The birthmark stings.
The swelling redness feels like a spreading fire, growing larger as if honeybees are incessantly nipping and stinging. It reminds me of the times I fell off my bright red two-wheeler, palms burning and aching against the pebble-dappled road. Yet, even those pains seem insignificant in comparison.
Sitting on the cold, hard concrete stairs outside the orphanage, I observe others indulging in carefree play, shouting about dreams and wishes. My nails scratch persistently at the mark, creating jagged white lines, the fear of cutting myself lingering. The bleed, if any, would be a mere trickle, much like this place itself—unchanged, just an orphanage.
I question why I find myself here, in this seemingly endless cycle. Why am I not in a warm, comforting home, surrounded by the smell of spaghetti sauce, embraced by two loving parents expressing their love? The circumstances of my arrival at the orphanage remain a mystery, discovered as a toddler sleeping in a chilly alley, accompanied only by a ripped-up box and this birthmark.
Feelings of worthlessness and insignificance plague my thoughts. Do I mean anything to anyone? It certainly doesn't feel that way. The pain is real, distinct from the feigned and insincere emotions surrounding me, much like the charity that gifted me the two-wheeler—a facade of goodwill from richer individuals and powdered women, raising pennies for the plight of orphans.
Yet, amidst all this hurt, I ponder: who would I be without these experiences?
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