The Young and the Recluse

"A recluse is a person who lives in voluntary seclusion from the public and society. The word is from the Latin recludere, which means 'shut up' or 'sequester.'"

When I abandoned all hope for this world, it was definitely a "voluntary seclusion". After my boyfriend Tommy was shot, I stopped seeing the light in people. Any redeeming qualities I had once believed they possessed switched off when they switched off the breathing machine. Don't get me wrong, I'm not a misogynist or a vigilante who is setting about finding justice, because I'm not. I can't take care of humanity, or make it better. No one can.

So when Tommy died, I disappeared. The past three years of my life I've lived in Malawi, working at an orphanage and trying to forget. I'd like to think that I succeeded.

When I first knew I'd have to leave, it was a typical day. I'd just woken up Mayamiko, Alinafe, Tiyamike, Praise, and Madalisto and Mabvuto, the twins. In Malawi, people name their children words like "Praise" because they want to bring honor to God. In a place with so little, it's refreshing to see such faith. Praise and Mayamiko are best friends, and have been since the moment I told them their names were the same, just in different languages. Some of their names make me sad though. Mabvuto and Madalisto, for example. Madalisto means blessings and Mabvuto means troubles. It's unfair to a child to dictate whether she will bring blessings or troubles just by which one in born first. The Chewa believe the firstborn, if twins, is evil, and that God sends an angel down to follow and help the first behave.

Their names mean more to me, I think, then they do to them. My name is just boring old Elsie Sheeran.

But anyways, going on with the story. I'd just woken up the girls for breakfast, so they all scurried to the tiny kitchen in the orphanage, with only one miniscule stove that bore a single burner.

"Eelsie! Ndikufuna mpunga! Ndikufuna mpunga! Sindikufuna phala!" I quickly stand up and catch one of the younger kids in my arms.

"But Chisomo, we eat porridge every breakfast. We don't have any rice for you to eat, even if you do want to." He slumps in my arms.

"OK Eelsie. Buut onle becouse I love ou." His accent stains the English, even though he had learned it his whole life.

"Aw, I love you too. Now go quickly before it's all gone."

There are only 60 kids here, so you know everyone really well. Besides me, there are about 20 adults who work hands on with the kids, and a few more, like Mayunko who comes and cooks for us from the village, who help but don't interact with the children as much. Aside from me, there are 10 other white people who live here now. We all sleep in one room on the flat mattresses and leave the fluffier ones for the kids.

Sara, a girl from the US who's six years senior to my 20 years, smiles at me and hands me a letter. I shove it in my pocket and thank her. It's the first letter I've gotten in three years of being here, andI'm not super excited to read this one. But, mail is pretty rare in general here, so I feel obligated to read it. Even if it's my mother telling for me dropping off the face of the earth.

After breakfast, the kids head down to the school. Most of us volunteer there as well, but today I've signed up to clean the kitchen and the bedrooms. As I make my way to the supply cupboard, I open the envelope and read the letter. It's from my brother.