The Unwanted

My name is Kevin Butler. I am one of the unwanted, the unloved, the unacceptable. I am one of the thousands of orphans that no one wants.

I have been in the system since I was ten years old, when the state took me from my mom. She was a junkie and had us living on the streets and in alleys. I have a congenital heart disease, Coarctation of the Aorta, most likely caused by my mother's drug use while pregnant with me, so I am considered too risky, the insurance would be too high. The constant threat of my keeling over at any moment is more than anyone is willing to deal with.

This is just my story of hell.

The state doctor comes around once a month to check the health of all the kids. God forbid they pawn a defect off on anyone without them knowing exactly what they are signing up for. The health records are open to all adopters, and I know for a fact, that that is the first thing they check before even looking at you.

Not to mention, no one wants a seventeen year old, they only want the little cute ones. I don’t begrudge the little ones, I hope they do find a loving family. Before it’s too late.

There are two other seventeen year olds here, but they said fuck it, their getting a free ride until they age out and can do as they please.

I, on the other hand, am fully aware of the life ahead of me, and it’s not easy to accept the fact that my life could end at any moment.

I’m not ready to die.

On the day of “viewing” they remind us to take a bath, brush our teeth, comb our hair, and dress appropriately. It has been drilled into us every month.

Mrs Smith, the director, comes into the rec room, loudly clapping her hands to get our attention.

“Those of you who misbehave, will be severely punished. Just a reminder. Now put on a happy face and follow me,” she arches her right brow, something that has always fascinated me. I have tried to mimic it, but it can’t be done.

We are herded into the front parlor like a herd of cattle.

But first, I guess I should give you some background on the old homestead before I go any further.

The estate was built in the mid eighteen hundreds, by Matthew Crawley, some high end philanthropist, who had it built for his wife, who later came down with Typhus, resulting in her death.

The house was later opened to the care of Typhus patients. Being there were no cures for Typhus at the time, the fatality rate was through the roof.

In the late eighteen hundreds, the place was set up as an institute for the mentally challenged, again the fatality rate was high. All the patients were treated in the same manner, be it the stutters, epileptic, or serial killer.

The place was shut down in the nineteen twenties, due to mistreatment of patients. It stood abandoned and rotting away for twenty years.

In the forties, it was revamped, more of a rich person’s sanitarium, you know, to recoup from the hassles of life. It was more popular with women. There were six reported deaths from mishaps.

In the seventies, it went through a major overhaul. Some fancy architect wanted to restore it back to the original design, but died about half way through the reconstruction. It’s said that he fell from the roof.

It sat empty again until the nineties, the work was completed by someone else, who then lost it for failure to pay the taxes and it became property of the state. They say he committed suicide the day of the turnover.

That’s when it became the adoption center. It now houses up to forty poor creatures, the unwanted.

You may be wondering how I know all of this. Research of course. I'm a bit of a history buff.

The Brookhaven Adoption center was supposed to be a safe haven for children until they found a loving family, if they were lucky.

Operations of the center are pretty basic. If you don’t work, you don’t eat. If you don’t obey, you are punished, if you go against Mrs Smith, you’ll wish you were dead. You know, just like a big happy family.

Since I have been here, for almost eight years, there have been nine deaths and fourteen runaways. I guess those percentages aren’t that bad, considering the strain on the system and the history of this place. Why the place hasn’t taken me yet is a mystery.

But anyway, back to my story.

As I said, we were herded to the front parlor, all spit shined and polished, to be put on the auction block again. We are paraded in from the youngest, a five year old, to eldest, which left me bringing up the rear.

There are three prospectors today. We all stand stock still, with our hands clasped behind our backs and our heads held high. The shoppers are seated at small tea tables chatting among themselves when we enter.

When we are finally noticed, they walk down the line looking at us, like inspecting cattle at the stockyards. Making a few comments or asking questions of Mrs Smith.

There are an eight year and ten year old boys standing next to me. There is an older man, ugly as homemade shit, inspecting them. Actually checking their teeth, looking at their eyes, squeezing the muscles in their arms and legs. I half expect him to put a yoke on them and hook them to a plow.

I pray that he doesn’t take them, he just seems like a creeper to me. I breathe a sigh of relief when he walks away. Then he stops, and turns to look at me.

“How old are you, boy?”

I can smell the tobacco and alcohol on his breath when he speaks.

“Seventeen sir,” I say clearly.

He starts the inspection, but when he checks the muscles in my upper thigh, he grazes his hand over my junk, causing me to jump with a grunt. He smiles widely, showing his brown stained teeth.

“Mrs Smith,” he calls out, still smiling at me.

“Yes Mr Grayson,” she says, quickly crossing the room in her skin tight pencil skirt and high heels that tap loudly when she walks.

“What’s the deal on this one?” he says, still smiling.

“Oh, well. As you can see, he is a bit of a runt, due to a heart condition, but he is a good strong boy, well trained, obedient, and has good marks in school,..”

The old man holds up his hand to stop her praises of me. He walks around me, looking me up and down.

“How long?”

“I can have him ready by tomorrow,” she smiles at me. The dread settles over me.

“Have him ready by three this afternoon,” his face goes blank.

“Well, I can..” she starts.

“Three o’clock,” he says firmly, and walks away.

“Damn it,” Mrs Smith says under her breath, then she turns to me with a bright smile on her face.

“Well Kevin, looks like we have a buyer. Have a seat,” she turns on her heels and taps away.

She goes back to the other shoppers, but it’s a no sale. She dismisses the children.

“Follow me,” I follow her to her office as she grumbles under her breath.

“Sit down,” she walks to a file cabinet, thumbing through, until she finds my file. Sitting gracefully in her chair, she starts reading over it.

“This will probably be the last chance you get Kevin. You really need to impress Mr Grayson, you still have two months before you turn eighteen. Mr Grayson owns a supermarket, and has been a widower for fifteen years. His only son left many years ago, and apparently has no contact with him. I assume he is looking for companionship as well as an employee.” She looks at me sternly.

“If I may Mrs Smith..” I start.

“No you may not. You will do as you are told. You will bring no shame down on this house. Do you understand?” she says sharply, raising that right brow.

“Yes mam.”

“Now, I have calls to make and a ton of paperwork before he returns. Pack your belongings and return to your duties.”

“Yes mam.”

I return to my room, well, the room I share with the two other seventeen year olds. I have few belongings that fit into a small suitcase with room left over. I sit on the side of my bed looking around the room.

This has been my home for almost eight years, and I can’t wait to get the hell away from here, but the old man still gives me the creeps. And what the hell was with him touching my shit?

I return to my duties as told. I work in the kitchen cooking and cleaning, lunch is being prepared when I walk in.

“Well, how did it go Kevin? Anybody buying today?” Timothy laughs. Timothy is seventeen, the other is Jessie.

“Yeah,” I state, picking up a pile of dirty utensils around the room. Timothy stops laughing and wipes his flour covered hands on this apron.

“Are you serious?” he asks, shocked.

“Yeah. This old man named Grayson, he owns a supermarket.”

“Grayson’s, yeah I know it, over on Carson street. Man, that old dude gives me the creeps,” Timothy visibly shivers.

“You and me both.”

“The good thing is, you only have to keep your head down for a couple of months, then you’re outta there,” he encourages me.

“You girls cut the chit chat and get back to work!” the cook shouts from across the kitchen.

“Yes sir,” we say in unison.

Lunch is served, and clean-up is about done. The dinner crew will be in shortly to start their work. I look at the clock. Two thirty.

“Hey Kevin! The old lady wants you!”

I can’t help but smile at the ten year old boy. He has this deep gravelly voice that puts me in mind of that boy Froggy on that old TV show, ‘The Little Rascals’. He’s short and fat, and his arms stand out to the sides. He looks like a bulldog when he walks.

“Yeah, thanks Avery,” I called back.

“Good luck man,” Timothy shakes my hand.

“I’m gonna need it,” I sigh and make my way to Mrs Smith’s office.

Before I knock, I hear voices, and the man doesn’t sound happy. I knock and wait for permission to enter.

The man standing there was not Mr Grayson. He is a much younger man, he looks vaguely familiar.