When A Blind Man Cries

April, 1973: Freefall

A/N: Names typed in bold are supposed to have a strike through them; unfortunately Wattpad doesn't have that feature.

Thursday 26th April 1973

The registered parent/carer must ensure:

• That children are admitted to the Home only if their needs are within the range of needs of children for whom it is intended that the Home is to provide care, as set out in the Home's Statement of Purpose;
• That arrangements are in place to:
• Ensure the effective induction of children into the Home;
• Manage and review the placement of children in the Home; and
• Plan for, and support, each child to prepare to leave the Home or to move into adult care, in a way that is consistent with arrangements agreed with their placing authority.

"What a bunch of bollocks." Grant snorted to himself, turning the page in hope of locating one that was actually helpful; at least without all the unnecessary, smart-arse wording. So far Charlie F's Home Records were just a bunch of mind-numbingly dull legal documents and contracts, which Grant quickly realised were mostly just empty promises written in official small print so that the lies would sell themselves. It felt as if there was some sort of code or algorithm amongst grown-ups; if the sentences were pretentious enough to be practically illegible, it couldn't possibly be anything but the truth. What an odd thought-process. He snorted again.

He glanced sideways at Matt, who'd finally passed out on the sofa just under an hour ago and was now snoring unevenly. He seemed to have an aversion to his own bed, having kipped on the sofa every night since Grant's arrival. Or maybe he just wasn't a fan of sleep as a whole — Grant was hardly one to judge. Matt's electric was on the outs so it was usually pitch black in the front room at night, but Grant would rather pitch himself off of Big Ben before he asked his uncle for a bloody nightlight.

Determined to find something of use, he cautiously shuffled further down his mattress, trying to angle a new sheet of paper into the moon's beam so that he could read it, or at least see it. The paper felt flimsy between his fingers, creases running through it like parchment veins.

Name: Charlie Bowen Farrow
D.O.B: 10/4/1958
Date of admission: 02/11/1970

Grant's heart skipped a beat, memories of his very first day at St Benji's returning in merciless waves and leaving a bad taste in his mouth. If he wasn't mistaken, this was the same form he and Mum had had to fill out; Grant recognised Sister Janice's robotic handwriting. Christ, it felt like yonks ago, now.

Does the child appear to be in need of any medical attention?
Yes

If yes, please expand on the extent of the injuries:
Swollen black eye, bruised cheekbone, split lip, flesh lacerations, wheezed breathing, suspected broken arm.

Grant winced, his stomach falling in on itself as he attempted to block out that distressing image of sweet Charlie.

Stated reason(s) for injuries:
Fighting.

He had to swallow the anger rising in his throat, thinking he might just choke on the rage. Satanic bastards.

Parents/Guardians: Anastasia Farrow, Travis Farrow DECEASED.

Shit. Sullivan had been right. Grant stared at the haunting lines which struck through their names in Sister Joy's blood-red pen, followed by the eight-letter word scrawled heavily beside them; a weighted presence. He shivered. Lifting the thinner pile of documents closer to his face to attempt the small print, he jumped as a sudden rustling filled the room, soon feeling the culprit scatter clumsily into his lap. He frantically looked over to Matt with a guilty regard, though the man was thankfully still snoring deeply upon the sofa. With a silent sigh of relief, Grant carefully retrieved the newspaper clippings which now sat aimlessly upon his thighs and ordered them to the best of his ability on the mattress. They were slightly frayed at the edges, as if they'd been half-heartedly cut out with safety scissors.