Haven

I was trying on $400 dollar dresses, knowing one would end up in my purse.

The sales clerk came over as I was turning in front of the mirror, admiring myself from different angles in the soon-to-be stolen dress.

She looked at me, faintly disapproving. "Can I help you, Miss?" she said in a bored, monotone voice.

I gave her a bright, fake smile. "No thank you, I'm just fine." The sales clerk left, her heels tapping on the floor like rain on a roof.

Once I was sure she was gone, I changed as quickly as I could and stuffed the dress into my bag. I hurried out of the store, the alarm screaming and the clerk yelling. Before long, police sirens could be heard in the distance. But by then I was out of sight.

"Martha, I'm home!" I yelled. "I'll be in my room." I went upstairs and tossed the dress on her bed, next to the sunglasses I had stolen a week ago and the shoes I had stolen yesterday.

The door opened, and Martha was there, in her flour-dusted kitchen apron. She was about to say something to me, when she caught sight of the dress on the bed.

Martha's face took on a tired, exasperated expression. "Really, Haven?"

I nodded, not meeting her eyes.

Martha shook her head. "Why, Haven? Why is the sole purpose of your life to promote the stress in mine?"

Violet still didn't look at her. "It's not. I only do this because I want my real family to have nice things, too. I mean, when I find them again."

Martha sat next to her on the bed. They're not coming back, Haven." She tried to put her hand on my shoulder.

I smacked it away. "They ARE. You don't know anything."

"They're not." Martha's voice was rising. "And they weren't your family. They were just a bunch of filthy little freaks like you, trying to fill your head up with ideas about your so-called "powers," and so many other Satanistic things!"

"Shut up!" I screamed, jumping up. Don't you dare talk about my family that way! I know they'll come back. And if they don't, I will find them. Try and stop me." I slammed the door, and rushed outside for some fresh air to clear her head.

I knew I wasn't easy to take care of, what with all the shoplifting. The drugs. The alcohol. Actually, Martha was right. The purpose of my life was to promote the stress in Martha's and add gray hairs to her head. Because somewhere, there was a spark of hope that Martha would get fed up with me and send me to yet another foster home, which would be the fifth since my friends and I had been forced to be split apart. But deep inside me, I knew that Martha wasn't one to give up. Not by a long shot.