01.3 Ruìsāng — Past

00 / 00 / 2005 — being taken away from home by CPS.
00 / 00 / 2010 — experience in fostercare.

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In that cramped, suffocating room where violence and despair were as constant as the air he breathed, young Ruìsāng’s fear was a living, breathing entity. It coiled around him like a serpent, tightening with each of his father’s thunderous steps, each venomous word that spat from his mouth. The fear was more than just the anticipation of pain; it was the terror of the unknown, of what might happen to his mother, to him, in the next moment.

As his father’s rage erupted like a volcano, Ruìsāng felt himself shrinking, trying to disappear into the walls that had witnessed so much yet offered no protection. The violence unfolded before his eyes. Each thud, each cry from his mother, was a hammer blow to his young heart.

His father was the monster in his nightmares.

He wanted to scream, to run, to do something, but he was frozen, a statue of fear. His little heart raced wildly, a drumbeat of panic. In those moments, his home felt like a battlefield, and he, a soldier too small for his armour.

When the police burst in, their arrival was both a terrifying intrusion and a bizarre relief. The uniforms, the stern faces, the authoritative voices, were all alien. As they subdued his father, Ruìsāng felt a complex rush of emotions. There was fear of these new, imposing strangers, but also a confusing sense of safety, a feeling so foreign in his chaotic world.

His mother’s eyes, brimming with tears, met his. In that glance, Ruìsāng saw a kaleidoscope of emotions – fear, regret, sorrow. It was a goodbye. As he was led away, the grip of an officer's hand was strangely comforting, yet every step away from his mother, even in such a dire situation, felt like an ever-widening chasm.

The car ride to the unknown was a journey through his own maze of fears. The outside world was a blur, as if he was moving through a dream. His thoughts were a jumble – where was he going? What would happen to his mother? Would his father come after him? The paper drawing he clutched, now damp with his sweaty palms, was the only anchor to a life that was slipping away.

In the sterile, almost clinical ambiance of the foster home, Ruìsāng sat alone, perched on the edge of a frayed couch that seemed as out of place as he felt. The room was filled with the ambient noise of other children – laughter, chatter, the occasional squabble – yet Ruìsāng was isolated in his own bubble of silence.

He was older now, perhaps ten, but his eyes held the weariness of someone far beyond his years. Each day blended into the next, a monotonous cycle of waking, eating, existing. The walls of the room were adorned with drawings and posters, attempts at cheerfulness that felt almost mocking in their brightness.

Ruìsāng’s gaze often drifted to the window, watching as cars pulled up, hopeful families coming to look for a child to complete their lives. Each time, he felt a flicker of something – hope, perhaps, or a longing for a connection – but it was quickly doused by the stark reality. He was the overlooked one, whose name was often forgotten, whose presence was barely acknowledged.

His interactions with the foster carers were perfunctory, devoid of warmth. They were kind, in a distant sort of way, but to them, he was just another face in the ever-revolving door of children in need. Ruìsāng had learned to keep to himself, to build a fortress around his heart. He had learned the hard way that to expect nothing was to be less disappointed.

In the corner of the room, a group of younger children played a board game, their laughter a sharp contrast to Ruìsāng’s silent contemplation. He watched them with a mix of envy and resignation. Occasionally, one of them would glance his way, curiosity in their eyes, but Ruìsāng’s stoic expression was a barrier they couldn’t cross.

Dinner time was a communal affair, yet Ruìsāng often found himself at the edge of the table. He ate mechanically, his thoughts miles away. The conversations around him were a dull buzz in his ears, words without meaning.

At night, in the room he shared with three other boys, Ruìsāng lay awake long after the lights were out. The darkness was a cloak under which he could let his guard down, allow the veneer of indifference to slip. In these quiet hours, his thoughts wandered to what-ifs and could-have-beens. He imagined families, laughter, warmth. Fantasies.

But as the first light of dawn crept through the curtains, Ruìsāng would meticulously rebuild his walls, don his mask of apathy. He had to protect himself, to keep the hope at bay, for hope was a dangerous thing. It was a vulnerability he couldn’t afford.

In this foster home, just like the ones before, Ruìsāng was a ghost, a shadow among the living. He moved through his days in a haze of detachment.