Twisted Wishes - When Fairytale Dreams Turn Dark

Chapter 1: Frozen Whimpers

I wish I had been warned about The Stories. I wish I had burned the pages as soon as I had the chance. I wished I hadn't used my wish for a suicide.

I wanted to be back.

Here at Willowbrook Orphanage, everything always happens according to plan. Nothing passed the eyes of the supervisors. Nothing. Everything went according to the schedule in the main hall, between the statue of Him and the asylum's founder.

If you didn't stick to it, you got punishment. Under the eyes of Him. By the Great Tree that bloomed deep red with the blood of the naughty children.

As it turns out.

The wet slap on bare flesh makes my head spin. The chilly evening air invades my nose and makes my eyes water. I pull the worn sheepskin tighter around me. Enjoying the little bit of warmth it offers me. Until it is snatched from me.

The next blow was just as vicious as the last. Only now there is the whimper of the victim. Snowflakes stick on my eyelashes making the world a blur.

An icy gust of wind sweeps across the lawn, chattering my teeth.

If I'm already this cold...

My gaze zooms in on the boy at the Headmistress' feet. His brown trousers are darker at the knees because he is kneeling. The fingertips of his shivering hands are a shade of blue, a stark contrast to the red stretch marks on his back. The short brown hair is covered in soot.

The reason he gets punishment.

The belt comes down on his back for the last time and then remains silent.

With a sinister smile on her lips, the Headmistress pulls her sleeves back down and stands straight.

Her voice barely rises above the howl of the wind "Go to your room, Christian."

Christian places his shaky hand on the red bark and stands up. He remains swaying in place for a moment. His pained gaze catches mine and then his eyes turn as cold as our surroundings.

I dodge his gaze as he shuffles past beside me. Suddenly, the sheepskin doesn't feel so warm. I wait a few moments and then dare to glance over my shoulder.

Christian tries to put on the worn jumper, but his wounds on his back are still too fresh for that.

13 strokes. The same as his age.

"Evangeline, now you."

Suddenly Christian has disappeared from my mind. I close my eyes and drop the coat on the floor. I walk over to where the holes are from Christian's knees and pull off my yellow jumper with an unsteady hand.

I sink down and look up.

From the hanging branches hang icicles. My reflection looks at me before my eyes wander further. In the icicle I can see the scars, the only thing as white as the snow. Even in the icicle, I can see my spine. I begin to count my vertebrae, just as I counted my ribs last night.

The blow comes between the second and third vertebrae. It takes me out of my pattern for a moment and makes me hiss. No matter how many times I have undergone this, it still burns like hell.

19 to go.

"Since you will be 21 tomorrow, you will also get 21 today."

20 to go.

Counting keeps me mindful. Numbers are immutable and always straightforward. You cannot get a wrong outcome if you take two numbers. Numbers are always right. Numbers are always right.

The pipes call me a perfectionist, I call it order. They call me obsessed, I call it interested.

Meanwhile, I pant between my chattering teeth. Saliva trickles down my chin, though there it is also mixed with tears.

15 pipes we have at the orphanage. 63 children of whom 20 are between 3 and 6, 15 between 6 and 12, 27 who are between 12 and 18 and 1 of 20.

Tomorrow 21.

Tomorrow...

"Tonight you have kitchen chores. Together with Christian." The Head Mistress picks up the warm coat from the floor and leaves me in the snow. The belt in her hand drips red splatters.

I can't get up. I will die. I will freeze.

I get up.

As fast as my legs can carry me I seek the warmth of the orphanage.

As I lock the door behind me, I come to the realisation that it doesn't matter anyway.

I am still freezing cold.