
Now, I may not be able to tell you my real name, but I can tell you this; after the death of my father... my real father... I spent a few years in various foster homes. For the most part, this wasn't as bad as a lot of the stories make them out to be. A lot of the places I stayed were run by loving, caring people who just feel compelled to do something to quiet that voice in their head. Which, believe me, I understand all too well. And though the people running the homes were often kind hearted, what I brought into their homes was far from the same. I was a monster, to say the least. I was violent, angry, aggressive, argumentative, and scheming... but I was also intelligent, calculating, imaginative and tenacious. If there was something I wanted, you can believe I was planning ways to get it. Intricate ways. For instance, If I wanted a cookie from the pantry but was unable to reach where they were, I may, say, take the ex-lax from the bathroom, put some in the cats water dish, wait until one of the older children was sent to the pantry with the step ladder to remove the kitty litter from the top shelf, wait until he'd carried the bag out of sight and then used the ladder myself to not only win my prize, but, in all likelihood, place the blame squarely on the shoulders of the older child who was only doing as he was asked. Sorry Scotty :) Needless to say, my caregivers and I were often at odds... Scotty and I didn't get along too well either.
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