Closed for trust-theplastic
trust-theplastic
In the past ten years, Benny had never been to a home as bad as this one. Sure, there had been homes before where he'd go to bed with a few new bruises, but, as far as he could remember, no foster parent had ever broken his arm before.
It was his school teacher that noticed it first, but Benny pushed it off, saying that he probably just hit his arm during a football match or something. The call that was sent to his foster parents brought him to the broken rib. The limp the next day brought on the bruises on his face.
He tried to soldier on for as much as he could, but he was stuck between a rock and a hard place. He could leave school at the end of the day, go to bed with something else damaged, or he could tell someone what was happening either be ignored, or be brought back to the children's home.
Benny found option three when he was hiding in the lavatory just before school ended. He could phone his foster parents, say he had to stay with his teacher to work on a project, and walk or take the tube to the nearest hospital. Just as long as his foster parents didn't phone the teacher to make sure, he'd be fine.
The last bell of the day rang, and instead of walking in the direction of his current home, he walked to the tube station four blocks down. It took him an hour to get to the hospital, and he was sure he would have made it there faster had he not been limping most of the way.
When he walked into the waiting room, a sudden fear struck him upon realization: doctors had to contact parents, didn't they? Maybe Benny could worm his way around having that happen, but he needed a doctor to see him before they could contact them.
He ignored the front desk and the lobby of people waiting and filling out papers, and instead just hobbled straight up to the first person in scrubs that he saw. The man looked young, and didn't look horribly busy, so Benny decided to take his chances.
"Excuse me?" he asked meekly. "A-are you a doctor?"
