stay calm and every thing will be explained to me once we got there.
Where "there" was, I had no idea.
I swore obtrusively in my head.
A blinding pain shot through my brain like a bolt of lightning.
I screamed, my voice breaking as I clutched my head in agony.
It subsided quickly, leaving a dull throb behind. The woman didn't even turn around, but she did look in the mirror, and I smirked. She wasn't as sly as she thought.
A girl stood underneath a streetlight, her hair was brown, but glinted red in the light. Her eyes were surprised, and my vision escalated so that I could see the flecks of gold in her blue-green pupils. She looked exotic, her skin tanned and eyes slightly slanted. Japanese heritage?
The girl was wearing blue jeans, a red shirt, green trainers and and white cardigan. As I stared at her time seemed to slow down, tears slid down her cheeks and sorrow clouded her vibrant eyes.
Then she was gone, whisked away by a shadow of a passing car on the motorway.
I caught the woman looking at me again, and I glared at her moodily.
Who was that girl? Why was she on the motorway? Were the doctors right? Am I crazy?
I had to find that sad girl. I had to.