Your War, My War

| Chapter I |

I looked down at my fidgeting fingers. They intertwined without any notable pattern. My legs were tightly pushed together. I focused on my breathing as I sat in silence on my old bed. I looked around the room, feeling my breathing swiftening. For a second, I felt out of place. I had lost hope. What was hope? An illusion, an optimistic concept to fill a void when everything feels out of place. 

Everything to me, all my days, all my years, were just a blur. Who was I to believe in myself? A displaced individual. A mere spectator of this world.

The sounds of girls talking, shouting, and crying filled the room. I lifted my head slightly, looking through my long and wavy hair. Newer children would cry relentlessly for the first few days. Their faces beat red as they desperately gripped their sheets with their small fingers. Sisters came to their aid, but the mourning never ceased. The room never failed to impress me with the strong smell of urine and sleep every morning. You'd eventually learn to embrace the scent after extended periods of living in the solemn warehouse of an orphanage. 

Nineteen centuries, mid-thirties, late May. 6:00 A.M. 

I switched back to my hands, as different shadows pass me by. Girls were making their way to the showers and dressing rooms. Once enough footsteps faded away, I looked up from my fingers to see who was left. From a slow scan of the room, I saw no awkward humps or protrusions in beds. I knelt down, placing my hands on the cold, floors. Under the beds, I was met with two girls towards the back on opposing sides of the room. I walked toward one. Her leg was apparent from under the bed, allowing me to find her easily. Once I was near her bed, I lifted the draped sheet on her bed slightly. She was awake and shaking uncontrollably behind her suitcase. Most, if not all girls had a suitcase or some sort of storage container. I tried my best to look approachable and friendly. A small smile creeped onto my face slowly as I kept my eyes on the girl. Her eyebrows furrowed in. I don't think I did a great job. I dropped the attempted smile. I kept my face nonchalant. 

I stretched my hand out toward her. I said nothing, as nothing could soothe her. No words would ever soothe the child whose parents couldn't take care of them or were deceased. I didn't want to speak either, as I haven't in years. I don't really remember what I sound like either. With no avail, I retracted my hand and tapped my heart. I nodded slightly before stretching my hand back in front of her. The girl hesitated at first, inspecting my hand. Soon, she came through, taking my hand and allowing me to help her from under the bed. She stood up straight, with her hands clasped in front of her. Her blond hair was messy, her bangs falling in wisps in front of her face. She studied me carefully before making eye contact with me once again. Suddenly, she opened her arms wide and hugged me. I was shocked at first, but soon I returned the loving embrace. Once we let go, I placed a hand on her shoulder. I pointed to the door and then used two fingers to demonstrate a person walking in a downward motion. I nodded when I my demonstration was over. 

I then attempt to remove my hand from her shoulder, but she grabbed onto it tightly. I sighed softly, for I didn't want to get attached her. I didn't want her to get attached to me. It would break her heart knowing she had to part because she'd been chosen. I once had that feeling. The feeling of comfort from another girl. 

She was a beautiful green-eyed brunette named Clarabelle, but girls called her "Clara" for short. She was evenly proportioned and always smiling -- something I miserably fail to do. She came to the orphanage at an older age compared to the other girls who'd arrive at the age of one, two, and three years of age. I very much looked up to her. She told me that her mother died in childbirth and her father couldn't bare her mother's death. He raised her the best he could, but in the end, she was sent the orphanage. It didn't bother her too much, most likely because she hadn't known either of them very well. No feeling, no attachment. 

I had first met her during a stormy night. I was deemed a "scaredy-cat" when I was younger. A small cough would cause me to jolt violently. Through an opening in the curtains covering the wide windows I saw flashes of light from all directions, and wind causing the trees to rattle harshly. The rain was slanted, and it turned into a frightening blur of water. I sat up straight, my eyes glued to the horrifying storm. I wept softly. Some girls turned their heads toward me, but then soon slowly turned back around. Others covered their ears with their pillows. Clara's bed was across from mine. 

"Hey," She looked at me from under her sheets. I heard her, but did not respond, my body still turned to the window. "Why are you crying?" She whispered. I glanced over to her, gingerly pointing to the window. She sat up in her bed, smiling at me. "There is nothing to fear. Nothing lasts forever. The storm will pass, and all will be well. Turn the other way and close your eyes. Focus on flowers in a meadow or the delightful chores we'll have to do tomorrow." I giggled, she did too. We had grown close from that day forward. She was close with other girls too, as she would often read stories to us at night whenever she could. To me, she felt like an older sister. 

But as it's been said, nothing lasts forever. 

Every Sunday, before service started, we'd go to a church where we would stand aligned at the front. Some girls were picked quickly, as for others, it took a few visits. I was never picked, and I walked up in vain every Sunday. Maybe it was my appearance. "I'm not pretty enough" is what I had thought. 

One Sunday, a wealthier couple appeared in the crowd. They had never been here before. Perhaps they only came to adopt? Were they even Catholic? Christian? Orthodox perhaps? I shook it off, looking to my side. I was next to Clara. She was smiling widely like always does. He white teeth peering from between her lips. When she noticed me looking up at her, her smiling brightened. She clapped silently in encouragement. A smile appeared on my face. I felt more confident. I thought maybe this was the day. The day I finally get a family. I heard lower chatter among all of the families and couples. I looked around, switching from face to face. I was filled with joy. Girls were chosen one by one, like feathers being plucked off a Thanksgiving turkey. But nothing caused me to lose the smile on my face. Another girl gone. I'm up next. I'm up next.

I wasn't up next. Clara was. 

All of my thoughts were shattered, when Clara was picked by the wealthy couple. My smile faded. I wanted to puke and cry and sob. I wanted to let my snot and tears run down my face. I wanted to taste my sweet tears. I wanted to fall to the fall and bask in my agony. I didn't want her to leave. Clara, please don't leave. I love you, Clara. I need you, Clara. 

The day was always so vivid in my mind. The more I remember, the more it hurt. 

Knowing nothing was going to make this young girl part from me, I brought her along with me to the next girl. I moved my hand from her shoulder to a hand hold. She swayed our hands gently. 

We walked to the other side of the room. The girl's fingers peeked from under the bed. I repeated my actions from before. The girl sniffled and wiped her face into her hand before getting up from under the bed. When she was upright, she leaned into my stomach, headfirst. With my free hand, I comforted her, rubbing her back and head. 

The three of us walk downstairs carrying anything we needed. The girls weren't nearly done getting ready when we showed up. Still, we were scolded for coming down late. I decided not to talk back -- like I do regardless -- and took all of the blame. Once I was done washing up and dressing in my simple attire of a plain, brown dress, I fixed my hair. It was brown in color and reached a bit passed my shoulders. It was a messy mixture of a texture. I fixed it the best I could. I refused to look into the mirrors. I instead looked at the floor, or someone else in the room. Once I was done, I looked around for the two girls from earlier. Finally, I located them talking amongst themselves. 

After some time, girls started to make their way back upstairs. This was when we would make our beds. Beds must be made a certain way, or else you were scolded and forced to remake it. If the housemother really wasn't in a good mood, she'd completely undo it herself. Everyone was required to make their bed. Older girls helped the younger girls if they needed the help. They'd also walk over to me from time to time trying to conversate. They had that free time, and they hadn't known me too well, so they waltzed over. They'd come in a large group of four or five girls. It was only a large number because most girls tried not to bond with too many people and there weren't that many older girls. I nodded and shook my head. They still never knew much about me. The only thing they knew was that my name was Bonnie.