Thursday, May 18, 1933
Tom sat alone on this bed, a dark silhouette against the lightbulb glaring down at him. Mrs. Hudson had told him to stay there after attacking Mrs. Matthews.
Tom kept rethinking his actions, and he came to the conclusion that he was absolutely correct. Mrs. Matthews had been supremely cruel to him, she had kept antagonizing him. I even told her to be quiet., but she didn't listen. He'd tried as hard as possible to stay calm. But he hadn't been able to control himself.
He needed to be able to control himself at all times. If he couldn't, then he would be a slave to his emotions, just like everyone else.
And Tom would never be a slave.
What worried Tom, if anything, was that he had wanted to keep attacking her. It was a complete lack of common sense. He had seemingly lost all cognitive ability, and a singular need to fight replaced it.
That's not good. My anger shouldn't have done that. I should've been in control.
At least Tom had learned a lesson from this. A couple lessons, actually.
One: He was surprisingly strong. That punch had winded Mrs. Matthews, and the sound of his fist colliding with her stomach could be heard even above the shouts. It looked like it had hurt. Good.
Two: Teachers, and people in general, loved to feel powerful and important. Even though they're not. Mrs. Matthews preached about "respect" and his "arrogance", but in reality, all she wanted was to feel powerful.
It's probably because her life sucks so much. She works at an Orphanage, where she's hated and no one wants to listen to her. She's been divorced for the last twelve years and hasn't been able to find a husband since. It makes sense, too. Who would want to marry Mrs. Matthews? They'd have to be insane!
Teachers: Tom was starting to see them for what they were. No, not just teachers — everyone, people.
People were so stupid. Tom was better, so much better. He wasn't like them, and it showed. While the other children spoke with idiotic grammar and broken words; Tom spoke at the level of an adult. While others walked with their shoulders slumped, gazes toward the ground; Tom walked tall and confident, his eyes never wavered, and when he wanted, his gaze was enough to make even some adults look away. While other children played, laughed, and wasted time; Tom was always thinking, always preparing, always plotting. He didn't have the time to waste, not when he could use it to become better. While other children whined and cried; Tom never did, there was nothing for him to cry about, he was born a genius, why would he be crying? Why would he spit on who he was by showing such weakness?
He often felt like he was trapped in this tiny body of his, as if someone had taken the mind of a king and stuffed it in a child. That'd be cool, but magic isn't real.
I can't wait to grow up. I can't keep being limited by my age. He lifted his arms and stared at them, they were so skinny, so pale. They're like twigs, I bet an infant could snap them in half. He smirked. Who knew these arms could throw such a powerful punch? Well … besides from Mrs. Matthews. He snickered to himself.
Three: Getting close to someone's face was a good way to make them uncomfortable. Mrs. Matthews had tried it against him, and he was ashamed to admit that it had slightly worked. Sheer anger and the need to appear confident had kept him from shying away. But Mrs. Matthews was taller, bigger, stronger, and had more power in the orphanage — which was why it had been so foolish to attack her in the first place.
But how can I control my anger? It's so difficult. And I actually, really tried to control it.
Well, try harder. Are you weak like them? No. Are you stupid like them? No. Are you better than them? Yes.
So do what you have to do. Ignore how "hard" it is, and just do it.
Tom stared up at the ceiling. There were distinct cracks, like veins, running through it. It shouldn't collapse, but that doesn't mean it won't. It certainly doesn't look stable.
It's probably just the paint chipping, stop getting distracted. Now's the time to think.
If I want to truly go far in life. I need to use these lessons. People love to be respected. That's a good lesson to learn. They love to feel powerful. Even I love to feel powerful. The only difference is that I actually am. I have the abilities and the merit to back it up. Meanwhile the rest of them try to throw around their age, and "rank", and expect others to cater to their every need.
The only problem with that is that only weaklings show respect above all else. They're the ones who get bossed around and don't do anything about it. Because they would much rather do what they're told and follow some misguided sense of "respect", rather than do what's best and actually get ahead in life.
If I'm to be the man I want to be — the man I know I can be — then I can't just go around showing respect to everyone. It's not that simple.
Hmmm ... How do I go about this? Tom tapped his finger against his chin.
Well, the first parts are easy.
I'll make sure to show an ungodly amount of respect to those who can get me things. But only those who can get me what I want. There's no need to show respect to others unless I benefit from it. No one ever spared me a glance. I've always been another child, smarter, better — but still just another child. No one's ever loved or respected me. So why should I show them love and respect?
Well … There was one person who might have loved me. She was the only person who ever saw me as something other than another orphan. She made me feel good … But she's dead now.
Tom shook his head. He was getting distracted again.
I'll do that, and then I'll make sure to get everyone else to respect me.
Let's go through the plan again —
The door to his bedroom, room 27, opened, breaking him from his thoughts. I was in the middle of thinking! Some of the caregivers stepped in: Mrs. Berry, Mrs Hudson, Mrs. Fletcher, Ms. Thomson, and Mrs. Gardner. Jesus, why do they need so many. What am I, some psychopath prisoner?
"Tom, explain yourself." Mrs. Hudson's voice was sharp and angry.
Wow, they all look furious. I mean come on, it was only Mrs. Matthews.
Tom looked down at his feet and purposefully made his voice meek. "I'm sorry." He repeated it. "I'm sorry."
He kept staring at his feet as they dangled off the side of his rickety bed. This'll be hard to get out of. I might have to bring out my secret weapon.
"Is that all you have to say for yourself?" Mrs. Fletcher asked.
Tom shook his head meekly. "I ... I'm sorry. I was just so angry." Time to up the act. He started clasping his hands nervously around each other. And he hunched his body over more. "I ... She ... She ..."
Not yet, not yet. "She wanted to put me in the six-year-old class." He made sure to make his voice sound weak and fragile. Like a child's.
Pause for a moment … Wait … Now! He started breathing shallowly, bit harshly into his cheek, and thought of his anger at Mrs. Matthews. Then he forced, through sheer will, tears through his eyes.
"She kept insulting me. She ... She ..." Tom paused. "She called me stupid, and selfish, and arrogant ... I'm sorry."
He looked up at them in an imitation of regret and fear. His eyes were glistening with tears. And some of the caretaker's eyes widened with shock. Tom rarely ever cried, everyone knew that.
Tom had to fight to keep the smirk from his face. Little did they know, he only cried when it fit him. It was one of the best weapons he used to make adults come to his side. Especially since he rarely cried. It makes me look weak and fragile — which is a pro and a con. It also makes Mrs. Matthews look like a bully.
He felt the bed to this right push down as someone sat beside him. He felt a comforting hand on his shoulder And he glanced up, his face red and blotchy, to see Mrs. Berry. He could feel the cold tears running down his cheeks.
God, it's so easy to do this, too!
Tom sobbed and forced the tears to come out more. Why does fake-crying hurt my face? Maybe that happens when you have to force it? "She just ... just kept making me feel bad about myself. She hates me. And I don't know why!"
He sniffled and frantically wiped tears from his face and glanced up again. Mrs. John was looking especially surprised, Mrs. Fletcher was looking sympathetic, Mrs. Gardner was looking angry — presumably at Mrs. Matthews, seeing how she shot him sympathetic looks. Mrs. Hudson was the only one who looked truly angry at him. But they all believed him, it seemed. I actually do feel bad about manipulating them. But they took Mrs. Matthews' side. So my regret only stretches so far.
"But why did you have to punch her?" Mrs. Hudson asked, her voice still stern. "Why didn't you just leave the class or come to one of us?"
Tom wiped at his tears again. "I couldn't leave. She grabbed onto my wrist. She was trying to make sure I couldn't run, I think — trying to make sure I couldn't go to one of you." Tom sniffled, and said weakly, "I was scared she'd hurt me if I did …"
Mrs. Berry rubbed his back comfortingly and asked, "Why did she feel the need to put you in the six-year-old class?"
"I had told Michael that I ... I was going to get Mrs. Matthews fired." He looked up at them, fearfully. "But I didn't mean it! I was just ... I just wanted Ms. Robinson back ..."
Don't overdo the tears. Make it realistic. He sniffled and cleared his eyes with his cheap shirt. It was long-sleeved, made from rugged, coarse cotton; it had several rips he had mended himself. Over time, the green had turned dull and washed-out. "Mrs. Matthews hates me … I just wanted Ms. Robinson back."
"No, she doesn't. She's just very strict, that's all." Mrs. Berry said.
Mrs. Hudson spoke up. "Tom, You're going to be doing chores during playtime for the next week."
Really? That's all! That's nothing! That's only adding three more days!
He wanted to smile, but snuffled that impulse. It's time to seal the deal. "I'm sorry. I really tried not to ... I ... I can work for two weeks." Risky move, but it should work.
Mrs. Berry smiled at him. "No, Tom. You only have to do one."
Thank God. He smiled lightly back up at her. "Thanks." He looked down at his shoes again, then said, "Um ... What's going to happen with Mrs. Matthews? Is she still working here?"
Mrs. Hudson raised an eyebrow at him. "She's taking the rest of the day off. But she'll be back tomorrow."
Tom's eyes widened. What? I punched her and she's only gone for a day? Do they not care about what she said to me? Do they not have ears? What's wrong with them? Fire her!
Tom nodded, and then asked the most important question on his mind: "Can I still attend the older class?"
"No."
"What?!" Tom shot to his feet. His eyes were wide. What did she just say to me? "Why?"
"Because, despite the wrong way Mrs. Matthews did it, she was still right."
"No." Tom's gaze hardened. You have to be joking me. "I'm not going back to that class. I didn't learn anything there. I passed your tests and did better than most of the older kids."
"That's true." Mrs. Hudson crossed her arms. "But you need to learn to be humble. There are more important things in life than learning math. What's in here —" She tapped his chest, pointing to his heart. "— is far more important."
Don't touch me. Tom's heart was racing in his ears, he could hear the blood being pumped to his brain. He had to think fast. He had to stop this idiotic idea. He wouldn't let them do this to him. This was why he hated others.
"No …" he said weakly to his shoes. "I … Why are you doing this to me? I want to be a businessman when I grow up. I need to be smart to do that. I want to ... I want to give back." He looked up at them. "I could have died, or been living out in the streets if it wasn't for you ... I want to give back. I want to make sure no one ever has to live without parents. I want to make the world a better place." Yes, play to their egos. He looked down at his feet. And said weakly, "Please don't take that from me ..."
"Claudia," Mrs. Berry said to Mrs. Hudson. "Are you really going to say no to him?"
"He has to learn life skills. He has to learn to be a good person. Not just a smart one."
"How am I a bad person?" Tom asked weakly, making sure to sound unsure and unconfident.
"You're not —" Mrs. Hudson's voice was exasperated. "I'm not saying you're a bad person. I'm just saying that there are things in life that every child needs to learn and know. You're not a bad person. But you're not perfect either, Tom."
Tom looked down at his feet, clenching his hands together. I swear to god, if they decide to put me back in the class with those idiots, I'll —
"Tom, you can stay in the older class," Mrs. Fletcher said, and Mrs. Hudson shot an angry look at her. "Claudia, let's discuss this in private."
Mrs. Hudson sighed lightly, shaking her head. "No, you can stay in the older class, Tom. It's fine by me. It doesn't matter."
Tom looked up at them.. "Thanks. I … I'm not a bad person …"
"We know, Tom," Mrs. Hudson said.
They left the room. Tom waited until he knew they were gone before letting a massive grin split his face. He jumped onto his bed and laid back, staring at the ceiling.
He felt two things: Ecstatic at how good he was at getting what he wanted, and bitterly angry at the thought of the caregivers changing his class.
What is wrong with everyone? I swear, I'm the only sane person. Why can no one else see the logic in anything? Why would anyone even consider the possibility of taking someone like me from that class? And what was that load of trash Mrs. Hudson was spitting from her mouth? Stuff like "He's not a good person" and "He needs to learn to control his ego."
I hate them. They try to control my life because they think they know better than I do. They think they're so smart, they think they're geniuses. But in reality, they're failures who ended up working at a goddamn orphanage. They aren't like me. They can't do the things I can do. And so they have absolutely no right to try to dictate what I can and can't do when they can't even comprehend the mere thought of power.
There is only power and those too weak to seek it.
And I won't be told what to do by a bunch of mumbling, bumbling idiots who boss around children for a living.
People: They're all so stupid. If being human means being like the rest of these idiots, then I would rather not be one. I would rather be better.
He ran his hands through his hair. I've never actually met someone deserving of my respect. Maybe it's because I live in an orphanage, or maybe it's because there are none. Regardless, I doubt any of them are on my level.
I mean look at me. I just convinced a couple of numb-brained, stubborn ladies to let me get off from punching a caregiver with only four extra days of chores. When Mabel attacked Mrs. Duncan a while back, they made her do chores for a whole month, and that was along with making her go last in line at every meal and banning her from the next beach visit.
I really am just better, aren't I?
Tom stared up at the ceiling. He would leave this orphanage one day. And when he did, he would change the world. He already knew he could.
