Unseen Journey

We're all Suffering Here. [2]

For the past two years, I've called the old orphanage building my home. Despite its age, it boasts a sprawling, enchanting garden complete with a hedge maze and a picturesque gazebo straight out of a movie scene. Nighttime transforms this space into a tranquil haven, enveloped in silence broken only by the stillness of the snow. Nestled in rural surroundings with minimal lighting, the night sky becomes a canvas of shimmering stars just out of reach.

I often find comfort in these nocturnal moments, relishing the solitude away from the chaos of fellow troublemaking kids indoors. While others shy away from the biting cold that comes with the absence of sunlight, I embrace it, finding comfort in its numbing embrace, my skin less sensitive than most. As the sun sets, casting its last warm hues across the landscape, a few younger children venture out, their laughter echoing as they play in the snow.

Leaving my book behind, I opt to simply observe the world around me, allowing myself to be captivated by the slow transition from day to night. These moments are a respite from the constant whirlwind of thoughts in my mind, offering a brief reprieve as I lose myself in the beauty of the sunset.

I find solace in reminding myself of who I am and where I stand, often pondering if there will ever come a day when everything changes. "My name is Chiharu Yosei, and I'm twelve years old. I've resided at the Little Dreams Orphanage for two years now." I let out a bitter laugh. 'Little Dreams... more like a nightmare.' This place might appear cheerful to unsuspecting visitors, but in my view, it's anything but. Each child here has their own story, their own reason for being here. As I gaze around the snow-covered garden I currently occupy, I observe other children playing. Despite their outward appearance of joy, there's a sense of despair lingering in their eyes; moments of zoning out, perhaps reflecting on why they ended up in this place. Some have grown bitter, venting their frustrations on others when not under the watchful eye of our warden, Mrs. Weber.

Samantha is one of those kids, a fourteen-year-old with straight, chest-length dark brown hair, light grey eyes, and a light olive complexion. She's decked out in our school uniform—a white polo shirt paired with a black knee-length skirt, adorned with a white bow around the collar and a headband on her head.

She and the group of girls she hangs out with are my primary tormentors. They were strolling toward another section of the garden when my voice alerted her to my presence.

Her shrill voice pierces through the garden, aiming at me. "Why do you always have to announce yourself every single night? It's seriously getting on my nerves," she snaps. Being the oldest in the orphanage, she holds sway over the others, who trail behind her like loyal followers. It's like she's the queen bee and they're her attendants. Maybe they seek connection, mimicking her behavior to fit in or because they don't know any other way.

I choose to ignore her as I head towards the main room, hoping to avoid any confrontation. But I should've known better. Mrs. Weber is occupied with prospective parents, leaving us unattended for a while. "Where do you think you're sneaking off to?" She grabs my arm, halting me in my tracks. I stumble but regain my balance, trying to respond calmly despite the fear bubbling inside me. "I'm just trying to keep out of your way. No trouble, okay?" My voice thankfully remains steady, but her reddening face doesn't bode well for me.

"Who do you think you are? Ignoring me and then acting like you want to stay out of my way," she scoffs, stepping closer to me and grabbing a fistful of my dark hair. I wince, grabbing her wrist, trying to ease the pain. "If you really wanted to stay out of my way, you'd have left this place. You think you're all that, huh? Sneaking off to the gardens every night, pretending you're better than everyone."

I'm not sure if she actually believes what she's saying, but I've noticed she started targeting me a year ago when I made the A-List honor roll at school. That day, I proudly showed Mrs. Weber my achievement, and she awarded me my own room at the orphanage, saying if I wanted to keep my grades up, I'd need a quiet place to study.