So the full story of Evelyn's past has kind of been a mystery... until now. Sorry.

What are you supposed to say when someone tells you something like that? My usual awkward laugh won't do in this situation, and no words are coming to mind that I could use to break the painful silence of The Box. We— that's to say me, Raven, Zero, and even Krash— are all just staring at the floor.

It dawns on me that the way I'm feeling, the discomfort, the shock, the sadness and the utter loss for words, must be what people feel when I divulge the story of my past to them. That's why I keep it to myself, and that's why I'm dreading my turn.

"So, uh, where do you stay now?" I finally ask.

"Zee's couch," Krash replies flatly. "Now, let's just make it clear: I don't want your pity."

"I didn't think you did," I say without taking my eyes off the floorboards.

"What did you think then?" he then asks.

"About what?" I look up and so does he and we make eye contact again. His face is unreadable even for me, someone who can usually notice the tiniest of details in people's faces or the way they're carrying themselves and decipher what they're feeling or thinking based on that. That's what I've always thought, anyway, but maybe I'm not as sharp as I once was. I'm not always on edge like I used to be.

I'm starting wonder if Krash ever blinks as he thinks for a few seconds, never breaking his hard stare. "You're different, Way."

This guy once again has me at a loss for words and I find myself looking sideways at Raven and mouthing, "I'm so confused." Raven just shrugs.

Krash chuckles which really does nothing to relieve the tension in the room. "I don't know what I meant by that, but I stand by it."

"Different in a good way?" I ask hopefully.

"Of course. Different is good."

"Um, thanks, I guess," I mumble. My hands are beginning to tremble— not that they're ever steady anymore— because I know what's coming next.

"Well," Krash says, "I guess it's your turn."

There it is. Despite the fact that I'm absolutely freezing over here in my beanbag chair, I wipe my sweaty palms on my black jeans. "Yeah," I say back. "I guess it is."

Raven and Zero look up, much more willing to listen to whatever it is I have to say than they were when it came to Krash's depressing life story. They'd heard it before and it wasn't any easier to listen to this time. Well, if only they knew that it's about to get a lot more depressing.

"Well," I clear my throat, "My mom was fifteen when she had me. I don't know who my father was, and I don't think she ever found out either. She was a shitty mom and her parents were pretty crappy too from what I know. I never got close to them; she didn't want them in our lives and moved us out of her childhood house as soon as she finished high school.

"Some of my earliest memories are from when she'd drag me to work with her and I'd need to occupy myself in the break room while she did whatever it was she did. I was three, I didn't have that kind of attention span, so she got fired from that job pretty quickly. I mean, they didn't want a three year old running around the place. She didn't get another proper job after that and started selling drugs so that we'd have any money. She didn't take them herself or anything, just went out— with me in the car, may I add— and sold the stuff. At first, anyway.

"When she thought I was old enough to stay at home alone, so, like, five years old because that's when I was tall enough to climb onto the counter so I could reach the cabinets, she went out on her own. I think that's when she started using. She'd go out and I just watched TV, or something, and when she got home it'd usually be with some guy I'd never seen before and would never see again. I'd have to go in my room— no, she locked me in my room— and then they'd... yeah, both drunk out of their minds, too, no doubt.

"When I was six she actually got a boyfriend and that was the first time I had any hope that maybe I could have a normal family, you know, like the ones I saw on TV. I didn't have any real example of family, or friends, for that matter. My mom never sent me to school. I taught myself how to read and write, but not math or anything. That's probably why I'm so shit at math and sciences to this day," I attempt a laugh at that, but it comes out more like a whimper.

"Anyway, that boyfriend lasted less than a month. He didn't like me much and basically used me as his own personal servant whenever he came to the house (an absolute shit hole), so I wasn't too affected by his leaving. Relieved, really. She, my mom, wasn't though. She was convinced she was in love him and it was like the world was ending— her world was ending. I wasn't her world. The drinking got worse, the drugs got worse. I was afraid to be around her, if she was ever around, cause she- well, she wasn't right. Even I knew that and I was a little kid.

"So, I was seven when... everything happened..."

"When everything happened?" Zero exclaims. "Sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt you, Way, but..."

"Oh you haven't heard anything yet. Um, hold on to your hats, I guess, is all I can say." I take a few seconds to go over everything I've already shared and realize that Zero's reaction was nowhere near out of line.

"You don't really have to..." Raven starts.

"No, no, this was the deal," I say. "So, yeah, seven years old and my mom was actually at home. I wanted dinner so I climbed up on to the kitchen counter to get the cereal out of the cabinet. Yes, cereal for dinner. That was mostly because we didn't have much else, but also I think seven year old me was on to something. Anyway, I ended up falling off the counter and really hurting my arm. So, naturally, I was crying. That's when my mother finally snapped. She just couldn't deal with me anymore and basically immediately brought me to some orphanage or something. I haven't seen her since."

All three pairs of eyes around me widen. Raven barely stops themselves from gasping out loud. It gets worse, I think to myself.

I stare at the shoelaces of my black Converse as I continue, "I was sent to a foster home. It wasn't too bad at first. This guy had a wife and she was pretty nice, but then she left within a couple months. The guy, Mr. Johnson, drank a lot then— not as much as my mom did, though— and pretty much used me as a maid, or a servant, or a housekeeper, or whatever. Kinda like my mom's one boyfriend. This guy was much worse, though. I was living with him for almost two years.

"I was finally pulled outta there and sent to another house. Now, this guy passed all the background checks, house inspections, everything. He was perfect to the social workers and to whoever else decided where to dump me. This guy, Mr. Brown, I think it was, was really fucked up, though. He told me I was worthless, that it was no wonder why my mother got rid of me. Why? Because I'm a girl. He hated all women. He abused me. Physically, and, um, in another way. That was so, so much worse and I'd take the days he'd end up beating me so badly I'd end up in the ER over that. I lived with that guy for almost two years, too.

"I finally got to go live with the Millers when I was eleven. Mr. and Mrs. Miller and their kids Micah and Rosa. They were actually nice to me. They, um, they kinda showed me what a real family was and helped me a lot after all the fucked up shit I went through. I'm still pretty fucked up, though," I mumble the last bit.

"Are— the Millers— are they the same family that... you know?" Raven asks, careful and hesitant.

"Yeah." I nod and swallow the lump in my throat. "Yeah. The family from the c-crash."

Raven reaches over and places a comforting hand on my knee. I give a weak smile and I finish my story. "I actually got adopted a little over five months ago and it- it's going really well. Like, really well. My new family... they're amazing."

I take a deep breath signalling that I was finally finished speaking and silence once again takes over The Box.

"Well. Shit. Um," Zero says. "Krash was right when he guessed you had a story."

"Yeah." I nod. "He was."

"So, you could tell us about your new family?" Raven suggests, determined to turn this conversation more lighthearted. Krash is in his seat in the corner of the room, his jaw set, eyes dark and practically burning holes into the floor.

"Well," I clasp my shaking hands in my lap. "What can I say about my new family?"