Staking Her Claim...: Book 1 in the Patricks' Brothers series by Natasha Thomas Page A
Authors: Natasha Thomas
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the end, I managed to control myself, for the most part, internalizing my anger and saving it for a time I could fight back against the people that truly deserved it.
Some of the families I was sent to live with weren’t as bad as others, especially when I was two years old until around the time I turned eight. Those families handed out mere love taps in comparison to the beatings I got later.
1 It never occurred to me one day I would end up praying silently to be sent back to one of those homes. But night after night I found myself doing so. I asked a God I was almost positive sure didn’t exist to return me to any of the nine homes I’d lived in before the final one I was dumped with at the age of twelve.
As a naïve kid, I didn’t know that what was happening to me was a picnic compared to what I could have suffered, and little did I know at the time, but shit was about to get a thousand times worse.
Like I said, by the age of twelve I’d been through nine foster families, not because I was a juvenile delinquent or anything, but simply because I was more trouble than the paycheck I equaled.
People were more than happy to get rid of a kid with a chip on his shoulder, and my chip was fucking huge. I’d been arrested twice for petty theft by eleven, but in my defense I was hungry not being fed even remotely enough at home, and a growing boy had to eat didn’t he?
Sure, I’d also been expelled from more schools than I’d like to admit, and I may or may not have done a five-month stretch in juvie for spray painting a government building, but a stretch in kiddie jail was a holiday in my eyes so all’s well that ends well.
When I was hauled before the judge who was sentencing me, I wasn’t apologetic in the slightest and I didn’t beg for a second chance. Fuck, I didn’t believe in second chances back then anyway. Frankly put, I wanted the old dude in the outdated robes to sentence me to the maximum. I couldn’t think of a better early birthday present than taking an all-expenses paid vacation to the land of orange and bars.
I’m not going to make excuses for the shit I did when I was a confused kid caught in a dangerous situation. I won’t try and convince you to feel sorry for me now by telling you what living in those homes did to my fragile psyche. Shit happens, I was a sick kid who lost his only chance at a real life. End of story.
No amount of explanation makes what I went through any less painful. And I don’t think I’d garner your respect if I tried it excuse all the fucked up stuff I did as an outlet for the storm I knew was brewing inside me every day. At the end of the day, I did everything they said I did. I stole. I broke and entered. I tagged buildings. And I lashed out at everyone and anyone I came into contact with who remotely pissed me off. All of which landed me the label of ‘troublemaker.’ The kid who didn’t respond well to authority figures. And they weren’t wrong, I didn’t. In fact, I went out of my way to ignore rules, discipline, and authority of any kind.
Six days after I turned twelve was the day my life changed, and not in a good way. That was the day I was placed with the final foster family I’d ever have, not that I knew that them. I can remember that day vividly because I’d thought it was a late birthday present, getting out of the shitty place I’d just spent the last nine and a half months that was. Unfortunately, I wish I’d had the gift of foresight so I could have wished for another stint in juvie instead of ending up with the Fitzsimmons.
The people I was placed with, Phillipe and Raquel Fitzsimmons, were apparently a professional couple who were highly respected members of the community in Lancaster, Texas. I had no idea where the hell that was living in, San Diego at the time, but after a couple of hours on a plane and being shuttled in and out of airports I’d soon find out it was a town just outside
Some of the families I was sent to live with weren’t as bad as others, especially when I was two years old until around the time I turned eight. Those families handed out mere love taps in comparison to the beatings I got later.
1 It never occurred to me one day I would end up praying silently to be sent back to one of those homes. But night after night I found myself doing so. I asked a God I was almost positive sure didn’t exist to return me to any of the nine homes I’d lived in before the final one I was dumped with at the age of twelve.
As a naïve kid, I didn’t know that what was happening to me was a picnic compared to what I could have suffered, and little did I know at the time, but shit was about to get a thousand times worse.
Like I said, by the age of twelve I’d been through nine foster families, not because I was a juvenile delinquent or anything, but simply because I was more trouble than the paycheck I equaled.
People were more than happy to get rid of a kid with a chip on his shoulder, and my chip was fucking huge. I’d been arrested twice for petty theft by eleven, but in my defense I was hungry not being fed even remotely enough at home, and a growing boy had to eat didn’t he?
Sure, I’d also been expelled from more schools than I’d like to admit, and I may or may not have done a five-month stretch in juvie for spray painting a government building, but a stretch in kiddie jail was a holiday in my eyes so all’s well that ends well.
When I was hauled before the judge who was sentencing me, I wasn’t apologetic in the slightest and I didn’t beg for a second chance. Fuck, I didn’t believe in second chances back then anyway. Frankly put, I wanted the old dude in the outdated robes to sentence me to the maximum. I couldn’t think of a better early birthday present than taking an all-expenses paid vacation to the land of orange and bars.
I’m not going to make excuses for the shit I did when I was a confused kid caught in a dangerous situation. I won’t try and convince you to feel sorry for me now by telling you what living in those homes did to my fragile psyche. Shit happens, I was a sick kid who lost his only chance at a real life. End of story.
No amount of explanation makes what I went through any less painful. And I don’t think I’d garner your respect if I tried it excuse all the fucked up stuff I did as an outlet for the storm I knew was brewing inside me every day. At the end of the day, I did everything they said I did. I stole. I broke and entered. I tagged buildings. And I lashed out at everyone and anyone I came into contact with who remotely pissed me off. All of which landed me the label of ‘troublemaker.’ The kid who didn’t respond well to authority figures. And they weren’t wrong, I didn’t. In fact, I went out of my way to ignore rules, discipline, and authority of any kind.
Six days after I turned twelve was the day my life changed, and not in a good way. That was the day I was placed with the final foster family I’d ever have, not that I knew that them. I can remember that day vividly because I’d thought it was a late birthday present, getting out of the shitty place I’d just spent the last nine and a half months that was. Unfortunately, I wish I’d had the gift of foresight so I could have wished for another stint in juvie instead of ending up with the Fitzsimmons.
The people I was placed with, Phillipe and Raquel Fitzsimmons, were apparently a professional couple who were highly respected members of the community in Lancaster, Texas. I had no idea where the hell that was living in, San Diego at the time, but after a couple of hours on a plane and being shuttled in and out of airports I’d soon find out it was a town just outside
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