Getting discharged from the hospital was the worst. I know. I know. No one in their right mind would ever say that. I mean, I was lucky to be alive and all, but I was pretty much living the definition of the phrase ‘down on my luck.’ I had nowhere to go. No one to look out for me. And to top it off, I was not young enough to be put into foster care. Could you believe that shit? Seventeen. I could not even wrap my head around the fact that the system had ditched me. Come on! I was still in high school! Shouldn't someone be looking out for me until I graduate and become a full-fledged adult? But nope. That was not how things worked. It was like, throw me out into the real world and hope I figure it all out.

There I was all on my own. No one to turn to for advice or help. I had to make a tough call. Keep going with my education or throw in the towel. Let the system swallow me like it does so many others. Look, I know I had made it clear that school was not exactly my favourite thing in the world, but not having that so-called diploma would seriously hinder my future. As much as I might dislike it, that piece of paper seemed to hold a lot of weight.

I tried to understand the foster care system. Was it because I was seen as "troubled," or was it simply because I was too old? But let me make one thing clear: I was NOT troubled. I was content with my uneventful life, enjoying every moment spent with my mother. It had always been just us. The thought of anyone else entering our tight-knit circle seemed unnecessary, and I was content with that. However, everything changed when my mother became infatuated with that useless drug addict, Chump. As soon as he and his sons became a part of my life, things took a turn for the worse. The mere thought of them was enough to make my blood pressure rise.

To transition to my new way of life, I needed to create a solid plan. This meant securing a part-time job, finding a small apartment, and completing my high school education. I was not the most social person. Simply managing my thoughts could feel like a daunting task, let alone interacting with customers. That was when I came to the realisation that being a waitress was not the ideal role for me. The non-stop conversation and expectation to engage with customers were overwhelming. Once I came across a listing for a dishwasher at a bustling, high-end restaurant in the city, I knew it was the perfect fit for my personality.

When I met with the manager, Mr. Dill, he did not ask for my resume or references. Instead, he assessed me from head to toe and asked. "Do you have what it takes to handle the demanding job of a dishwasher?"

I enthusiastically agreed with a nod. This position was truly ideal for me if I were being honest. The thought of avoiding tedious conversations and interruptions while I cleaned seemed like a dream. All I had to do was position myself by the sink, plug in my earplugs, and turn up my music as I tackled the dirty dishes and pots.

I quickly learnt the ins and outs. I developed a rhythm. Moving dishes from the sink to the drying rack with efficiency and speed. I did not mind the hot water or the strong smell of soap. I quite enjoyed the feeling of my hands in the warm, soapy water. As far as meals go, being employed at a restaurant had its fair share of advantages. Initially, I must confess, I was a tad unsure about accepting leftovers. It made me feel like a stray animal, rummaging for scraps that the restaurant had discarded. It bruised my ego, and I was tempted to leave the leftovers behind, but the grumbling in my stomach could not be ignored. So, with great reluctance, I brought the leftovers back with me. And to my surprise, they turned out to be quite a delight.

There were occasions when the remaining food was not quite as enticing, yet I always made a point to bring it back with me. I would even use my imagination and transform the leftovers into a fresh and unique dish. It was almost like a fun little cooking competition, and I found immense joy in it. For example, if I had leftover chicken and vegetables, I would whip up a stir-fry with some rice. If I had some bread and eggs, I would make a delicious breakfast strata. It was like a puzzle. Trying to figure out how to use the ingredients in a new and exciting way. This brought back fond memories of a time when life was simpler. I remember my mother's resourcefulness, as she would use the little we had inside our fridge to create a wholesome meal.

That was a time before she lost all her senses and dated Chump.

As the chaotic work evening drew to a close, I could sense my body reaching its limit. Strangely enough, I found myself experiencing heightened exhaustion yet an unexpected state of alertness. I could not explain it, but it was a feeling of immense weariness coupled with a surprisingly acute awareness.

The staff were the type to go out for drinks after work. They were always down to hit up the local bar. It was like a ritual for them. A way to let loose and blow off some steam after a long night. They would extend an invitation for me to join them, but did I ever take them up on it? Hell no. And you know what happened? They eventually stopped asking me. Could not say I blame them though. By law, I must be eighteen to drink talcohol, and I understand that by looking at me, my coworkers probably think I was of drinking age, but that was not the issue at hand. The issue was that drinking in a big group was not budget-friendly. We all chipped in and split the bill, but the amount I would pay for was way more than what I could gulp down on my own. I will stick to drinking solo, where I could get my money's worth.

Once my work duties were completed, I promptly changed into more relaxed attire and clocked out. Gathering the remaining food from today's meals, I packed it into my backpack. Despite the pleasant night, I felt sweaty, clammy, and disgustingly dirty. But with no obligations for the next day and my eighteenth birthday fast approaching, I was determined to indulge in some much-needed recklessness. Drinking. Smoking. Getting completely stoned all on my own was my intention. Did I sound pathetic? Yes. Did I care? Hell no. Hear me out. Initially, I had decided to give it up tonight. Do you catch my drift? I was no expert, but weren’t men generally considerate of girls on their birthdays? For some time now, I had planned to go out and hook up. Nothing serious. Just for the night.

The mention of anything remotely related to sex instantly brought up mental images of my hot substitute teacher, Mr. Cross. That man got it all. An air of sinful seduction. An aura of dominance. A truckload of raw masculinity. That damn accent. Just thinking about him stirred up thoughts of wild, passionate, and downright carnal desires. Oh, man! What wouldn't I give to have him just for a night? He and I tangled between the sheets, which flooded my mind. A warm flush rose to my cheeks, and my heart raced. A peculiar tingling sensation between my thighs made me catch my breath. Do not even get me started on how his finger felt against my lips this morning. It was like a shockwave of electricity running through my body.

I would not mind if he kept those fingers on me all day long. Who was this fine man that got me spinning with wild fantasy? I had never come across a teacher who behaved like him. When he swore at Nick, I could tell Mr. Cross did not give a damn about what would happen next. He just let those words fly out of his beautifully accented mouth without care.