Dizgaia ~ The Dreamfinder's Daughter

Chapter 38 ~ Memories of a Lost Boy

"Hey, you thief! Get back here!"

Little Peter ran through the streets of Paridon with his crust of bread and hunk of cheese. It would be the first meal he'd had in three days, and he must not be caught by the authorities before he'd eaten it. Any beating he received would be worth the food in his belly.

He heard their footsteps drawing closer behind him. Small and malnourished, Peter couldn't hope to outrun them before they caught him. Thus, as he ran, he shoveled as much bread and cheese into his mouth as he could, eating on the run. He turned a corner into an alleyway. Dead end.

"Wrong move, little thief."

Peter turned to face his pursuers. Glaring defiantly at them, he shoveled the rest of the food into his mouth, chewing and swallowing with hurried relish.

"You little..."

One of the men struck a blow to Peter's head and the boy crumpled to the ground.

~~~

"You, boy, have been accused of thievery, a crime punishable by imprisonment. However, given your youth—"

The five-year-old boy sniffled loudly, running his hand across his gooey nose as tears streamed from his bloodshot eyes.

"Given your youth," the judge repeated, irritated at even the slightest of interruptions, "you will instead be placed in an orphanage where, perhaps, you will receive some proper discipline!"

The judge banged his gavel with finality. The sound echoed loudly through the courtroom, sealing young Peter's fate.

~~~

The wrought iron gates below the sign reading, "Orphanage," looked positively menacing. The building behind it wasn't much better. With sharp edges and pointy spires which seemed to reach to the dark, gloomy sky, the brick mansion possessed a foreboding appearance. Peter whimpered softly as he was pulled up the crumbling brick stairs to the dark fortress-like building which would be his new home. But to little Peter, it looked more like a prison.

The woman who awaited him was austere in every facet of her being. She did not smile. It was uncertain whether she ever experienced any feeling or sensation other than perpetual annoyance. This was the woman in charge of the boys' orphanage, Madam Tetrie. She took Peter roughly by the arm, bid his deliverers a terse 'Thank you' and "Goodbye,' and sat Peter down in front of a roughly made wooden table, placing a bowl of lumpy white sludge in front of him. The stuff was so awful that Peter would have almost rather starved, and when he told her so, she hit him.

Later, he was dragged upstairs to a room full of rickety, four-post beds with mattresses so thin he could see the metal springs beneath them, many of which were rusted. On some beds, the springs poked all the way through the mattresses and the boys who laid on them had to sleep in very uncomfortable positions to avoid them, for fear of cutting themselves. Peter was assigned the very last bed next to the large, double windows which opened onto a crumbling balcony. An older boy with dark circles under his eyes sat on the bed beside him.

"Who're you?" he asked.

"Peter," replied Peter.

"Peter what?"

Not entirely comprehending, he answered, "Peter the boy."

"Don't you have a last name?"

"I dunno."

"But your parents had last names."

"I don't remember my parents."