Proza

The coarse and filthy rag scraped against my skin, chafing against the numerous scars on my body, some new, some old. For how many times I have been beaten I have lost count. Like a curious little child, I fingered my scars gingerly, feeling the contrast of new tissue against old ones, the smooth and cold touch added by a stroke of the whip, a slice of the knife, or some other instrument the caretaker currently had. Over time, I forgot who I was, who I used to be, where I was from, just remembering the pain, the lustful glint in the caretaker’s eyes, wanting my face to be contorted even more with pain. 

Today isn’t the day to be thinking of memories, however recent they are, I thought to myself. It’s a new start, the start of my flight. To where, I don’t care, but yes, I must fly today. Walking towards the cracked mirror, I used this chance to examine myself as an orphan for one last time. After today, I’ll no longer be an orphan. I’ll be a vagabond. The past is luggage to be left behind here. The present is my focus. The future… well, let us not think so far, shall we? Other than being riddled by scars, my body’s muscles were also unusually developed for a kid that looked to have sat around in an orphanage for all his life. Secretly, I trained my body whenever I got the time (which was pretty much all the time) not just to withstand the harsh beatings I suffered, but to also prepare for this day.

I went to the room that I shared with 5 others, and went to look for my most presentable set of clothes: a grey short-sleeved collar tee and a pair of faded black jeans, with rugged patches all over. Secretly, I smiled, for the irony of the situation was that these clothes were bought by the caretaker for me to look good for possible foster parents, only to be worn by me for my chance at escaping this place. Wearing this outfit today, it was my other kind of shot at freedom. 

Sneaking downstairs, I peered cautiously down the spiralling staircase, hoping not to see any people there, except one. She was the one that could ensure my escape, and her only condition was that there should be two people running away today, and not one. Tonight was the night we have waited for three months, for only now did we confirm his pattern of leaving at night on this day of the month. 20th of July. This should be a day to remember for me, even if I do not escape from this hellhole.

As I descended to the base of the stairwell, someone pounced on me from the back, clamping my mouth so that I would not be able to shout for help. Panic and adrenaline surged through my veins as I panicked and wondered who was behind me. Then I realised the hand that clamped over my mouth was a small and delicate one, not the rough and large palm of the caretaker. I relaxed and let out my breath. She was playing a prank on me again. Grabbing the hand that covered my mouth, I turned around quickly, breaking her grip on my neck and now, with both of her hands in my grasp, I was the one who got her by surprise. 

“Hey, it isn’t fair, you’re stronger and faster than me…” I could just imagine the pout on her face, not to act cute, but simply a gesture of annoyance. When we were younger, we used to play around in the spacious garden we used to live in, and she would play with us guys, and as good men (boys actually), we naturally let her win, especially with the brawling matches. Over time, she even became pretty good at it, and improved on it kind of because she found out we were letting her win. But that was before we hit puberty. Now, she refuses to play with us, for the sake of both of us.

“Not that it’s my fault you chose to scare me. C’mon, let us go. You got the money?” I asked her, releasing the grip on her hands. 

“Nope. Dad seemed to know what I was about to do with it, and refused to give it to me. Reckoned that if he did not give me the money, I would not be able to leave… but I have an idea.” she said enigmatically, keeping me from her secret. 

“Come on, we are going to entrust each other with our lives, and you are still keeping things from me?” Somehow, I felt a tinge of worry about doing this. She seemed to take this like an adventure, to run away and see the world. She was different. At the worst scenario, she could just run back here, back to her home. She had this failsafe. I did not. 

“Relax. Not that you wouldn’t be mine.” she giggled, and headed off to the one room only the caretaker had access to. From what I heard, he even does his own dusting and cleaning in there, such was the secrecy of the items in there that he does not even allow any servants in. 

Pulling out a set of keys, she tried to open the lock on the door. The first three keys were wrong, but on the fourth, the door’s lock opened with a satisfying click, and we walked into the room. Groping for a switch for the light, I found it and hit the button. After a few seconds of adjusting to the bright light, what I saw made my mind spinning in disgust. Turning around, her expression was the one I had thought it would be: one of utter shock and disbelief. 

Pictures of naked and tortured children were posted all around the room, like a perverse exhibit of his glorious crimes. Being subjected to tortures almost every week, I of course had already known of his fetish, but I guessed his father kept the horrible truth from her. 

Wasting no time, I asked her to help me raid the drawers for money. She looked away from the gallery of revolting photos and went about mindlessly looking for the money. 

In one drawer, I found rolls and rolls of notes, presumably from his other ‘businesses’. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out why there were such pictures and so much money. I whistled in a low tone to attract her attention, and she came over to look. She quickly grabbed several rolls of notes and stuffed them in her pocket. “These we’ll use until we find a job,” her face was impassive, not looking like the playful, mischievous girl I knew. “You go on first. I still have something to do. Grab the pink bag on the table and go out first. Wait at the back door for me.” I ran off silently, contemplating what horrendous things the caretaker had done. A shard of memory reminded me that the caretaker’s wife was a good woman, one who had actually bothered about the orphans’ well-being. But after her premature death in an accident, all hell broke loose, and the perverse torture befell upon us.

I stood patiently behind the door and waited for her. After all, three months were spent meticulously planning out this escape, and the desire of freedom fed by our desire for freedom, so I guess that if you have waited so long for this day, five minutes would seem diminutive in comparison. 

She came out fuming, with a big black plastic bag, a can of kerosene and a lighter (now at this point I would like to clarify that fuming is used as a figurative term, not literary.).  “Let’s go. We’re done with this place.” It seemed that I was wrong. Whatever she was about to do, it would mean removing her failsafe, and this was for real. Inwardly, I smiled; this meant that I would not be the only vagabond. 

We burnt the offensive photos in an alleyway, with her simply sitting in a corner of the alley, retreating into herself. We dared not leave after simply starting the fire, for we were afraid of any photos that remained. So we bore with the toxic, choking fumes and waited till the last of the cinders had died out before leaving. Her eyes were misty, a cloud of emotions, and whether the tears were from the smoke or from her unstable state of emotions right now, I was not sure.

This unexpected turn of events certainly bore great consequences for the young lady now asleep beside me. The seeds of aversion had already been sown, and I wondered if her wings that took her to freedom would be black, devil-like wings tainted by hate. Would this flight of hers pave her fall for the rest of her life? And would my flight lead me anywhere in the first place? These were questions, only left to be told by time itself. But now, with our newfound wings, we soar, revelling in this newfound expanse of sky we call freedom.