Most stories start something like this :
My name is Sophie. I am 9 years old . I love to play with barbies. My daddy is a doctor and my mummy is a lawyer. They are the best!
Not mine- here goes nothing:
1979
A babe in arms , my mother weeps silently. Worn shoes flapping open , showing her cold feet, she approaches a tall unstately building. Its wallpaper is peeling, uncovering layers of mouldy plaster, yellowing in the pounding rain. Their 3 windows are boarded up with rotting wood and once white curtains hang awkwardly. The door is a faded red with a rattling sign reading 'Woolachers Orphanage' . Also pinned up is board with more writing on 'A happy home for happy children'. In spite of everything, she raises her eyebrows and starts laughing loudly. A little too loudly.
"Oi! Lady! Are you gonna hand that baby over or what?" An even louder voice yells. Startled, my mother looks up to see a bearded, snarling face. His eyes are squinted in an odd fashion and he has a mean look about his face. Mother squeals , cowering beneath his towering presence. She bends to give me one last kiss and thrusts me into this man's hands as I wail and scream.
I am rushed into a big white room with lots of noisy men shouting. A kind lady smiles and searches me - she is looking for some sort of identification. I have nothing, I am only 2 weeks old. Her face crinkles and she calls out behind her "Its another no namer lads! Her name will be... Let's think... I dunno, I'll give her a number- 34567!"
And that is my name.
34567- I just can't get my head round it! I repeat it every night trying to accept it, but I just ... Oh well. Did my mother give me a name at all? Was it beautiful? I don't know, I never will.
YOU ARE READING
A girl called...
Historical FictionShe knows she has a name... 34567 was orphaned at newborn. Her mother left her without a name tag or date of birth, so she was given a number name. Desperately teased ,she searches for her identity, to find a new life...
