How2BAnIntrovert's Short Story Collection

What If

When I'm bored there's a game I like to play. It's called the What If game. I ask myself questions that start with What If. I think up a dream world where everything is perfect using What If. What If I could read until the sun sets? What If I could say I love you to my parents? What if I had friends? Everything is perfect. Until I open my eyes.

My day starts out just like any other: that is what always happens in the stories I read. In these stories, the children are always rescued from their helpless situations by a kind stranger or a mythical best and taken to a place where they are happy. In my stories, the children don't have to live in a dormitory with twelve other girls. In my stories each child has a parent. Unlike me. Stop. Self-pity only leads to destruction. Shaking myself out of my trance, I continue walking along the battered corridor to breakfast when I hear a voice. It's Matron, she orders "Martha, can you come to my office please?"

I turn around and walk towards the heavy oak door with Matron's name on it in faded gold lettering. I know why I was called; it has been the same reason for the last three years, four months, twelve days and eleven hours. Therapy, because I don't speak. It is not that I cannot speak; it is that I choose not to speak. Because I cannot think of anything joyful to say. However, for some reason they want me to do therapy, to try to make happy thoughts re-house themselves in my head. To some people, therapy means a dark room with a soft couch to lie on and exploring the minute problems in rich lives. To others, it means grey rooms where a person in white interrogates you, with answers written efficiently on a clipboard, prior to examined by doctors. To me it means pointless questioning and a longing to be able to answer.

When I finally reach the wooden door, grooved by many timid knocks, my feet feel like they are made of cement, the magnitude of my trepidation weighing them down. Matron's firm voice calls out, "Come in!"

To my immediate surprise and suspicion, there is another person in the room. A young woman, too young to be a therapist. Why is she here? Floral frocks are not fitting attire for any of the helpers at the orphanage. Neither are white heels and styled hair. Matron coughs a little too sternly, drawing me out of my assessment. My eyes dart up to her face, before glancing down to a familiar sight – my file. A photograph of my face stares back at me; dark brown hair and hazel eyes, glowering at the camera with something between anger and sadness. I know that expression all too well. I see it every time I look in the mirror. I sense a sudden change of atmosphere in the room. Whirling around I come face to face with the young woman. She smiles at me, a friendly gesture. Even though her eyes search my soul for an answer to a question she's not yet asked. What if I could answer her? I hear Matron's voice, "Martha, Miss Wilson wants to adopt you!"

Adopt me, did I hear that right? She wants me to go and live with her? What if I could select my new family? What If Miss Wilson adopted me? But I won't risk it and I won't endanger her. I give a regretful glance at Miss Wilson because I feel ashamed for what I am about to do. I pull a piece of paper towards me, and grasp a pen from the penholder. I pause. This is, or could be the first communication I have had for three years. I look up at Matron – a look of surprise or longing I have never seen before is displayed on her aged face. Her shabby clothes and her palpable displeasure of my presence is all that I need to make up my dithering mind. Leaving this orphanage is the only chance I will get at a real life. I feel like I would appreciate dumbfounding her just this once, as I leave her, so I click the end of the pen.

I savour the feeling of writing for what I vow to myself will get me out of this orphanage. With an out of practice hand, I trace four words – I'll go with her.

The astonishment on Matron's face is something I never want to forget. Before my mind decides against this new liberty, or Matron decides against it, I grab Miss Wilson's hand and sprint with her through the battered corridors and scruffy rooms of the orphanage. We race towards the door together and she pulls me through the door and out into the light. 

" A/N Sooo. Hi. Ummmmm. I have just started publishing on Wattpad and I'm not sure if any of my stuff is good sooooo. I entered this story in a competition at my school and ended up coming second in my section, which was nice (This whole thing has just sounded like an awkward flex, Get over yourself). I probably will do something like this again, but I prefer to write fanfic instead of fiction. "