“State your name, age, and why you are here,” A short sigh escaped my mouth, obviously bored as I gently twirled a small piece of my hair. “Aria,” I replied simply, avoiding eye contact with the supervisor and fellow group mates. “I'm 12 and I'm here for killing my foster mother,” I could feel the tension in the room as the morbid words escaped my mouth and I noticed the girl next to me stiffen and scoot away. This was nothing new to me. I've been from group home to group home, month after month and I was used to the reactions to the murder of my foster mother. I've never bothered to explain. I've tried in the first group home that I had gone to, but people turned on me and I was a target for abuse and bullying. You'd think I'd be in some kind of mental facility for killing her-- I was, but they released me because they thought I was ready and put me in a group home. That was eight months ago, and this is my third group home. The girls just never seem to like me, or they feel threatened. They'd blame me for their crazy antics, but most of my moving around was due to fights. Now the process repeats again.
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“What?” I uttered, taken aback by her question. Our supervisor, Ms. Weiss, quickly interjected, “Natalie, that wasn't a very appropriate question,” she scolded. “Some topics are sensitive to certain people.” She looked at me and as soon as she caught my eye, she turned away, “Sorry…” she
“What?” I uttered, taken aback by her question. Our supervisor, Ms. Weiss, quickly interjected, “Natalie, that wasn't a very appropriate question,” she scolded. “Some topics are sensitive to certain people.” She looked at me and as soon as she caught my eye, she turned away, “Sorry…” she