The Boy without a Birthday

Past times

The orphanage was a lonely place. Lights flickered, wind rattled the window panes, radiators stayed permanently cold. The 20 small single beds that were lined up  only a few centimeters apart in the bedroom had two draws underneath to hold all of a child's belongings and the mattresses had holes and were riddled with bedbugs. The duvets were ten years old and probably hadn't been washed in that time. There was a musky smell of rotting wood and rat droppings were piled high in corners and next to holes in the skirting boards. 

Cooper sat, curled up, in between two of the beds near the one of the three windows. Even though it was 1 o'clock in the afternoon, there was a cover of clouds so thick that it looked like it was at least 9:00. The rest of the orphans were downstairs in the dining room, eating the rare roast dinner that had been prepared for Sunday lunch. Normally he would have been at the table the moment the gorgeous smell had wafted out of the mouldy kitchen, but he wasn't in the mood for any food. Actually, he felt sick to his stomach at the thought of eating.

All he did was stare at the ripped shred of paper in his trembling hands with the words ' I do love you, no matter what anyone tells you. I'll find you again one day, I did this for you. My name is L' written on it in scrawny handwriting. It came to an abrupt end as it had been torn and half of the letter was missing.

That was all Cooper had left of his past - for now.