Imprisoned

Sorrow

I stood alone looking out the window, imagining getting away from all of this-leaving for good and chasing my dreams. One day, I'm going to run away and get out of this nightmare. This place is tainted with the constant feeling of sorrow. The rooms are haunted with the whispers of every child who'd ever been here. The halls are filled with the cries of the forgotten and the lonely. I refuse to be one of them. But, I do not want .to be loved like they do- I just want independence. I need independence.

In my years here, I have isolated myself and I have stopped trying to become acquainted with every child that passes through these doors. They all leave eventually. All of them but me, that is. So I choose to build walls and try not to become attached to anyone. Everyone I have ever loved has left me- left me in this empty room in the darkest corner of the hallway. The only constant in my life is my art.

The building stands behind a wall that separates it from a beautiful wood. From my room on the third floor, I have a perfect view of everything that goes on inside the forest. But we've never been allowed off the grounds. So, I choose to imagine what the dappled sunlight would look like against the mossy floor. I think of what the cool breeze would feel like against my skin, and how I would be enveloped in the rustling of branches and songs of birds.

These feelings of mine are not stored in my mind, but rather on canvas and paper. The forest and its inhabitants are my muse, and so I paint and I draw and I dream about them. I dream in vivid oil paints, draw in charcoal, and color canvases in the hushed, beautiful tones of watercolor. The rest of my life drags on in a gray scale scheme, devoid of true meaning. It simply is and always will be. No matter how much blending or erasing or shading is done, it will always be colorless.

I regard every work of art not as a piece, but as an idea or a wish. My emotions have breathed life into them and they have become part of me. So, I do not show them to anyone except each other. They are extensions of myself. If anyone were to see them, that person would be able to look into my soul and feel everything I have ever felt.

I chose to educate myself in visual arts rather than music because it is so much more private. When you play an instrument or sing a song, other ears can hear and eavesdrop. However, my canvases can be hidden away from prying eyes. There have been times when Mother Priscilla, the head of the house, almost caught me painting. She does not appreciate anything creative and immediately confiscates anything that can be categorized as creative. So, the rooms are a dull grey in color, except for the newer ones, which are a bright white. Nobody is allowed to hang posters on their walls either. The only source of individuality in each room is the bedspread, and the contents within.

Most rooms are shared by up to 3 children at a time, and they do not stay long enough to need to personalize anything. As soon as they leave, new children get their rooms. There is a cycle to it all. The newest kids get the best rooms, and the oldest kids get the worst.

I have watched countless rotations of orphans brought in and adopted out, but none of them have stayed anywhere as long as I have.

For as long as I can remember, Anchorage has been my home. So naturally, I have been moved to the room that nobody wants to stay in. It is located on the third floor of the house in the corner farthest down the hallway. The room is quite small, and barely has enough room for my bed and easel. But it has large picture windows, which provide the best view in Anchorage.

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Hey guys! The main character's name is pronounced eh-lie-zuh by the way, it is not eh-lee-za. Anyway, happy reading! I love you all.

xx Z