I wake up with my face pressed to the cold, concrete floor near my beat-up mattress. Sunlight streams through the minuscule window. I hear a tap tap of boots on stone, the sound of my mother is coming to wake me up. Then I realize I’m not in my warm Alaskan home, fireplace roaring, warding off the biting chill. Likewise, it isn't my mom outside my door. It’s just the prison guard, excuse me, care giver unlocking the heavy door and bringing my usual breakfast. Tasteless grits and cloudy water. Yum. He sets the gray tray in front of the door, then straightens, pivots and strides out. It’s been like this ever since my parents perished from an “unknown” cause, or at least that’s what they told my twelve year old self. It’s been three years since then. Three years since I was put in this orphanage. I wait for the clicking of the lock and get up, sluggishly drag my feet towards the ill-smelling tray. The grits crumble in my hand and the water is tinted green. Isn’t this supposed to be an orphanage? I have an urge throw my food out the window, but I can’t afford to waste it, since I only get 1 ½ meals each day. That in mind, I shove the breakfast down my throat, taking all of my willpower to keep it in my stomach. I then pick up my daily routine of gazing out of my barred window to the outside.
Looking through the bars, towards the sun and everything under it, it keeps me grounded to sanity. I’m sure I’d lose myself, surrounded by the gray. There is no sign of life in this cell, excluding the mold that creeps on the high ceiling. Birds flitting to and fro are the only animals I can see today and every day before. Whenever I start to feel too closed in, trapped, I sometimes like to think of myself as a hummingbird, prismatic wings swooping the bird from one sweet blossom to the next, uncaged and just free. Then I’m reminded of the clammy gray walls and the damp smell of mildew and dust that I remember where and what I actually am. In a monochrome cell, an orphan treated as if she were an unforgivable prisoner.
About ten minutes after finishing my breakfast, the care giver comes and takes the tray. As he is standing up, I turn my head a bit to fully look at him. He is unfamiliar to me with his messy mop of brown hair and storming gray eyes. We stare unblinkingly at each other for a few moments. I catch a fleeting hint of pity in his churning gaze, but it’s gone a millisecond later, replaced by cold indifference. How surprising that anybody in this asylum would have feelings. He turns and stalks away, locking the door behind him. I turn back to the window, continuing to daydream about the swaying viridian grasses, just out of reach.
