Age of Peace

~Chapter 2~

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Wind is buffeting against the walls of
the old orphanage, causing the wooden supports to creek and groan loudly under the strain. The constant fall of heavy rain hammering against the window in my room on the second floor, is the only sound I can hear.

I turn to my old oak beside table, and grab my matches I keep in the drawer. Grasping a wax candle I always have resting on top of the table, I open the match box quickly and pull out a match.

With a swift flick of my wrist across the grated side of the box, I light the match, then let the flame hover over the wick.

It is already blackened and burnt from previous use.

When the candle is lit, I place it back in the bedside table and turn back to the now illuminated bedroom.

I stare blankly at the dusty wall in a sleepy haze, leaning up against my roughly-sewn cotton pillow.

I've been tossing and turning since the lights went out and everyone in the village has fallen asleep, leaving me feeling more alone than ever.

It's around these times at night I allow myself to bask in memories of a happier time.

This is the only time I ever show weakness, drowning pitifully in thoughts of my deceased family.

The silence is when I remember them most.

I sigh heavily and sit up on my bed more.

My parents were loving parents. They were all I could ever ask for. They comforted me when I was sad, or when I was feeling alone. They would hug me tight and whisper soothing words in my ear until I felt better in their warm embrace.

Never again.

The silence seemed to be taunting me, coaxing me further into my thoughts.

I shake my head furiously and run a hand over my face in frustration.

When I remove my hand, I notice the dampness on it, and the blur of emotion clouding my vision.

I was crying.

Letting out a choked gasp, I wipe my hand on my pyjamas furiously, while rubbing my eyes with my other hand.

I will not cry.
I will not be weak.

But even as I wish them away, more and more salty tears continue to fall from my haunted blue-grey eyes, splattering onto my legs and blanket.

With a shaky hand, I snatch my candle and blink rapidly in a weak attempt to clear my vision.

I stumble into the adjoining bathroom, pressing my hand against the door frame for support.

As I grasp onto the wooden sink tightly and let out another hoarse breath, the rough grey tiles scrape against my bare feet, scratching at them.

Leaning on the creaky furniture I force my gaze upwards to look in the mirror.

Cold grey eyes are staring back at me, bloodshot and damp from crying. My long black eyelashes are moist and some small tears get stuck to them before dropping and running down my face. My pale skin is blotchy and red, and it is obvious that I've been crying.

I narrow my eyes at my reflection and breathe in an unstable breath, letting go of the metal basin and taking a wobbly step backwards.

I straighten my back and push back my shoulders, my eyes not once leaving the mirror.

I will be strong.
For them.