Confessions From A Rooftop - 2. Chapter 2

I’m the king of lying to myself. I had no idea what I was going to do. I had made no decision, I just told myself I had. The uncertainty was way too much, so I lied to myself. A lot of good that did me, too. Two years bouncing around foster care homes. The longest I stayed in one was for a half year. A whole six months in one, nice, stable home.

That was the first home I went to, I think Vanessa put me there specially. They were a nice family, a husband and wife that couldn't have kids. They told me that they didn't like babies anyways, so they didn't mind that I was 15. “We get to skip all the diapers and temper tantrums” they told me, “So how can that be a bad thing?”

The couple knew everything about what happened, my past. They assured me that they were as open-minded as they came, so they didn't care about my sexuality. They even said that I should ask out that senior I had a crush on. Boy was that a mistake, but I’ll get to that later.

Vanessa stayed in my life for a while. At first, she’d visit every week. Then, every other week. She eventually only came once a month, that happened twice, towards the end of my stay. I got a call one day from her, “I’m sorry, sweetie. You've been doing so well, overall, and I’m so proud of you! Your case is very special and some people noticed your remarkable progress in the last few months. I’m … I've been promoted and I’m moving away.”

I was stunned. I couldn't even reply.

“Sweetie, you’ll be fine. Everything will be alright. You’re a strong young man and you’ll be just fine.”

I was assigned a new case worker and their first order of business was to find me a new place to live. Jerry, the husband, had received an amazing job opportunity and they were taking it. Unfortunately, it was in Dallas. They asked me to go, but I refused. I've lived in New York City my entire life, and as much as a horrible place it has been to me. It was my horrible place, it was home. So, I stayed and they left. I saw them off at the airport, I cried.

My new case worker sucked, and the places he put me in were even worse. I don’t pretend to understand how the system works, because Vanessa was, at first, able to spend so much time with me and on me, and this new guy, Walter, barely acknowledged my existence. I swear, he had a list of foster homes and ran down the list, calling each one, and the first one to say yes took me.

It was a run-down bungalow with a lawn that hadn't been mowed in months. At least it was within walking distance to my hell of a high school, I reassured myself. It was a single, old man that lived at the house. I know what you’re thinking, but no, that didn't happen. What did happen was that he made me his slave, effectively.

“I hear your old man tried to beat the fag out of you.” He sneered at me, as we sat down to the dinner I had cooked, that first day. “Well, ain't none of that happenin’ here. That’s why the last kid was took’d from me, and then I had to take care of this here house myself. We see how that turned out.” He sneered at me. His smile had more teeth missing then present.

He didn't hit me if I didn't do as I was told, but he didn't have to. If I misbehaved, my clothes would ‘accidentally’ get thrown out, or be buried in a pile of dirt. He’d forget that he had to go grocery shopping, so there’d be nothing for me to eat. Sometimes for two or three days.

School was rough, too. It wasn't so bad when I was at my first foster home, since the couple were so nice to me. It made the situation bearable. They felt especially guilty, since it was essentially their fault I was being beat up and harassed at school. The guy I liked wasn't gay. At all. He was apparently super religious and hated gays with a passion. He said I propositioned him in the bathroom and the rumor spread like wild fire. It quickly morphed into me being a whore, begging for money from him.

In class, people would pass me notes, asking what my rates were, or just flat out giving me $20 dollar bills, with a time and place for them to ‘meat’ me.

After a while, the old man got sick, cancer or Alzheimer's or something. Whatever, either way, I had to leave.

The other homes weren't anything better. By the time I was 17, now, I had been in at least a half dozen more homes. Most just psychologically and emotionally tortured me and a few physically. The physical abuse wasn't as common as people seem to think. But it definitely did happen.

Almost all the foster homes I stayed in were in apartments, which I found to be the only thing that kept me sane. I like roofs. I don’t know what it is about them, I just enjoy being on them. Maybe it’s the height, or the fresh air, the wind... I don’t know. It’s just the only time I feel relaxed and myself.

I have been sitting on the roof floor, cross legged for the last two or three hours, reflecting on my life. Wondering how I got here and how things were so messed up and when they would get better, or if things getting better would even be possible. I thought back to all those times I had been raped, both in school and out. Always by my fellow classmates. They justified it in their mind by showing a $20 or sometimes a $50 over my used body, as I lay on the ground. I may have been begging them to stop and I may be bleeding now, but they paid me, so it wasn't rape, right?

I woke up this morning and decided it had to stop. To further hammer that point home, during school I had to give 4 blowjobs and I was raped again at lunch. As soon as the bell rang, I jumped up and ran out of school to the pawn shop I had decided on this morning. Running hurt, a lot, but I was determined, so I phased out the pain.

Those assholes wouldn't know what hit them. I had been saving most of the money they gave me and was going to buy retaliation. Okay, maybe not most, but some. I may or may not have bought some pills a few times, when the pain was really bad. I never developed an addiction, because the numbness and dulling of my life scared me. But sometimes it was exactly what I needed. But I had $300 in my pocket and I was going to put it to use.

The pawn shop I went to wasn't exactly... legal. They sold pretty much anything you needed, for a price. Anything. I bought a knife. It wasn't that big, but the extreme illegality of the purchase cost me all my money and then some. My reputation had spread across the neighborhood and the employee needed a little extra motivation to process the purchase.

Here I was, sitting on a roof top, of the building where my current abuser lives, holding a knife. I wasn't going to use it on my current foster abuser, they weren't worth it. He was just a druggy that used the foster money he got to buy more drugs. Sure he hit me sometimes, but the heroin will get him just the same.

No, I had another target in mind. Sam Manning. That sick son of a bitch has caused more suffering in my life, at school, than any other person in my life, including my father. I started shaking at the thought of him. I knew exactly where he lived, too. The dumbass brought me back to his house a few times, even made me crawl out the window so his bible thumping mother wouldn't see me.

I didn't have a watch, but there were billboards everywhere. The time said 10:47.

“Perfect.” I smiled.

Sam’s housing subdivision wasn't too far from here, I’d be there a little after 11. He’d be awake but his parents shouldn't be, by that time. As I got up, my legs were numb, from sitting for so long without moving. I walked it off then headed down to the street.

I had the knife tucked into the back of my jeans, under my shirt. I didn't want to rouse suspicion after all, right? I absentmindedly walked down the street, since it was pretty much a straight stretch to good ‘ol Sam’s house. I wasn't really paying attention to anything in particular, until I noticed something out of the corner of my eye.

It was a woman of the night. They were everywhere, and women, so I never really paid attention to them. But this one was different. I could have sworn it was Vanessa standing there, in the knee high leather boots, skimpy short shorts and loose fitting shirt with no bra underneath. It wasn't Vanessa, but she was about the same age and was definitely very similar in appearance.

I was on autopilot, not really aware or in control of my actions. “Come on.” I said to her, as I walked into the alley. She followed me, smiling. As I disappeared into the darkness, my hand reached behind, to my back.

It was no more than 5 minutes later that I walked back onto the street. I was in a daze, shocked at what I had just done. I stood there, in the middle of the sidewalk, in a surreal moment in time. It felt like a bubble, that time didn't matter. I looked down and saw the deep red blood stains all over my shirt. I looked at the knife, dripping with blood. It was pooling on the sidewalk beside me.

Just like that, I snapped back into reality. “Hey!” I heard yelling, maybe directed towards me. “Drop that. Put your hands up!”

Definitely directed towards me. I looked to my left and saw nothing. I looked to my right and saw a cop running towards me, gun out and pointed right at me. “Oh shit!” I yelled and took off.

I ran, not really planning where I was going. Doors flashed by me as I ran as fast as I could, away. No real direction, no destination in mind, just away. “This won’t work.” I told myself, and reached for the first door I saw.

It was an unlocked apartment building door. I quickly started running up the flights of stairs. There was still no plan formulated in my mind. I didn't know what I was doing or where I was going. Up the stairs I went. Soon enough I heard someone else running up the stairs behind me, the cop. I hadn't lost him and he was still coming after me. “Shit.” I muttered as I started to double time it up the stairs, somehow going faster than before, faster than I thought possible.

You know how in action movies, someone will dramatically burst through a door and go flying like 7 feet? I never thought that was actually realistic, but apparently it is. I flew through that door and it took me a few steps to get my grounding again.

I quickly looked around, desperately, trying to find somewhere to hide. Nothing. Nowhere. The door opened and it was just me and the cop.

“Drop the knife!” He yelled at me as he slowly stepped closer to me. His gun was still pointed at me, right at my face.

I didn't know what to do. I could drop my knife and get arrested for murder or I could try to make a run for it and get shot and probably die. Unlike last time I was faced with a life or death situation, I knew I had no idea what I was going to do. I wasn't going to lie to myself and pretend I had the situation under control. It wasn't under control. Quite the opposite, the situation was so wildly out of control it was ridiculous.

Once again, just by instinct, I closed my eyes. With a deep breath, I disconnected my mind and let my body go into autopilot for me. My mind couldn't make this decision for me, so I was going to let my body make it.