The Medical School

Chapter One

"Bren Halsey! Get yourself down here right this second!" the orphanage janitor yells at me from downstairs.

"Or what?" I yell back. "What can you possibly do to me to cause me any more misery?" I roll over on my bed so I'm facing the wall.

"You forgot to take the trash out! Again!"

"I didn't forget! I just didn't want to do it!"

I hear an exasperated sigh and footsteps walking away. Then, my youngest roommate who sleeps below me climbs up to my bunk. She enters my field of view in the corner of my eye, so all I see is a dark blur.

"You should go take the trash out or you'll get in trouble," the ball of frizzy black hair says.

"Thanks for worrying about me Abby, but I've been taking the trash out for four years, and I'm kind of sick of it," I reply.

"But no one's going to want to adopt you if you don't follow the rules."

"I've been here fourteen years and no one wants to adopt me. I don't see why anyone would now, and I don't want to get adopted anyway."

"So are you going to stay here forever then?"

"We've been through this conversation before. I'm going to wait to turn eighteen, and then I'll move far away and never come back."

"What if nobody adopts me? I don't want to stay here forever!" Abby says, worried.

I look up at the six-year-old and smile. "I promise, you're going to get adopted. You're sweet, you're cute, and some couple is going to look at you and say 'I want you to be my daughter', and then they'll take you to their home and you'll live a happy life. You're not going to end up like me."

Abby smiles and hops down to her bunk to work on a drawing. Her parents had died and she had no other family to take care of her. I had been dropped on the orphanage doorstep when I was an infant and left to suffer here.

My birth parents had tucked a note into my crib with my name and birthday on it, but when I tried looking up my family history online, there was no one under the last name Halsey who could possibly be my parents. They obviously didn't want me to find them, and I really don't care about doing so.

I've been a pain for the staff all my life. I refuse to keep my bed tidy, pick up my dishes, or go to bed on time. Ever since I was old enough to understand why I was here, I made it clear to any visitors that I did not want them to adopt me. I would throw a fit, break things, or talk too much. I just want to be free of this stupid place.

I don't even see why there's an orphanage in Greensborough. It's not exactly a small town, it's actually pretty big, but it's so cut off from everything else. It's not like new people move here that often. There's nothing but farmland for miles and miles. I would have liked to live here if I had a family and a house from the start, but that's not the case.

"Bren, I'm not joking this time! Come and get the trash!" the janitor yells again.

I'm older than everyone in the orphanage by a considerable amount, and the dumpsters are a considerable walk from the building. The staff must have seen an opportunity to knock a bit of responsibility into me, so now I'm forced to take the trash out nightly. I don't see why the janitor can't do it.

Groaning, I jump down from my bunk making sure that the people on the first floor hear it. I ride the railing of the main staircase downstairs, (which is a big no-no), and cross the lobby to where the janitor is standing with her arms crossed.

I smirk, and then yank the two giant trash bags off of the floor where she always puts them. Then, I stomp over to the back door and kick it open. I'm going to make sure it flies right off its hinges one of these days.

It's March, and an unusually cold one at that. I'm shivering uncontrollably by the time I complete my trek to the dumpsters, but that doesn't stop me from wandering aimlessly around town.

I do this whenever I can't take it anymore inside the orphanage, which is nearly every day. I'm probably not supposed to, but even if the staff does know about it I'm sure that they won't say anything to me. I wouldn't be surprised if they broke out the champagne every time I leave.

I walk five blocks, and then turn down Hancock Avenue—a dimly lit street with tightly packed brick houses. At the end of the road there's a T-junction, and a large brick building backed up against some woods. It has a sign on it that reads: 'Hancock Avenue Medical Boarding School', although it looks nothing of the sort. It's a huge building, and it towers over the surrounding houses, overwhelming them.

I had looked the name up once, but couldn't find jack about the place. It's not even labeled on Google Maps. The whole building is overgrown with thick vines, and all of the curtains are closed tightly. It occurs to me for the first time that the place might be abandoned.

A sense of dread suddenly falls over me, which is strange because I've been here countless times before. Shrugging the feeling off, I turn to head back to Greensborough Home for Kids. Then I stop, and stand still. I thought that I saw movement just before I turned, but it could just be a trick of the dim light. Or I could just be going crazy. Steeling myself, I turn back around and find the source of the movement.

A little boy peers out of a window in the Medical School. He can't be more than seven or eight years old. Our eyes meet and he doesn't move, frightened. Something, I'm not sure what, tells me that I'm not the source of his fear. A hand suddenly appears on his shoulder, and he is yanked none too gently away from the window. The curtain closes.

I don't have too much time to think about it, because I am almost run over by a drunk driver swerving onto the sidewalk. I yell, cursing at the car. Even though they can't hear me, it's still a satisfying feeling.

It's getting colder by the minute, so I decide to run back to the orphanage. I like running. It gives me a sense of freedom even though I have none. It will also keep me warm.