Invisible || h.s.

5: Facing The Demons

This chapter contains a description of an orphanage. Please bear in mind that it's fictional and it does not show how the actual homes operate. It's just meant to show a little girl's perspective. Just throwing it out there, so I don't offend anyone.

[edited]

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Contrary to the popular belief, life in an orphanage isn't necessarily a dreadful experience.

Obviously, nothing can change the fact that these kids would forever remain orphans—and there is nothing worse for a child than being deprived of the warmth and security of a family—but once you look past that, the orphanage itself isn't all that bad. If you end up in a decent one, that is.

Fate has thankfully blessed me in that department, because the Angel Guardian Home I had been sent to at the age of six was not at all a bad place. Our caretakers were a friendly bunch, and honestly tried to provide us with as much love as you can get in a place like this. None of us could complain about the living conditions, nor the teachers that took care of us. This house wasn't just a building. It was our home.

Not unlike any other social structure, orphans were also divided into groups that no one dared to name, yet everyone accepted as normal. There were the infants, who rarely ever stayed longer than a couple of years, since they had the highest possibility of being adopted. The older kids, specifically those up until the age of ten, really had to count on pure luck to be chosen by potential foster families. As they aged up, their chances were rapidly dwindling down until they joined the final group—the one I eventually ended up in—the teenagers. The veterans of the home.

I think I'd always felt to some extent like an odd case around there. Poppy—one of the teachers—had once told me that I was the only child in her twenty year long career who had not shed a tear during their first month in the home. I'd never really tried too hard to think about the reasons behind my indifference, because I was a child, and kids don't think about stuff like that. I dreamt of toys, drawings, rainbows and unicorns. I didn't remember my parents and I liked to hang out with the other kids, so why bother?

One day, when I was seven, Poppy brought me into her office, asking me a weird question, "Tell me Hope, what would you do, if your daddy ever wrote a letter to you?"

I remember looking at Poppy with wide eyes. "But I don't have a daddy, Poppy. My daddy didn't want me. I'm just like the other kids here."

Poppy nodded; it was then when I realized that she was holding an envelope in her hands, but she quickly slid it under the desk, smiling at me warmly. "You're right, sweetheart. Your daddy lost you when he had decided to leave you. He doesn't know what he's lost, though," she said, walking over to me and hugging me tightly. I thought Poppy was acting strange, but I didn't say anything, because she was the nicest teacher there and I didn't want to offend her.

Three years later, on a warm Friday morning, the strangest thing happened. I was a little upset, because Poppy wasn't around and she'd always given me the best birthday gifts. I tried to power through the day with my usual positive attitude, because I wasn't a girl that cried easily—I was brave and nothing ever bothered me, not even the mean older kids or the rare scary dreams I had about my mummy.

The young teacher covering for Poppy came up to me that day, giving me an envelope with my name on it. He said it came in the mail, which surprised me, because I'd never received any letters before that. Imagine my surprise when I realized the note was from my dad, my real father who was alive and well. It didn't say much—just that he wished me a happy birthday and that he had missed me everyday—but knowing he thought about me made me feel so much warmer.