Wednesday, June 7, 1933
Tom's mind kept wandering to Ms. Robinson. He didn't want to keep thinking of her. It was weak. But he did. Every mention of her, every thought, brought with it a sense of intense longing.
But no, all he had was Mrs. Matthews. Every time he looked at her, an intense rage would spawn in his heart, and it only got more intense and time passed. She made his life hell. Sometimes he didn’t even do anything and she would shoot him an icy glare filled with disgust. He wanted to fire her, but was he supposed to do that?
It doesn’t matter how long it takes, I’ll make sure it happens.
Tom was currently sweeping the halls. They were already clean, seeing how orphans cleaned them daily. A rather pretty girl with shiny black hair, named Anita Duke, was dusting the furniture. She was a few years older than Tom.
He was talking to her right now because he wanted to get better at talking to people.
Tom absentmindedly swept the floor. It was already clean, anyway. He had swept half the hall already and only had a small pile of dust — about the size of a pencil. Their discussion was ... well, it was rather stupid. But Tom figured that to become the leader for the orphans, he should first gain their friendship, so they trusted him. He would learn what they liked, how they spoke, what they wanted. And then I’ll use that to rule them. He smiled at that thought.
Tom glanced over at Anita, with her flawless skin and perfect face. Stop thinking like that. Don’t let it distract you. As he swept, chips and splinters from the broom stabbed into his hands.
Anita was twelve years-old, and much taller than Tom, which annoyed him. And because of his age, she treated him like a child, and not with the respect that he deserved.
It was definitely a problem he’d need to overcome. He wouldn’t let others treat him like a child because he was in the body of one. He was smarter than everyone else, and that’s all that mattered.
If he was only twice his age, he could do so much more; but he wasn't. And for the time being, he would just have to deal with it. The only perk of being a child was that others underestimated him, and therefore didn’t see him as a threat.
He had been integrating rather well with the other children; it hadn't been hard, actually. He had started talking, and it turns out that becoming friends with other children wasn't difficult. As long as he didn't offend them, he’d stay on their good sides.
But not offending them was getting harder and harder; they were just so ... dull. It was so boring to talk to them. Why should he spend his time talking to children when he could plan?
He sighed internally. I just have to do what I have to do. There's nothing else to it.
He looked over to Anita, who lazily dusted the furniture, and asked, "Are you excited for the summer trip?"
She glanced over and then a smile blossomed on her face. "Of course I am. It's the only fun thing we do all year."
Tom forced his face to smile. "Especially seeing how we spend all year here."
She giggled lightly. "What're you going to do there?"
Tom shrugged and kept sweeping. "I'll probably walk around, maybe go swimming."
"You can swim?"
"Better than most.” Tom’s heart swelled with pride.
"How'd you learn to do that?"
"It's not too difficult. Just make sure to not panic and you’ll be fine."
She smiled. "Well, I'll have to make sure to do that."
Tom opened his mouth to speak, but at that moment, a yell of rage shrieked from behind him.
"Tom! Get over here right now." Mrs. Matthew's voice was shaking with rage
Tom whirled around and was completely taken aback by the state she was in. Her face was an ugly red, veins were popping from her forehead, and she looked absolutely hideous with her usual sneer twisted even further in rage.
Tom took a few steps back, his eyes wide, as she came marching toward him. Anita backed away slowly.
Mrs. Matthews latched her bony fingers around Tom's arm and yanked him forward, causing him to stumble. Anita squeaked and backed further away. "You're coming with me."
A familiar fire blazed to life within him, and he grit his teeth to stop him from doing something stupid. The caregivers wouldn't forgive him a second time.
"What did I do?" he gritted out.
She didn't answer for a few seconds, huffing from exertion. And then she turned her ugly head to look at him, still hobbling forward. "Guess."
“Well, if you could tell from what I just said, then I don’t know.” Tom was on the verge of exploding again. Calm, calm, calm. Don’t be stupid.
She stopped walking. “Such … Disrespect.” She spat the last words out and paused to regain her breath. “Someone came to me, talking about how you were spreading rumors about me.” Her face tightened and she reddened ever further. “Nasty rumors — the type you would use in an attempt to get me fired.”
“I didn’t do that! I —”
“Silence!” The yell caused a nearby orphan doing chores to jump in fright. “I will not hear your lies. It was you, and you will admit now — or face the consequences.” Mrs. Matthews bent down lower. Her gaze met Tom's icy stare. He didn't care to hide his hatred of her.
“I said, I didn’t do it. Don’t take the word of any idiot. I wouldn’t be stupid enough to spread rumors after you told me to stop. I haven’t done anything.”
"You — you little liar." She sneered, her face in rage again. "For your disrespect, you're banished from the orphanage. I don’t want to see you until lunchtime."
"What?" Tom tried pulling his arm away from her grip again, but to no avail. "I'm not doing that. It's dangerous out there."
"Maybe it will help you learn."
"I didn't do anything.” he gritted out again.
But by then it was too late. Mrs. Matthews dragged him the rest of the way and shoved him out the large doors — out into the city orphanage. She glared at him, causing his vision to turn red. But then … he decided to just leave it be. Not because he didn't care; but rather, being banished didn't bother him. In fact, it was something he’d been waiting for.
So he walked away, into downtown London.
But the insanity of the situation didn't stop his heart from pounding in his ears. Who would let Mrs Matthews lead the caregivers? Who would even think of putting a child out in London on their own? Where are the rules when you need them? How can the caregivers blatantly let Mrs Matthews break them? Are all people like this? Am I the only one who can actually be trusted to do the right thing?
He grit his teeth and probed at his forearm, it hurt where Mrs. Matthews had dug her claws in.
I didn’t spread any rumors. Which idiot told her I was?
Around him, people of all types bustled to their destinations. Beggars huddled in corners, matted with dirt and grime, their wrinkled, outstretched hands feeble. A stray dog — which looked dead, save for the faint rise of its chest — laid next to a beggar, the entirety of its fur matted with caked dirt.
Tom walked with purpose — such a stark contrast to his surroundings. He would go to the bakery — maybe steal something, if he could. His thin stomach grumbled from hunger. And he grabbed at it with one hand. Yes, I’ll steal some food. I’ll just make sure to be safe about it.
A boy, not much older than Tom, was huddled near the wall. His body was thin, like Tom’s. And a thought struck him atop the head: were it not for Tom’s clean clothes and combed hair, he would have fit right in here.
The buildings were sagging and decrepit. Like a row of dominoes — caught in the moment before they toppled — the buildings leaned to one side, each needing the one to their side for support, lest they crumple to the ground. Some windows were littered with broken glass and boarded shut with cracked wood.
No cars drove down this street — King’s Street — as it was only for walking. But to his distant right, obscured by the endless people, cars rumbled perpendicular to it.
Tom passed by a rather respectable looking businessman in the street. He stuck out like nothing else, his coat was clean and pressed, his shoes shiny, and his face fully shaven. He didn’t spare a glance for Tom or the other beggars.
No one stopped to think about Tom as he walked. Why would they? He wasn't the only child here. Yes, he was probably the youngest, but they didn’t care. Their wrinkled eyes peered at him with disinterest — not an ounce of pity spared for him.
Tom ran his hands through his hair, combing it down again to look presentable.
Tom had rarely seen Mrs. Matthews that mad, only on especially rare occasions. And even then, she had never kicked someone out of the orphanage before — and if she had, they would have fired her. Maybe someone would come looking for him, but Tom doubted it. Maybe if Ms. Robinson were still here …
No, stop thinking like that.
Why do I even care that Mrs. Matthews kicked me out? This only helps me. Not only does this make her look more like a tyrant, but I get to go out on my own — something I've always wanted.
Tom passed by a deathly dark alley, and in it, some older boys were relaxing. Their limbs were deathly thin and worn-out — far worse than even Tom. Their clothes were torn in multiple places and splattered with mud. They were likely fourteen years-old.
How cruel is this world, Tom pondered, where there can be boys starving in an alleyway, not even a few blocks from an orphanage?
It was as if the entrance to the alleyway was guarding night on one side and day on the other. The shadows were like night in the corners, and veils of pitch-black darkness veiled the entire place. Uneven and chipped bricks, covered in a layer of mud, comprised the ground.
The boys toiled in the dirt, but they didn't seem too downtrodden. They joked and bantered. Tom crouched by the entrance to the alleyway, silently observing the dark outlines of the boys.
"— and you saw that girl?" one of them asked, his thin, crusty lips curved into a smile.
"’Course I saw her. How could I not?" This one had thin black hair down to his shoulders.
Another chimed in, “She was looking at me. Did you see it?” Shiny burn scars marred the right side of his face. “She wanted me, I know it.”
One of them burst into laughter. “Her wanting you?”
“Yes! She fucking wanted me!” The other kept laughing, his finger pointing at him — and the boy’s face twisted. “Shut up. Or I’ll wipe that smile off your face.”
The other stopped laughing. “The fuck you say to me? You think you could do anything, you little shit? You —”
Another boy — this one shirtless, exposing his bone-thin body — groaned loudly and sat up from where he had been lying. “Be quiet, both of you dumb-asses. If Jared finds you fighting, he might just kill you both.” He silenced them with a glare.
The boy with shoulder-length hair looked at the shirtless one. “When’s Jared comin’ back? I’m hungry.”
“Be patient, and be glad he’s even getting food for you,” the shirtless one said.
Tom tuned them out, because in an instant, he had found something far more worthy of his attention: A toy — laying in the middle of the alleyway. Just laying there. A smile stretched Tom’s lips. I’ll be taking that.
Tom’s new toy gleamed like a light in the gloomy alleyway. It was a small, plastic figurine of a knight. The boys at the orphanage loved to play war — which made it the perfect toy to have.
But how to steal it? They're sitting there. I'll either have to scare them away — probably with an adult, because I doubt I can scare them away. Or maybe get an adult to steal it for me …
No … There's a simpler solution. Tom scanned the grimy floor for a rock. And his eyes landed on a sharp one about the size of his small hand. He stooped down and picked it up. And then, making sure that no one saw, threw it in the air, toward the trash bins at the end of the alleyway.
His aim was perfect. The rock arced high into the shadows of the alleyway, unseen by any of the boys below. And, with a loud crash and jumble, it toppled over a bin. The boys yelped and scrambled to their feet. Some fumbled for crude weapons, like rocks and chipped knives. They inched forward, afraid. One boy was muttering, “Not again, not again.” under his breath.
And while they were distracted, Tom snuck in — keeping his profile as small as possible — grabbed the toy, and left.
Still clinging to the shadows, he reached the entrance and was about to leave when another dirty, mangly boy stepped in.
Tom froze.
Mud flaked his thin body and hands — like everything else here. Filth matted his sandy brown hair to his forehead, making it look almost black in places. His shirt was shredded, with parts hanging off in jagged strips. An ugly brown satchel was strung around his shoulder, with two loaves of bread peeking out. But the strangest thing was a small, white-clean book — worn out from use — peeking from his pocket. The title of it read, A Master’s Guide to Poetry.
And despite it all, his eyes were sharp and dangerous — like blades. And he had a dangerous, crooked scar running down his cheek.
And when his eyes landed on Tom, fear shot through his body like lightning, electrifying his nerves and urging him to leave at all costs.
“Who’re you?” the boy asked, but then his eyes landed on the toy in Tom’s hand, and his eyes narrowed further. “That’s mine —”
Every instinct was screaming at him to run, so he did. He bolted away, trying to curve around the boy. But the boy grabbed Tom by the back of the collar and yanked. Tom twisted his body, but the boy snaked his arm against Tom's neck, choking his throat closed. Tom squirmed against his hold, wrapping his fingers around the boys and trying to pry the forceful grip away.
"That's mine," the boy said, his voice low and menacing as he tightened his grip on Tom.“And everybody knows not to take from me.”
Tom's limbs flailed, and he punched weakly at the boy behind him, trying for the life of him to break free as the boy dragged him deep into the darkness of the alleyway.
The other boys ran over, whooping and cheering. Devious grins plastered on their faces. One of them grabbed Tom's legs to stop him from kicking, and then they carried him further.
No. No. I'm not — I'm not dying here.
Tom's thoughts were scrambled, his heart was racing. His heart pounded in his chest like a caged animal, each beat screaming at him to escape. He felt it more intensely than ever before. His hands were weak compared to the older boy’s. He tried to pry them away — scratching and twisting — but they didn't budge.
His mind was frantic. He had to escape.
The arm tightened further around his throat, and he couldn't breathe at all. He was dying. They were just going to kill him here. And all because of Mrs. Matthews.
He didn't know why that thought struck him — that it was her fault — while his life was draining from his body and all he could see were the dark forms of skinny, cruel boys.
But then the arms slipped away, and Tom fell straight back onto the rough, jagged alleyway floor. Gasping for life. The cold, damp air flooded into his lungs, and he coughed. He felt the urge to cry, an urge unlike any he had experienced before, but he forced it down, suffocating that thought. He would rather die than show such weakness to these … these — He couldn’t even find words to describe the hatred he felt for them.
The boys were talking, and Tom scrambled to his feet. But a powerful punch rocketed into his skull from behind — so hard that he felt his brain rattle and he didn't notice as he slammed headfirst into the ground.
Pain overtook his body, and he gasped aloud. His skull was throbbing, and he felt a hot wetness on his forehead.
He pushed himself up again, forcing his body to move. But a hefty kick slammed into his stomach, and he immediately vomited what little food he had eaten. The boys jeered and shouted.
Tom was gasping for breath, and his body was aching. But he had to move. I'm not dying here. I won't. I won't.
Then hands took him and flipped his body around, so his face — splattered with blood and vomit — looked up at the boy. Tom fought wildly against the hands, his body flailing and beating against them.
"Punch him!" one cheered.
The fist slammed into his nose with a loud CRUNCH, and blood spewed across Tom's face. He screamed in pain and his hands shot up to cover his nose, which was crooked. Blood leaked into his eye, and he tried blinking it away.
Another fist pummeled into his head, and his head bounced across the floor. His mind went completely blank for a few seconds.
The leader, the one who had the bread satchel still around his shoulders, grabbed onto Tom's skull and pushed his face close to Tom's. Making him shy away.
"This," he growled, “is why you don't take what's not yours."
Tom could barely make out his cruel features from his blurry eyes, but he forced himself to not cry. He wouldn't let himself show weakness. He wouldn't.
He then peered closer to Tom, getting uncomfortably close, until his nose was touching Tom's bloody, crooked one. "Weird. Why aren't you crying?'' he whispered. He poked at Tom's eye, but he shut it right before. "Weird, weird, weird. Most kids would start crying by now."
The boy turned to the other boys — there were five of them in total — and said, "Alright, boys." His grin turned crueler. "Whoever makes him cry gets an entire loaf to himself!"
Most cheered, but one of the smaller boys protested. "Not fair! You're the biggest."
His sharp eyes turned to the boy, and he growled, "Shut it. Be glad you’re eating at all."
He then backed away from Tom — who started frantically crawling away again — and said, "James, you're up."
Tom's body was burning in pain. His nose was on fire, and he knew they had ruined his good looks forever. But he kept himself from crying. He wouldn’t cry. No matter what. He would rather die than bow down to these insects.
Tom's arms — weak from trying to fight — pushed his body up from the ground. But as soon as that happened, the boy stomped on the back of his ankle, twisting it with a sharp SNAP.
Tom suppressed the freakish scream that threatened to burst from his mouth. His hands were shaking, his mind racing, his heart thumping, his body aching. He forced himself not to look at his ankle, too afraid that it would be bent at a horrifying ankle.
He could feel his morals crumbling to dust, but didn't care anymore. He didn't want to die here. "Let me LEAVE!" Tom yelled through his teeth.
The boy stomped on his head this time, smashing his skull into the rock-hard ground. And after that, Tom couldn't have moved if he had wanted to.
He kicked him again, and again. And Tom's mind refused to shut off. HIs body was in agony. And he wanted to kill these boys. He wanted to tear them apart. A fire was building in him. But ... But he knew he couldn’t win.
"Alright, alright. That's enough." The words — which sounded murky, as if said through water — brought a faint hope in Tom's heart as he lay limp on the ground. "George, your turn."
Tom’s hope was smothered in an instant. Some boys whooped and cheered, and Tom heard footsteps approaching.
The boy flipped Tom around onto his back. And it was the shirtless boy who was glaring at him. “Fuck you, bitch.” He spat in Tom’s face.
He kneeled on his arms, preventing him from protecting himself. And then he rocketed his fist straight into Tom’s forehead. The blow was so powerful that Tom didn’t even feel it for a full second, and then he exploded in pain.
He didn’t even have time to scream as another punch smashed into him — harder this time. Tom’s mind went fully blank — except for one horrifying thought: I’m dying.
He punched again, and again, and again — until Tom was on the ground choking on his own blood, and they had to pull George off him. Shiny blood dripped down his fists.
“God damn, George. Remind me not to get into a fight with you.” The boys laughed.
George smirked.
“Charlie, you’re up next,” the leader said.
"Umm ... OK."
Tom curled up into a ball — trying at all costs to protect himself.
A weak kick grazed his back, causing him to seize in pain despite the frail attack.
One boy burst out laughing. "What was that? C'mon, try harder. Don't you want the bread?"
The boy mumbled something and kicked again, harder this time.
Tom was gasping for air on the ground. "Please stop ..." His voice sounded feeble and child-like.
Another kick, stronger again, sent his body into a blaze of fire.
"Charlie, if you're not going to try, then leave. You said you wanted to be a part of the clan, so kick him."
He stayed silent, but then pain exploded across Tom's back, and he couldn't stop the scream that ripped free from his mouth, echoing in the dark alleyway.
Someone grabbed onto the back of his hair and yanked him up, so his upper body was dangling by only the threads of his hair. "If you scream that loudly again, I'll make sure you die."
Then he took Tom's head and SLAMMED it into the ground.
Tom awoke to maniacal laughter.
"I actually killed him! I did!" The laughing continued.
"Jared ... This is bad ... What are we supposed to do?"
The boy was still laughing. "Hide him in the bins!” The laughing continued, unstoppable. “The fuck do I care?"
Hands grabbed onto Tom and they felt slick and wet. But then he realized they were slick with blood — his blood. Tom's eyes were caked shut.
"Ew ... He's so — Wait! He's alive!"
Tom dropped back to the floor and let out a growl. And then, using all the power in his body, pushed himself onto his feet. Pain like nothing else flared in his bones. It was a deep, horrible pain. And his vision blurred to black, and he swayed on his feet.
The boys in front of him had cruel glints in their eyes, except for one — who hung to the back of the group and averted his gaze. They towered over Tom, far taller than him. And the boy with the bread — Jared — shoved another boy out of the way to get closer to Tom.
Like lightning in his bones, the fear shot through him as the boy walked closer. And Tom stumbled backward — trying to escape the alleyway. If he could only reach the entrance. That’s all he needed, and then he could escape — he could live.
But he was too slow. Each step was agony, and he only managed two feeble steps before Jared pushed on his body and he toppled over.
Jared flipped Tom onto his back, forcing Tom to look at the sadistic, horrible eyes that bore down on him with malice.
Tom kicked his legs with as much power as he could manage — which wasn't much. But Jared easily caught it. He clicked his tongue in a teasing manner. "You'll have to try harder than that." And he then crashed his fist into Tom's stomach.
Tom's eyes bulged, and he threw up again, this time it was less, and vomit covered his lips and chin, mixing with blood.
A horrible sensation grew in Tom's stomach, one that grew and grew until it consumed Tom's thoughts. The sensation was inside him, and it felt so horrible.
The boys crowded around him, making a circle as they jeered.
"You know what?" Jared said. "I'm glad you're alive. I was dying to see you cry."
And then his strong, bloody hands wrapped around Tom's head, his thumbs hovering over his eyes, blocking out his view.
Tom's breath hitched and then started coming out in ragged breaths. "Please — Please stop," Tom begged, hoping to find some mercy in his soul.
The fingers closed in closer to his eyes. "I want to see you cry.”
And then, in sudden anger, they shot closer and squeezed into his eyeballs.
Tom's breathing became erratic, and he panted and beat his arms against the boy.
The fingers pressed deeper into Tom's skull. Tom couldn't breathe anymore. A pain was building like fire behind his eyes. And then everything crashed down onto him. The entire reality of the situation he was in, the horrid nature of the boys, the cruelty, the pain — life.
Tom's lungs heaved and out of his mouth came great heaving sobs.
And as his world crumbled around him, he started crying.
Jared cheered at the top of his lungs. And withdrew his bloody fingers from Tom's crying eyes. "Yes! I knew I could do it!"
Tom couldn't see it, but he heard Jared eating the bread. And as the boys dragged Tom's body across the floor, he still cried. His tears slid across his bloody cheeks and mingled with the vomit. The sobs were like earthquakes that shot through his body, seizing him with grips of fiery death. The boys covered him in trash.
Tom slipped in and out of consciousness. Each time he awoke, he cried from sheer pain.
It was night when Tom finally moved, his body aching horribly. The boys weren't in the alleyway, so he could walk past and into the night. Near the entrance to the alleyway, he saw the toy — the one this had all happened over. And tears threatened to spill from his eyes again.
He turned away and stumbled toward the orphanage, leaving the alleyway and the toy behind. His eyes seared with pain — and he could only make out faint shapes and colors. He only came across one person — a store owner taking the trash out for the night. They raised an eyebrow at Tom's appearance, but didn't say anything. They went back inside after that.
Tom forced himself not to cry. He hated his life. He hated it. And life hated him. People. They're all evil. It would be better if none of them existed.
He saw the tall, ugly orphanage in the distance, and he stopped. He looked down at his body. His clothes were shredded and soaked in blood, and he was battered and bruised. He felt his nose, and it was crooked. His eyes burned in the night air, causing him to blink uncontrollably.
He couldn't go back to the Orphanage. The other children … if they see me like this ... they'll think I'm weak.
He buried his face in his hands and tried to stop himself from hyperventilating. I can't go back. Not looking like this. He couldn’t stop his breathing from turning erratic.
But he noticed something else, too. The pain in his body was disappearing. It drifted away until his body was feeling blissfully serene.
What's happening? Tom removed his hands from his eyes and looked back down to himself. And what he saw caused him to gasp aloud.
Nothing. No blood, no rips, no vomit. He was completely clean, as if nothing had happened. Tom checked his body, and he was completely healthy. His nose was back to normal and his eyes no longer burned. His vision was clear as it had ever been.
What just happened? Why am I healed? Was that all just a dream?
No, no it definitely wasn't a dream. But ... But what happened?
And then a wave of fatigue like nothing else washed over him, making him stumble. Suddenly, he was so tired. His eyes drooped and his body sagged. His muscles felt weak, and a pain deep inside his chest grew — as if it were coming from his very soul.
Tom stumbled back to the Orphanage. And when he walked in, Mrs Matthews dashed forward and yanked on his ear.
"YOU! You disrespectful, horrible little boy! Why were you out so late?" She didn't give him time to answer before she yanked his ear and dragged him down the halls.
"You …" her voice was shaking with rage. "You will be cleaning the bathrooms for the next month. No breaks. And you'll start tonight. I want you here until six in the morning, and it better be spotless." She turned to him. “Or else.”
She opened the door to the bathroom and pushed him into the room. His body, which felt so weak and drowsy, couldn't stop himself from tripping. He failed to catch himself and slammed his head against a bathroom sink, shattering the corner.
His head exploded in agony, and he couldn't hear Mrs. Matthews' shouts of rage as he lay limp on the cold, smooth tiles. He felt the floor shake as the door slammed shut.
Rage. Like fire, only hotter. It burned his soul to a crisp. Charcoaling his mind until the only thought was the call for blood.
I hate her. I wish I could watch as she was beaten like I just was. I wish she would die!
He clenched his hands together and pushed himself off the floor.
He shut his eyes and steadied his breathing. No … No ... I don't want her to die ... I just wish she would leave …
He was so tired. He could barely move his body. His mind was in agony, and every little thing made his mind blaze with rage.
But he forced himself to clean. He forced himself to scrub the toilets and the floors with weak hands. And in his mind, he hated everything. At this moment, he would be content to see the world burn down.
