WIP Book 1 Of the fostered Series!

I was five years old when I went into my first foster home. I was scared and alone. It took thirty days before anyone, including the fucking school district, noticed that I was home alone; cold, dirty, and hungry. The woman who gave birth to me, she who shall remain nameless, took off.  The state came in and took me to the CPS office, cleaned me up, fed me, and tried to find a relative to take me in. There was no one. My birth certificate had no father’s name, and when they ran she who shall remain nameless it said she had no living relatives. So, I ended up going to a foster home; the Jones’s house. I hated the place from the moment I walked in. There were a lot of kids of all colors, ages and sizes.

I was shown my room that had three sets of bunk beds and little room to move. There were eight boys and four girls that created a lot of noise and mess. But at the time, I was considered an emergency placement so that’s where I was placed. I sat in the corner of the room away from the other kids. Hell, they didn’t even notice me when I came in.

 Then SHE walked up to me, this little golden-haired girl with the two different colored eyes; one green and one grey. She asked me if I wanted one of her cookies. I just stared at her. She asked me my name, I told her Nathan, Nathan Bates.

She said her name was Jolie and she was five, too. She sat next to me. Every day, for every meal. And we played together, just the two of us. We vowed to be friends forever. For six months we were inseparable, we were even in the same kindergarten class. Jolie was my life.

Once a month, people who couldn’t have their own kids would come in, and we were paraded around like show dogs. One couple took an interest in Jolie. She told Ms. Jones, our foster mother, if they didn’t want me too, she wouldn’t go with them. She promised me we would be together forever.

Then, one day, she was gone.

We all left for school that day that they said Jolie had a doctor’s appointment, and would be late to school. Well, she never showed up. When I got home she was gone; her bunk was stripped and her favorite doll, Annie, was gone, too. From that point on, I became mad at the world. From then until I aged out of the system, I jumped from foster home to foster home, twenty to be exact. Hence, the nickname Jumper. My case worker gave it to me and it stuck. Only now I jump from bed to bed.

Each foster home was different. I was in one, and the foster “dad” believed in corporal punishment. He was a military man. I don’t remember his name because I wasn’t there long, and we were informed to call him “Sir”. Then there was the religious family. They spent seven days a week in the church, and homeschooled all their foster kids. I think I lasted two weeks there, when I was 16. They literally caught me with my pants down, with the preacher’s daughter on her knees in the vestibule. The Smith’s house, that was where I went after the preacher’s daughter incident; I stayed there until I was almost eighteen. They were good people. They died in a car accident coming back from a funeral in Georgia. I really liked them. Mr. Smith taught me to channel all my anger into boxing. He ran and owned a gym, and worked with me every day. His son owns the gym now, and I work and train there. I’m fast on my feet and even faster with my hands. I am training to get into the MMA.

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