Phylicia
I just turned sixteen.
I watched the smoke rising up from the candle and how it vanished into the air silently.
I frowned.
There was no one around me. There was no one singing Happy Birthday. No balloons. No cupcakes. No party hats. No candies.
Just the cake and a candle on top of it.
This day would never fail to make me feel nostalgic. I remembered five years ago when I was around Eleven, most of the people in my town would be invited to come to my party and everyone would gladly accept the invitation, celebrating my grand birthdays with me every year. There were lots of balloons and my sister never missed the birthdays that we've celebrated to host the party. My friends were there to sing Happy Birthday along with my foster parents, even my grandma who just passed away last year, and my neighbors. I could exactly remember who clapped their hands and chanting my name when I finished blowing out the eleven candles before I said my wishes out loud.
Now, I only wished to go back to those days. When I had attention from the people who had known me. When I had friends and my foster family who truly loved me. They were the only family that is close to my heart, the only family who treated me as if I was truly a part of them. It still saddened me to know how their perfect lives fell into the miserable trap of death.
Two years ago, they were massacred. I was on a field trip that day so I didn't witness with both of my eyes of every single detail of what happened. What I heard was that they were murdered—each of them and their money, silvers, and golds were stolen by some unknown robbers. Everyone must have expected the reason why they were robbed for they were the most wealthy family in our town.
But they didn't deserve to die just because they were one of the people who have a lot of golds and cashes kept behind the doors of our house. They were innocent people. They didn't do anything bad to anyone. Sometimes I wished they were not that rich. Because if they were not, I must have still lived in a happily ever after now. But what happened was real.
And I knew I was lost. I was lost without my family. But everyone knew I was just an adopted child, and all of my foster parents' relatives wouldn't provide me with a shelter and a home. The least they could do was send me to an orphanage. And I was in the orphanage in a very instant moment.
I stood there like I was a ghost in front of the dreadful-looking building. I remembered the floating clouds were turning into grey and any moment, it'd start crying.
The rain poured outside when I entered the building and an old man started screaming at me. I couldn't hear any words that were coming from his mouth. He had been spitting fury on me yet I couldn't even clear it out what were the mumbles he was making. But I nodded, just to get over with whatever the conversation was about, and to go to my own bedchamber so I could cry and wept.
My bedchamber was the smallest room in the building. There were no lightbulb inside and the night sky with the thunderstorm rumbling made my room even darkened. There was no bed for me to sleep in. Not even a blanket to stop me from freezing. And for three days straight, I had never opened the door to go out. Some others had knocked on the door hard to get in but what they found was me sitting in the corner, whimpering and lamenting my foster family's names.
I was never fully recovered. Big and little kids in the orphanage took no notice of my presence and never said a word to my weary face. Young and old people gave me an unpleasant welcome. They would give me darting looks when they tell me to scrub the floors or fetch them some water. I hated to admit that I was a happy kid once and I could never be one for I realized I've started living in hell. How sad that my once upon a time ended up like this.
