As the Washington's walked behind one of the caffeine fuelled social workers, they noticed a small, thin framed boy, long hair falling out of a messy bun, pale skin stark against dark, brown eyes.

The boy's form was drawn, taught, and unmoving. His breath was silent, almost as though he wasn't breathing at all.

"Alexander, these are the Washington's. They're here to take you back to their home." The social worker over-enunciated, as though speaking to a small child, or someone who couldn't hear her. There was no response from the boy, just a small, slight sigh that escaped his mouth.

"Did one of my colleagues go over the paperwork, I assume?" The woman turned to them, voice immediately quieting, in comparison to when she was speaking to their charge. Martha fixed her with a polite nod, and an affirmation.

"Alexander, you need to collect your things now, the Washington's are ready to take you home." The woman proceeded, as the boy stood, walking into a small corridor connected to the office they were in. When he re-emerged, he dragged an almost weightless black trash bag at his side.

Leaving the building was a difficult task, as the boy walked at a minimum of around 6 feet away. Holding doors open, only to realise that the boy would simply walk through the one next to it.

They approached their car, and allowed the boy to place his trash bag of belongings in the trunk. George opened the door for the foster boy, and stood back, almost like watching a wild animal.

Alexander wasn't sure what the gesture was, until George moved his hand, showing him that the door was open. Weary of the clean car, Alexander shuffled into the centre, pulling his worn, torn jumper tight round himself- the dark blue knitted wool hanging low off one of his shoulders. The sleeves extended long past his hands, and the hem at the bottom was frayed in a few places. His sweatpants were no better, grey and baggy around the knees. They were cuffed by himself at the bottom, turned over a few times until they didn't trail behind him like sails. He had his cracked, almost-broken iPod in his pocket, wiry headphones attacked in the socket. He'd stolen it from a store, one that recycled old devices, he'd ran into the shop, and grabbed it from the front window. It had an odd selection of music on it, mostly 80's hits. Whoever's it was, he's sure they wouldn't miss it.

Pulling one of the thin wired headphones from his pocket, he pushed it into his ear, scrolling through the album choices, before just choosing to shuffle their whole collection. The intro to 'smooth operator' by Sade began thumping through his earphone. The jazzy, elevator-like tune soothed him to an extent, as he tapped his fingers together instinctively. His old, off-brand converse rubbed at his heels when he moved, but keeping still seemed an impossible feat.

The car reversed, before pulling off, as the streets moved faster and faster past his eyes. The ride was smooth, the car's suspension clearly in good working order, as the pot-holes glided beneath them with ease.

The longer they sat, the closer his imminent doom would become. Once he entered these people's home- he was done for. Anything was fair game.

________________________________________________________________________

They soon began to slow, the wheels rolling through suburbs and large, grand estates. The neighbouring houses began to disperse, larger spaces of green grass between each manor expanding.

The sun was near setting, small slithers of sun raying across the sky in waves. The serene pinks and orange rippling out, as though small waves in a big pond.

Birds floated through the air, one with the sky, touching the palette of colours like a paintbrush to canvas. Changing their placement, with the brush of a wing.

It seemed one large, red-roofed manor house could crack this peaceful aura in two. The crimson tiles smashing through the temporary calm he'd found within himself, stirring up emotions he'd tried to keep under control until now. Black shutters framed each window, opened wide, as though they hadn't been shut for some time. But to the boy, these shutters weren't just for décor, instead, they were like cage bars, trapping those inside as soon as they clicked shut.

The door itself may not have been out-standing, but it's symbolism could be smelt from a mile away. The brown wood, a portal to a possible never-ending hell. The locks, that were sure to be on the other side, simply a barrier for him to defeat.

The car approached steel gates, grey and tall, with spikes topping them, seeming sharp enough to tear through clothes with ease- but maybe that was just illusionary. George took his left hand off of the gear stick, instead reaching forward into the console, and grabbing a small, black sensor. The car rolled forward again, as he pressed the sensor against a small screen on the side of the gate column, the grey poles opening moments later. This was it. 

Hello! I know the chapters are short at the minute, but as the plot picks up I'm hoping to make the chapters longer- but that will mean longer spaces between updates!