Staking Her Claim...: Book 1 in the Patricks' Brothers series by Natasha Thomas

hands. For instance, if they’re holding a gun, she’s probably angry.”
- someecards
     
    Before I start on about how unfair the foster care system is to kids, I should probably preface it by saying that not every family is horrible. In fact, some are great. Just not the ones I’d been placed with, which is why I’m a little biased about the entire system and how it’s run.
     
    I told you about the Jensen’s, and I’m sure you picked up on the fact that they’re decent people who actually cared about their ward, but rest assured they are one of the rare few that did. And sadly, after what happened with me, they withdrew their willingness to foster another child on the off chance that they’d suffer the same fate again. Sad and a great loss for all those kids out there that need loving homes, but understandable nevertheless.
     
    Unfortunately, my experience in the system isn’t an isolated case, nor is it uncommon for other kids to live through what I did. Sure, there are varying degrees of abuse that occurs at the hands of the monsters whose care we are placed in and no two kid’s experiences are the same, but it still boils down to the same thing in the end; we are more often than not united our pain.
     
    A few of the stories I’ve heard from kids that have aged out of the system as I traveled were nothing if not heartbreaking. The depths of depravity some of the men and women charged with these children’s care is unfathomable to anyone who hadn’t been through something similar first-hand, but I had so I knew what they were left to deal with day in and day out.
     
    I knew the darkness that lurked within. I was well acquainted with what lay just beneath the surface. I felt their agony at not being able to let people close for fear they’ll infect them with the poison that has permeated their souls. And I lived their despair at knowing they will never find someone that soothes the raging beast inside them. That’s what the monsters masquerading as parents did to us. They took away our chances of finding any peace. They stripped away our dignity. And they made us believe we are worthless.
     
    These were some of the reasons that led to me decide it was best to keep Alysia at arm’s length and was ultimately why I pushed her away in the end. I believed every word that had been drummed into my head over and over again. Who wouldn’t? I mean, you’re told you’re useless, pathetic, scum often enough and you’ll start to believe. Or at least, I did.
     
    But there was more to it than that. Much more.
     
    I became adept at hiding bruises from beatings I didn’t deserve from a very young age. I honed the ability to come up with excuses for why I couldn’t sit down, stand up, or bend over without grimacing in agony at a moment's notice.
     
    The last thing I wanted was to open up to people because I couldn’t bear to be judged more harshly than I already was by the people I was living with. I couldn’t afford to take the chance on making a friend who thought they were doing the right thing by speaking up, making it infinitely worse for me when I got home. That was something I just wouldn’t risk because I’d been on the receiving end of a beating the likes I’d never suffered before when a teacher talked to my foster father about bruises she’s noticed one day on the playground. And let’s just say; that wasn’t something I wanted to go through ever again if I could help it.
     
    I learned to keep my thoughts and feeling to myself most of the time, but when you’re a young boy, angry at the world and raging about the unfairness of it all it was hard to keep that kind of fury in check one hundred percent of the time. Occasionally, that rage filtered over to kids at school that picked on me or called me names.
     
    Not something that I’m proud to admit, that I used my fists early on to convey my dislike of their words and taunts, but nevertheless I did, and I own it. It took a few years, but in