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  RELINQUISH

  Copyright © 2015 M.N. Forgy

  Edited by Hot Tree Editing

  Proofread by Julie Deaton

  Cover by LM Creations

  Formatted by Max Effect

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, including electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This is a work of fictions. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favourite eBook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the work of this author.

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Also by M. N. Forgy

  About the Author

  DEDICATION

  To every woman who looks in the mirror and wonders where she went wrong.

  To every man who is on a mission that seems pointless.

  I dedicate this book to you. Know that no matter how bad things get, or how broken you may feel, there is light at the end of the tunnel.

  That light could be your soulmate. A soulmate who’s on the same path of discovery.

  PROLOGUE

  CHARLIE

  Nine Years Old

  The air is thick and hot, and it smells bad. Similar to the smell of rotting flesh, and pennies. I try to cover my nose with my dirty shirt, but I can’t move from this spot to see what’s causing the disgusting smell. Mommy told me to hide under this table and not to come out until she said so. That was two days ago. I’m hungry, and blood has crawled from the other side of the kitchen and under the table, painting my feet in a staining of red. I’ve peed myself a few times, and I’m starting to shiver, but I’m not sure if it’s from being wet and cold or from fear. I’ve called for Mommy, begged for her to come to me, but my cries go unanswered. I should disobey her, get up and look for her, but I’m too scared. Terrified something has happened to her. All I can seem to do is sit under this table and rock back and forth, replaying snippets of what happened just days before. But the images are getting foggier, the sounds of voices fading.

  I close my eyes, trying to remember. There are legs blocking my view, legs wearing black pants along with black shiny shoes. A loud bang erupts, followed by a man growling and yelling. Then I hear Mommy screaming. All in that order. I squeeze my eyes closed harder, trying to make out what the man was yelling about, but my brain washes it out. The growl that came from the man sounded like that green guy on TV who gets stronger when he’s angry. My mommy’s scream terrifies me to the point I plug my ears and freeze. The man attached to the legs and black shiny shoes leaves, slamming the door behind him.

  Closing my eyes, I try to remember the faces I saw from when I peeked from under the tablecloth, but all I get are blurred images. Was there more than one face? How many people were there? All I see are wings behind my eyelids. Wings that make my stomach fall, my teeth chatter and my body quiver. Is it a drawing? Is it a painting? I can’t tell. Tears slip down my cheeks, and a sob escapes my mouth.

  “MOM?”

  “Charlotte, can you tell me what you see?” Dr. Tesser asks, pushing his wired glasses up on his nose firmly. I gasp for air, my fingers clawing into the white pleather chair. My back is covered in sweat, and my head is throbbing with unbearable pain from trying to remember. I’ve been here two weeks. Every day, I’m brought to this room that is nothing but white: white couch, white pillows, and white walls. The only color in the room is from the carpet, which is gray, and Dr. Tesser’s black shoes. The doctor is an older man, with white hair and a white mustache, so he fits perfectly with the room. He has wrinkles on his forehead and around his mouth, giving him a permanent scowl.

  “I saw nothing,” I mutter, looking down at the carpet. I tell him the same thing every time we do this crap. Truth is, I don’t want to remember that day. Every time we have one of these sessions and he tries to pry me to remember more, it just hurts. I can’t remember much, honestly, but the things I do remember can only point to devastation. So I tell him I see nothing. If I don’t speak of it, it’s like it never happened. Right? Eventually, this fear that rattles my brain when I think about it will disappear. At least, I hope it does.

  Dr. Tesser sighs, tossing the clipboard to the side in frustration.

  “As usual. Maybe we should double your meds, make sure you’re sleeping better.” He pulls his glasses off his face, pinching his nose in frustration. More meds don’t sound so bad, considering they make me feel nothing. Like a puffy cloud just passing through Hell.

  “Charlotte, dear, you’re never going to get better until you start telling us what happened that day. What you saw, what you heard, what you’re feeling. Something other than silence,” he informs roughly. “You’re not even trying the exercises to help jog your memory. Don’t you want to remember?”

  I shrug and look out the window. “Not really.”

  ONE

  CHARLIE

  Now

  Looking at my pale complexion in the mirror, I turn and glance at my small breasts, flat stomach and barely-there ass. I groan in frustration and finger my long, curly brown hair. I turn eighteen today, and I look the same as I did when I was fifteen: small. Sighing, I lean down and grab my black frayed shirt off my suitcase and pull it on. My tits being so tiny, I don’t really have to wear a bra if I don’t want to. Not that I could find a good bra around here if I wanted to. In foster care, you’re given only hand-me-downs, which are usually in the worst condition. Sure, the state supposedly gives us money every so often for clothes, but that shit’s pocketed by the foster care parents. If we’re lucky, they’ll take us to a thrift shop to get clothes, but the pickings are slim.

  Foster care. I snort at the thought of it. Supposedly, the system helps by bringing in children from the worst situations and putting them into a home full of hope and love, until they can find the right couple for adoption. It’s all bullshit. It’s a façade. I’m not saying there isn’t a good foster home out there, with loving, caring providers, giving kids who have nobody a little hope that things will get better. I just haven’t seen one.

  Sometimes, I feel like a butterfly trapped in a Mason jar. The world is moving and happening on the other side of the glass, while I’m stuck inside. But today, the lid comes off this hopeless jar and I escape. Flying free, with endless possibilities.

  I open the black, torn suitcase and grab a pair of distressed shorts. Shimmying them on quickly, hues of red and blue paint my legs from the sun shining through the ratty quilt hanging over the window, acting as a curtain.

  I grab some magazines by the bunk bed, which usually holds
more kids than there is mattress, when the door slams open to my room.

  “Charlie, you need to hurry downstairs and do Tee’s hair before the school bus pulls up. Get a move on,” Aneta grumbles, jostling a small baby on her large hip. I smirk and toss the magazines in the suitcase before zipping it up, having to push and step on the damn thing to zip it up.

  Aneta sighs loudly, making sure I hear her irritation. I blow out a breath from the exertion of closing my suitcase and look toward a pissed-off Aneta.

  Her caramel-colored, frizzy hair is pulled into a tangled ponytail, which shows she hasn’t seen a brush in a couple days. Her overly large, white shirt is stained and torn in multiple places, hanging off her large frame loosely. And oh, God, she has no pants on, exposing her thick thighs. I hope she has underwear on today. Aneta is the foster parent of this fine establishment, which is a two-story house with more kids than beds. I couldn’t even tell you the name of the child she’s switching from hip to hip, because we have so many kids coming in and out of here, it’s hard to keep track. I’m sick of this fucking place—of all foster care homes, to be exact—and today being my eighteenth birthday…I’m fucking out of here.

  “Not happening,” I sing, pulling on my worn flip-flops. I’m the one who does all the kids’ hair, makes sure they’re bathed—hell, I even have to cook for them. It can be difficult at times, but it’s even more frustrating with the ones who require special care. Most of the foster care homes take in kids who have special needs, because the foster parents receive a bigger paycheck in return. The temporary parents find themselves in over their heads, and make the foster kids do the work by taking care of each other. During my years of high school, I skipped out on the fun, crazy things kids do ‘cause all I could think about was one of the toddlers not being fed. But those kids, the cute, squishy-face ones… they get adopted quickly, thankfully. But today, I’m only thinking of myself. Otherwise, I’ll never leave.

  “What do you mean it’s ‘not happening’?” Aneta snaps. “And what the hell do you think you’re doing with that?” She points at the suitcase on the floor, a look of despair splintered across her greasy face as her eyes widen.

  “I’m eighteen. My sentence as a ward of the state is done,” I explain, pulling the busted-ass suitcase off the floor. “You’re the one who signs up for all these kids then hides in your room behind your computer for me to take care of them. I’m done. Find another victim of the state to be at your beck and call.”

  “It don’t work like that, I’m afraid,” she huffs, rolling her eyes and pursing her lips.

  I stop, my heart beating faster than my lungs can take in air. The thought of staying in this piss-smelling prison causes a mini panic attack to combust in my chest. I can’t stay here. More than most of the time, there’s hardly any food. Bugs and mice the size of house cats share the tight living space, and the so-called ‘disciplinary actions’ of the foster care system can cause more mental damage than most can handle. When one of the kids acts out, their punishment is taking visits away from those who have loved ones, and cleaning up the fecal matter of those who can’t control themselves and expel wherever they’re sitting. I’ve witnessed enough suicide attempts, seen enough breakdowns of those who are mere children because they can’t handle the Division of Family Services (DFS) system. I have fallen off the path of sanity more often than I can count through the years. My morals surely could be tested as the acts of a juvenile delinquent. Not every child who walks in the door of the system is bad, but it’s what foster parents like Aneta try and accomplish.

  My face scowls with determination toward Aneta. “I don’t care if you send the damn police after my ass. Nothing is stopping me from leaving today.”

  “Charlie, you’re not going anywhere.”

  “Try and stop me,” I threaten, pushing past her.

  “Charlotte Evans, you cannot leave until your social worker has a judge sign off on your release. If you step a damn foot out that door, I’m obligated to call the police,” Aneta screeches, using my whole name to emphasize her point. The house shakes from her feet pounding against the stained linoleum floor as she chases me toward the staircase. The walls, marked and scuffed from children sliding their hands down them instead of the railing, pass by as I descend the steps.

  “Then call them! I’ll even wait a few minutes to give them a head start,” I sass, struggling with my suitcase down the steep stairs. She’ll call them. I know she will. She loves calling the police on me. Every time she and I get into an argument, she does just that, telling them I’m violent and out of control. It’s always a lie. She’s just a drama queen.

  “Where will you go? You have no job, no money, no family.” She snorts the last part, causing my head to snap in her direction. She knows how much not having a family bothers me, so of course she would make it obvious I have nobody to run to in my darkest hour. I never had weekends away from this hellhole, a family fighting with all their might to get me back home, or some cute little couple who couldn’t have kids to come see me. I’m utterly alone, and it’s the worst feeling ever.

  “Well, this for sure isn’t my fucking family. I’m leaving, and I don’t care if I have to sleep on a park bench. Anything out there is better than what’s going on in here,” I explain, my brown eyes staring at her dull green ones fiercely.

  “I’m coming with!” My gaze follows the voice up the stairs, finding the new girl Jayden staring back. She just arrived last week and has been locked in her room most of the time. I took her under my wing as much as I could, but she has a mind of her own. I would take food to her room, but she wouldn’t eat it. I tried to talk to her, but she only responded some of the time. I get it, though; it’s hard being pushed into a new home. The first couple weeks, you don’t want anything to do with anyone. I respected that, but I also let her know I was here for her. Jayden smirks, looking down at us and scratching her head, which is covered in kinky curls. Jayden is one of the prettiest girls I’ve seen come through here. Her race is mixed, giving her a glowing tan, and her thick frame gives her a body full of sexy curves. I bet she receives a ton of male attention.

  “NO!” Aneta yells, pointing at Jayden with a sturdy finger. “Charlie is one thing, but you, Jayden? You’re only seventeen and underage.” Aneta’s acne-scarred forehead wrinkles with annoyance as she waits for Jayden’s reply.

  “Watch me,” Jayden clips. She pulls her brown suitcase behind her, the wheels thumping against each step as she makes her way down the first couple. My eyes fall on her suitcase, the only possession an orphan is guaranteed to have.

  Jayden’s blue shirt, which looks like it used to have writing across the front of it, rides up from her white torn shorts, causing a sliver of skin to show as she wrestles the luggage down the steps.

  “That’s it, I’m calling DFS!” Aneta yells. She sets the baby on the floor and throws her hands in the air as if she’s had enough. I knew she would call DFS, and the cops will be next. I expected it. I should be out before they get here, though.

  “Where’re we going?” Jayden asks, out of breath, her curls spiraled out every which way.

  “We aren’t going anywhere,” I reply sternly, my eyebrows raised to indicate just how serious I am.

  Jayden frowns and looks over my shoulder. I follow her gaze and find Aneta on the phone, yelling hysterically.

  “Look, the way I see it, we could join forces, use each other’s street smarts and money to get the fuck away from this hellhole,” Jayden explains. I could use the money; I only have two thousand from baby-sitting and I know it won’t get me far. But Jayden is underage and that alone is a big risk. She’ll make us a target for law enforcement everywhere.

  “I have money, so I don’t need you. Besides, you’re underage. I’ll have the cops all over me,” I defend.

  “I have money, too, and haven’t you heard traveling in pairs is better than alone? What if you run across a creeper or something?” She shrugs, her gray eyes pleading for me to bring her along.


  “What? You think you’re going to save me?” I laugh, looking away from her puppy dog eyes.

  “I’ve been known to kick some ass,” she replies seriously. “My record alone can prove that.” I stop laughing instantly. If foster care has taught me anything, it’s you have to learn to fight if you want to live. There have been many occasions when fighting has kept me in one piece, but it also added to my criminal record. I’ve come across many bad seeds being tossed from home to home over the years. Not to mention no matter how small you mess up in care, a foster parent can make a mountain out of a mole hill, because again, the more trouble a kid, the more money they’re worth. I have a bunch of infractions against me because of a lying foster parent who needed a bigger paycheck.

  “Jayden, I know it sucks in here, but out there could be worse.” I try to reason with her, placing my hand on her shoulder. Her brows furrow, and she pushes my hand off.

  “Nothin’ out there can be as bad as this place,” she growls, her nose scrunched in anger. I lick my lips and nod. Aneta’s place is definitely one of the worst houses, that’s for sure.

  “The police are on the way, ladies, along with your DFS workers,” Aneta interrupts, smiling like the bitch she is. If we’re caught running away, Jayden will be bumped to a run case in the system, which means more money for Aneta, and a harder life for Jayden.

  “Fine!” I yell, giving into Jayden’s pleading. I don’t have time to argue with her, and by the looks of her packed suitcase, she ain’t taking no for an answer. I grab my own suitcase and all but run out of the house. There’s no way I’m going to let this be a big pay-out for the half-dressed bitch now standing in the doorway, laughing at me and Jayden’s frenzied state. The air outside is hot, almost to the point of suffocating, from the sun bearing down on my skin with vengeance.

  I fish the keys out of my pocket and unlock the door to my purple Geo, careful to watch where I step from all the toys and trash littering the driveway. Jayden cusses at the rusty lawn chair that snags her suitcase as she passes. This place is a dump.