Saturday, May 20, 1933
Tom awoke while it was still dark. He could make out the edges of his room through the veil of darkness. Fatigue and tiredness were intense in his mind; he didn’t want to get up. But he did anyway, he forced his body to move and crawled out of bed. And besides, he had some extra motivation too — he really had to go to the bathroom.
The caregivers would wake up the orphans at 7AM every day, but Tom woke earlier — at 630AM. He had to. He couldn’t be getting up at the same time as everyone else. That would mean the others would see him as weak. They would see him with messy hair and disheveled clothes. He couldn’t let that happen.
He had been getting up early for the last month. It was difficult sometimes, but rewarding.
He rubbed his eyes and yawned, and then opened his door and stepped out into the dark, cold hallway. He pattered over to the bathroom, his bare feet cold against the checkered tiles. Every night, he would drink two glasses of water, so his body would naturally wake itself up earlier in the morning.
The halls were dark and absent of any life. He passed doors upon doors as he ventured to the bathroom, all was quiet. The walls — marred with cracks, chips, and peeling paint — leeched the warmth from his very soul, leaving him feeling drained and hollow. Everything was so dark, dull, and lifeless — gray, dead, a corpse. The caregivers only watched with lazy or judgemental eyes.
His footsteps echoed in the halls. If he didn’t know better, he would have assumed no one lived here. An
He did his business and then went to look at himself in the mirror. His eyes were still sleepy and drooped from it. He wet down his hair, grabbed a communal comb from the small bucket, and combed it down.
He grabbed a toothbrush from the toothbrush bin. They had to share toothbrushes, because the orphanage couldn't afford individual ones. So unsanitary. Each was exactly the same, it had a wood handle and animal-hair bristles.
He quickly walked back to his room and shut the door. He made his bed and then started changing out of his nightwear — which consisted of only a long nightshirt that reached down to his knees, and underwear. They were the softest clothes he owned — they practically felt like silk compared to his other clothes. His jacket was coarse and rough, like sandpaper.
He looked down at his body. He was so skinny, the caregivers barely fed them anything here — everyone here was rather skinny. But Tom especially so. His arms were mere sticks, and he could count each and every rib in his chest. His hands were thin and bony — but his fingers were agile and contained surprising strength. Though he was slightly taller than the other six-year-olds, he was still dwarfed by the older kids. His stature wasn't a source of pride; after all, he was only six. He stood at a mere three-foot-ten. But his body wasn't what he took pride in, it was his brain. His brain was everything. It was him.
Standing naked in his room — there was no one awake to see him anyway — he opened his bare closet and grabbed his clothes for the day. He pulled on his underwear, and then a long-sleeve cotton shirt — made of thick, durable cotton. It was dull green, to hide dirt and stains — although Tom’s didn't have many, besides from a few mended rips. He had to project an image of confidence, charisma, and power at all times. The color was washed out, and the shirt hung too low, all but his fingers were obscured by the sleeves. He quickly buttoned up the front, pulled on his tough, dull-brown trousers, and tucked his shirt into them. He rolled up the bottoms of the trousers and the sleeves of his shirt.
He looked closer, and saw his sweater. He only wore it in winter, but it was one of his nicest possessions — it had no rips.
The clothes were all hand-me-downs, and he hated how they looked. They had been worn, washed, and mended repeatedly — which led to his overall appearance looking more than shabby.
He combed his hair back down, using his hands to feel for any parts that stuck up.
He glanced out into the hallway toward the clock. The small hand was at 6 and the long hand was at 37. 6:37. I still have some time before everyone else wakes. Some orphans couldn’t even read the time.
Tom went and grabbed a pair of long socks and pulled them on. And then he slid his feet into the leather shoes. He grabbed a large leather volume that sat on his chair. It was a book on math, which he had taken from the very limited library. He sat back in the cheap, rigid wooden chair and started reading the book.
Many of the later topics confused him — he was ashamed to admit. So he stuck to the earlier sections, which held chapters on Algebra. He read and reread them, thinking of how he could use them in his life and trying to memorize them as best as possible. He liked math, if anything to show that he was better than the others
There hadn't been another math class yet, but he wasn't going to lose another arithmetic chart to Sam Doyle. Even if he had to study to do it.
I still don't understand how he won that. He must have cheated. I don't see how I could have done it any faster ... Maybe if I had drawn the grid beforehand … Maybe.
He looked back to the Math book, which he’d had taken from the library. He had asked Mrs. Berry and she had let him borrow it. All the caretakers knew he liked to learn. He looked at the math problem again. 5x + 3 = 18.
How does that work? He bit his lip, chewing it as he thought. He swung his legs back and forth — they couldn't touch the ground.
He ran through each step, trying his hardest to not forget any rules. This was a more complex problem — of the such that only 13-year-olds learned. But still, Tom wanted to learn it better than they could. He would be smarter than them.
They didn't teach this type of math in classes, but it was so fascinating, how everything just fit together.
He closed his eyes, trying to think it through but struggling.
Subtract from both sides … And then divide, right? Yes, that's it.
And if I do that, I get .... three.
He opened his eyes and flipped to the answer page. And it said three. A grin blossomed on his face — true grin. That was a problem that most people in the twle-year-old class wouldn't have been able to complete. But Tom had done it. At six years old.
He completed more problems. Making sure to get all of them correct. Until he was finally sure he understood the principles.
Finally, a bell sounded out through the halls, lights turned on, and one of the caretaker's voices rang out, "Time to wake, everyone." She rang the bell again. "Time to wake"
She repeated it a few times, the sharp bell echoing through the halls. Tom stood and placed the book back on his chair. The hall lights were on. Only Mrs. John was in the hall; the children were changing in their rooms. Tom smirked.
Mrs. John waited in the hall — the small bell dangling from her hands. She ignored Tom as he went to stand next to her. They were expected to be standing here 15 minutes after wakeup time.
The boys slowly came from their rooms. Each was disheveled and sleepy-looking — unlike Tom. He smirked lightly, unable to control his face.
He stood there and Mrs. John didn't once acknowledge his presence. But he was fine with that, he liked to be alone. And the less time he had to spend pandering to the wants of the caregivers, the better. He watched as each child left their rooms, each looked like .... well, a child. They were messy, some of their clothes were wrinkled and stained, their hair stood on end. Tom was different.
When they finally all got there, about fifteen minutes later, they left for the dining room. They lined up and got breakfast, Tom was first to get this food. He sat down and picked at it with his fork. There was almost nothing there — a small bowl of porridge, the same thing they had every breakfast. He ate it quickly, and when he was finished, he was still hungry. He stared fitfully at the empty bowl. Maybe I should just steal more.
Tom silently watched the orphans around him. He didn't join in. It wasn't that he was shy — not at all. He just didn't care to talk to them unless he benefitted.
One of the boys who was sitting at his table — Stanley —looked over to him.
"Tom," he said with a devious grin. "I heard Michael saying you gettin’ Mrs. Matthews fired. That true?"
Tom was used to Stanley’s way of speaking by now. Besides, half of the orphans spoke with it. Despite the caregivers who abhorred that bad habit.
"I said that. But I'm not doing it now."
"Wha —?” Stanley’s food-full mouth fell open, as if Tom had said the most idiotic thing he’d ever heard. “Why not? I'll help ya. Trust me, trust me — I know lotsa things."
Tom had to stop himself from rolling his eyes. But he spoke anyway "What do you know?”
"Lots." Stanley smiled again. "If you promise to get Mrs. Matthews fired, I'll tell ya."
"I can't promise anything. But what you know might help me." He was careful to not specifically say he would try to get Mrs Matthews fired.
"I heard Mrs. Cole’s comin' back. They said she's gonna take Mrs. Matthews' job."
"Who told you this?" Tom asked with a furrowed brow.
Stanley chuckled lightly. "You’re so serious … Anyway, I dunno who .... I forgot." He chuckled again.
Tom had to stop himself from gritting his teeth. I'm dealing with an idiot. A complete idiot.
"I doubt that's true. Mrs. Cole went to America, she's not coming back anytime soon."
Stanley shrugged. "I guess. But I hope it happens. I don't really like Mrs. Cole. But she gotta be better than Mrs. Matthews."
Yeah, well keep hoping. Meanwhile, I'll be the one who actually gets Mrs. Matthews fired.
"So, Tom. How're you planning on firing her? You gotta have some good plans for that."
The last thing in the world Tom wanted to be doing was talking to Stanley. But he did so anyway. He didn't care to keep the annoyance from his voice, though. "I'm not going to get her fired."
That's a lie. But Stanley doesn't need to know if I'm planning on firing anyone or not. I'm not doing it for him.
Stanley chuckled again. “You’re lyin’. I know you gonna do it … Well, I hope ya do you at least.”
The rest of their conversation passed, with Tom giving half-hearted answers.
When lunch ended, it was time to do chores — which caused him to clench his fists as heat rose into his cheeks. Tom was tasked with tidying the dining room. After that they had playtime — during which Tom had to do chores. Michael was there too, doing an exceptionally poor job at every chore. Playtime lasted for a couple hours. That was usually the time during which Tom could think and learn and do whatever he deemed important. But now his life was consumed with one purpose: chores.
Then they ate another tiny meal for lunch, this time it was soup and some crackers. After that was more chores, and Tom had to help with trimming the bushes outside.
It was as if his entire life was chores. He was expected to do nothing except chores. As if he didn't have ambitions of his own, as if he didn't have things that he needed to be doing. Rather than trimming a bush that had been trimmed just yesterday. The red-hot sun glared down at him, burning his pale skin. As he worked with his hands and a rusty metal shear, a soft circuit of anger coursed through his body. Every day, he was expected to do this.
All he could do was think. At some points, that seemed to be all he ever did. He thought for hours on end, planning and plotting and thinking of ways to improve himself. But he never did anything. He lived in an orphanage, how was he supposed to do anything?
He wanted to be powerful, but at times like these, the goal seemed so far-fetched and impossible to achieve. He grit his teeth in frustration and shut his eyes for a moment.
I'm stagnating. Yes, I learn every day. I do my classes, and I do them better than anyone else. But that's all I do. I don't have time for anything else. And I don't have the ability to just … leave.
I have such lofty ambitions. But what are ambitions when I’m not moving toward them? I need to make the most of my time here. I need to actually DO something, not just THINK of doing something.
But sometimes I can’t even control what I do. Especially with … my anger. I can’t control it sometimes. It lashes out, like it has a mind of its own. I should be able to control it, right? What will happen to me if I never learn to control it? Will I turn evil? A bolt of fear — like lightning — shot through his body.
No, no I won’t. I need to stop thinking like a child. No one “turns evil”.
He sighed, he was getting off-track.
I want to be powerful, I want to be the one the other orphans respect. I want to be the one they rely on. But look at me — I don't talk to anyone unless they talk to me. I don't associate with the other children. I need to make a change.
I need to put my plans into action. I've thought enough. I've thought of strategies and ideas. Who cares that I'm six-years-old? The more the challenge, the better the rewards.
Run through the plan again.
For as long as he could remember, which was only about a year and a half. He had observed the way of life at the orphanage, he had searched to understand the way it worked, the ways it could be exploited, the weaknesses in any forms of security. The adult routines, which rules he could get away with breaking, the general social dynamic, and ways to appeal to the authority of the caregivers.
Step one: He needed to be charismatic. He was failing horribly at this. He was good at convincing others, good at understanding them. But he never had enough motivation to do it. Whenever another orphan started talking with him, the only thoughts in his mind were of how idiotic they sounded.
Step two: he needed to provide some service that the caregivers couldn't provide themselves. He could help with other's schoolwork, or perhaps negotiate with the caregivers — which was something he was especially good at. Or he could provide toys to the other boys, and in doing so, make them reliant on him.
Step three: He needed to network. He had to form alliances and strategic friendships with others. Anyone well-liked or respected, he needed to be friends with. Sam Doyle, Regina Larson, Daisy Black, Roger Knox. All of them he needed to become friends with.
And then he would win — assuming everything went to plan.
He knew he would win. The others didn't have his focus or his drive. They were playing checkers, while he was playing chess.
Tom smiled to himself.
They ate dinner afterward, and then it came time for bathing. Every Saturday evening, the orphans would bathe. His nose curled at the mere thought of bathing time.
He stood in line outside the bathroom, waiting to be called in.
There were four bathing rooms. Two for the younger children — which included Tom. And two for the older children. There were two for males and two for females.
Someone stepped out, and Tom walked in, trying to mask the rage and discomfort spawned in him.
There were nine baths in the room; there were no dividers. Only the older children had dividers in their bathing room. But the caregivers had to maintain order, so they didn't have any dividers or curtains around the baths. A caregiver sat on a stool in the corner, occasionally telling the orphans to hurry up or stop messing around.
Tom walked up to the empty bath and glanced around. He quickly unclothed, trying to hide his skinny body as best he could, and slipped into the luke-warm water. The problem could be easily fixed too. If only they put dividers up.
He washed as quickly as he could, stooping low into the tub, so the others couldn’t get a good look at his weak, thin body. Using the cheap bar soap. He washed his hair too. It was so demeaning to do this in front of a group of boys the same age as him. But the fact was that they didn't care, only Tom did. They weren't as ambitious as him. They didn't care, as long as this was fun, then they didn't care.
Tom washed as quickly as he could, clambered out, and quickly draped the towel around him. He dried himself off, and once he was finished, grabbed his clothes and put them back on.
He never partook in the bath-time chaos like the others. Everyone else had fun, but not him. He didn't care about fun, like them. He wanted more, and taking a bath in a room of eight other children wasn't in his plans.
If only I could leave this place. It's so ... suffocating. I feel like I can't do anything here.
Once everyone was done with the baths, they congregated for a quick prayer service. Tom begrudgingly bowed his head; the caregivers would buff him atop his head if he didn't.
When they finished, he went and drank two glasses of water and then sidled into his bed. He needed to implement his plans, and he would. He smiled lightly, staring up at the dark ceiling. Everything would change.
