Coming home
Dylan made his way back home after flying around for about an hour. He didn't think he could ever get tired of this. The government worker had seen what Dylan had done. He had watched in amazement as wings rippled out from his skin before giving three flaps and taking off into the air. It was true. Dyan Sinclair could fly. Dylan Sinclair needed to be in the government's grasp.
After seeing what he needed, he bolted down the mountain. He needed to tell his boss.
Dylan stopped in his tracks as his house came into view. It was a relatively small house, the boards on the outside seeming to hang on by a hair. The light brown paint was barely there anymore, leaving a dirty white paint underneath. The roof had some tiles missing which caused holes in the roof. The amount of buckets they had to catch the water when it rained was humerable. Dylan could remember only a few times when they had actually watered and mowed the grass. The only time they did was when the people came to make sure Dylan was safe in his foster parents house. It wasn't as often now that he was older. Or at all really.
After inspecting his own house, he sucked in on his teeth. He did not want to be home right now. He never did. The lights were off in his house, there was a good chance that neither of them were awake. That's what he was hoping for at least. Taking cautious and almost silent steps towards the door, he stopped in front of the splintering wooden door. Why did he have to live here?
A soft sigh left his lips as his slightly tanned hand gripped the rounded door knob. Very carefully, he slowly opened the door with just enough room for him to slip inside. Any further and the door would make an obnoxious creaking noise. Once inside, he cringed. They used to have a clean cut couch that Dylan would love to lounge on when he first arrived. Trent and Sam were so kind to him when he first arrived. They made sure that he told the specialists how great they were so he became a low priority. Even more so now that he had grown up. He wasn't in a great foster program. Dylan used to love sitting on the couch and propping his feet up on the glass coffee table. He would always make sure to prop his feet on the wooden outline of the glass. He had been scolded countless times for slamming his feet against the glass. But, back then, it was a normal scolding. It was one that Dylan figured every parent does. The scoldings turned as he grew older. It turned from a stern talking to, to a stern slap on the face. That's when Dylan realized his mistake of loving it here.
The floors used to be clean and shiny before blood, sweat, and tears poured onto it at a rapid pace. Now, the couch had been ripped as the cotton stuffing spilled out of it. A knife had done that. The glass table had been shattered, now only the frame remaining. That was when Dylan had gotten home too late and made too much noise. They had slammed him into the coffee table. He only had bad memories here. The wooden floors were stained a dark red color in some places and a soft yellow in others.
Finally snapping out of his trance, he fully stepped inside and closed the door behind him carefully. It seemed like Trent and Sam were either out of the house, or they were asleep. Either way, Dylan would love for it to stay that way. He crept into the kitchen, his backpack barely shifting on his back at his careful steps. The kitchen was in the same, or worse, condition than that the living room was in. The kitchen counter's edges were smeared in a red color from Dylan getting thrown into them when Trent got drunk. The fridge didn't work ever since Dylan had gotten there. He wasn't sure he wanted to hear that story. The blender and toaster were nowhere to be found. That was because they apparently made too much noise when preparing the food. Dylan could understand that partially. But that didn't make it right. The floors looked the same as the living room. It was just a tad bit less since, when he was younger, he only got punished in the kitchen a couple of times.
There was never any food in the kitchen. Or at least, to Trent and Sam. Ever since Dylan had gotten the high end job, he had been carefully sneaking off a couple bites of food. That, combined with lunch at school, was enough to at least keep him alive. Though, he was never satisfied.
Dylan kept it in a small, hidden compartment behind the fridge. The wires had been ripped out so it was a bit easier to use. He did have to be extremely careful however. Gripping the left side of the fridge, he slowly scooted it out of the way without making a sound. Success.
Crouching down, Dylan opened the small door and noticed he was running low. That's how he did it. He would steal as much as he could in a couple days and hide it until he ran out. That way, he didn't have to steal every single time he came into work. He didn't know why, but it made him feel better about it. He grabbed an appetizer that he had snuck into a ziploc bag before closing the door and putting the fridge back where it was supposed to be.
Once he had his dinner for the night, he checked to see that his water bottle was still full from when he filled it at the restaurant. All good. Once his nightly routine was finished, he tiptoed his way over to his room and closed the door, putting a chair underneath the handle to keep his foster parents out. Although it wasn't much, he considered his room to be his own space. Somewhere where he could do whatever he wanted, within some limits, and wouldn't be scolded. This place was his. Dylan sat down on the wooden frame where his mattress was supposed to go with a slight smile on his face. His mattress had been removed when he was little, but he didn't care. Dylan spent a few moments enjoying his dinner before heading off to bed.
What Dylan didn't know was his space that he cherished so much, was about to be someone else's.