Finding Love | ✔️

one

/imagine finding someone who can

love even the dirtiest corners of your mixed up soul /

♡

I can't sleep. I've tossed and turned all night, trying all the ways I know to lull my brain back into a few desolate hours of oblivion - but I can't sleep. Truth is, I don't want to go back to sleep. That would mean sinking myself back into a world full of glass monsters and faceless mothers. Just like it's always been, every night.

I sit up and glance around. My eyes are already used to the darkness, and it seems that every one else is pretty much unconscious. I whip the thin bedsheet off, then lift my feet onto the cold floor. As my weight is shifted off the bed, it lets out an enormous croak, indicating my departure. Still, everyone's asleep. The clock reads 4:41am.

Knowing where I'm heading, I smile as I think of the little box that gives me great comfort. It's somewhere up there, in my secret hiding place, on the orphanage's tiled roof. As I climb my way up into the attic, the familliar smell of thick, hot air hits my nose. It's musty because there are so many things that have been dumped and kept here. I've found masses of outdated hymn and prayer books from the church nearby.

Now that I think about it, a lot of things do get dumped here. There's the books, which have doggy ears on the corners and torn-out pages and scruffy handwritings all over them. Then, there's the old clothes, torn too, just like the books. They are usually discoloured and over-washed, small and ill-fitting.

They also dump other things on here, like food. And money. And pity.

And children.

They dump little children here.

They leave them on the orphanage's doorstep, feeling proud and selfless, like they've done a good deed. They all have the same smug smile glued onto their faces as they hand over the helpless kids to the nuns, who have the same fake smile on their faces. But inside I know what they're all thinking: another child, another burden. We're all burdens. And that's why they dump us everywhere.

It isn't an orphanage, this. It's like a prison. A place where you must eat broth and bread at the same time every day, and pray before each meal, and clean your own clothes, and listen to the volunteer nuns drone on daily about numbers or metaphors or the world wars. There is no playing outside or freedom to go out. It's just the same regime, each and every day, until we turn eighteen.

Sometimes, an angel manifests himself as a barren couple, seeking a child for adoption, but they will always take away the little ones. The cute, innocent ones, who have no mind of their own to even understand or remember that they had real parents. Then, the 'old' teenagers like me are left behind, all plastered with the same image: defiant, rebellious, annoying. And they keep us in chains until we are old enough, by law, to be left alone.

I wish I'd come here when I was really young. That sounds sick, because that would be me wishing my Father would die earlier than he did. But maybe if I'd come when I was four or five instead of ten, I'd be cute enough to melt the hearts of a young, hopeful couple. Maybe, just maybe, I wouldn't be lonely anymore.

But hoping and wishing never gets you anywhere. It leaves you hanging off a cliff, with your hand struggling for grip, struggling for that one glimpse of hope where a hand will reach out and jolt you up, and hold you until you stop crying, and clean the cuts on your hand, and hold your hand as you walk away from the cliff and into the sunrise. It's too much to ask for. I should never expect anything.

By now, I find myself sitting on the red-tiled roof overlooking the little town I call home. The view isn't that great, but there's a calmness that takes over me when I sit up here.

The first crack of sunlight pokes through, and I know that it's time. I carefully pull out a wooden box from beneath a white-marked tile. I pick at the lock, and I smile. My collection gleams back.

I set the tiny pieces in front of me, working out the best positions for each piece. I've only got five. But I cherish each individual one for their colour and shape and thickness. They're broken pieces of glass, which may not seem like much. I've found them in the most random places, but they somewhat give me comfort. I don't know why or how, but they do.

I wish I could collect a million pieces of broken glass, and not have to hide them in a box. But wishing, as I said, is pointless.

The sun marches up in a sort of royal soliloquy. The rays sparkle against the first piece of glass (green in colour). The light travels through it, on its own little adventure. It then touches my favourite piece, the orange one, which is thicker than the rest. The light bends, or refracts, taking its colour and making it into something more cheerful. The other three pieces are clear and thin. The infinite light of the sun charges through the glass, and at the same time dawns upon the whole city, and I watch as it comes to life. A feeling of exhilaration surges through me as I awe at the beauty of it all.

"I thought you would be here," says a voice behind me. It's only Arghavan, who's the closest thing I have to a friend here. She's a year younger than me.

"You scared me." I say.

She grins. "I know."

She moves her awkward, lanky self and comes and sits next to me. We sit there in silence. She knows me better than anyone else. She's the only one who knows about my rooftop mornings and my glass collection. She doesn't understand it, still, but she doesn't say anything about it. That's what I like about her. She knows when to speak, and when not to.

"Sister Ingrid will be waking us up in seven minutes," She finally says after a while. "So maybe we should head back down." Arghavan locks her long, limp hand into mine and rests her head on my shoulder. Her thick, black hair tickles my neck.

"I want to stay here for a little bit longer, Arghie." I say, not looking at her but at the view.

"You'll get in trouble. Then what will you say?"

I suddenly hear a hoarse, rusty cough behind me, and our heads snap back instantly.

"Hello, girls."

It's Sister Ingrid, and she doesn't look too happy.

♡

shoutout to ElvesEverywhere for being the inspiration behind her namesake;)

shoutout to AngelDevilBunny for being the inspiration behind the glass collection.

~ stay lovely x