Father, father, where are you going?
Tom Marvolo Riddle lay asleep in his bed, his nose twitching every now and then. It was the eve of New Year, his birthday, and no one had given him a present. The day was the same as usual, and every one of his wasted, innocent beliefs of his father coming back to retrieve him from the orphanage had gone. He was eight years old, now, a big boy. He knew his father wouldn't come for him. But it didn't stop him from dreaming.
Oh do not walk so fast!
Tom Riddle dreamed of a retreating figure, of a man whose back was always to him. The only thing he could pick out from the mysterious figure was of a man with hair identical to his- dark and curly, sitting neatly and handsomely atop his head- and a long, tailored coat that flapped within the breeze. He was running from him, running from his own flesh and blood. Tom crumpled to his knees and wailed, his small throat letting his screams rip from his throat as he thought bitterly of Amy Benson's annual presents she always got from her parents. He felt isolated and utterly alone. Cold sweat trickled down his back and he did nothing to wipe it away. He didn't know whether the orphanage was dream or reality. Both hells- this one and the dilapidated place he called home- were equally as bad. The children in the neighbouring dormitories constantly stole things from him, continually made fun out of the fact that he had no parents although they had none, either. He tried to believe in the Holy Father, he truly did, but he always felt as though he were abandoning him, leaving him to the torment of the wretched place he slept in. He hoped against hope that his peers would stop bullying him.
His foolish naivety betrayed him.
Speak, father, speak to your little boy
Tom had enough. They had stolen his favourite book, Pride and Prejudice. He had tolerated them before, but he would not stand for it. They would keep stealing and stealing, depriving him of his things until he had nothing, nothing until he was a wasted shell of the boy he had once been, just like those loony drunks who stumbled down the alleyway, eyes wide with grief and hazy stupidity. Many of the care workers in the orphanage often felt pity overcome them whenever they heard the drunks hollering for lost spouses and beloved family, but Tom felt nothing for them. Most were soldiers from the First World War. In his opinion, if they wanted to keep their family safe, they should have hidden, protected themselves. He paused, tried to think of his father and what he would say to him. He could think of nothing, but his thoughts about the First World War remained.
He looked at Billy Stubbs' rabbit and thought of how pretty it would look if were hung, dead, from the rafters.
Or else I shall be lost
Tom Riddle had recently turned ten, but there was no joy for him, as usual. But he felt no melancholy pity for himself either. His every breath staggered within his lungs, pain striking his chest with every expansion of those precious organs. His heart hammered within his rib cage, threatening to burst. He felt fear overcome him, his body becoming deprived of oxygen as he used up more and more of it, though his every breath was becoming shallower and shallower with each intake of air. He heard a bomb go off, somewhere in the west and flinched, but forced himself to keep going. His life depended on the tiny shelter, hidden beneath the willow tree under the orphanage. His bulky air mask did nothing to filter the air that filled his nostrils, and the toxic chemicals watered his eyes.
Just a little more...
He reached the bomb shelter, but the door slammed shut. He was too late. Everyone was in there, and Mrs Cole was leaving him to die. Bitter tears fell from his eyes and he felt a sob constrict his throat. He leaned against the corrugated tin door and allowed his back to slide down the door that had been open before. A plane circled above him and dropped an object onto the manor behind the orphanage. It was close- around 50 yards or so- and Tom had a chance to run. But he was paralyzed with fear, his muscles refusing to obey his mind. His instincts never kicked in. His body lay like a rag doll, exposed to danger. He was ready for his end to meet him. Perhaps then, Mrs Cole may feel guilt for what she had done. Perhaps she may shower him with kisses and hugs and beg to be forgiven. But no matter how much he tried to imagine Mrs Cole grovelling at his feet, he kept thinking of a man who looked identical to him in every way, bar his age, pleading for his forgiveness. His hope was lost, lost like he was. Left in a world where he didn't fit in.
