The Waifs 🥀

＊ 3

20 minute read

🥀

With about one hundred and thirty-five of us, we must have seen a quadrillion different faceless supervisors and caretakers come and go. In my earlier days here, I developed emotional attachment issues. I would have been getting used to a particular mommy-like face, only for her never to show up the next day—much less likely the next week.

Later on, much later, when I realised that this was apparently an inherent feature of my social orphanhood, I slowly began to regard adults (and everyone)especially with mistrust and detachment. After all, my own father was out there somewhere in the world and gave minus-one shits about his daughter's very essence. So what was I thinking, hoping strangers would feel obliged to dote on and take care of me, us?

Then came Ms. Briggs when I was a hardened 15-year-old, with her soft arms spread open and her strange approach to actually treating us like she cared. She was even frequent, having a regular timetable and everything. One day on, the next day off. A predictable, reliable caretaker that liked to pat your head, pull your cheeks and call you darling, sweetie, or in my case, anger muffin, with an endearing smile I wanted to slap off her plump face.

What the hell was her problem anyways? She was confusing my brain and not calling me Hey! or You! like we were used to. She needed to get with the program, since I finally had. Ms. Briggs was suspicious, so I never hid how I felt about her from her. She didn't mind however; patience was just one of her virtues.

Almost three years later, still she remained with us, overworked like a horse, so dedicated to this place that wasn't even her true family, and this baffled me. And to more of my bafflement, Ms. Briggs began to grow on me; she just didn't know that, considering I still made her job harder than it already was.

She headed my group of sixteen rabid teenage girls (wards 10 and 11) starting a while back, previously being in charge of screaming toddlers. I personally didn't know which was easier. But I also suppose babies don't engage themselves in bloodlust in the middle of the night. So there's that to be considered.

After cleaning mine and Mughead's bodily afflictions, she let us go with an ineffective warning in her soft voice. Miss Briggs didn't report us to her superior, Madam Castille. And at least, that was one of the reasons I could like her, because she also couldn't stand that uptight, stuffy hag.

Their philosophies just could never tally.

So-so, the rest of the week weighed down heavily but uninterestingly on my shoulders as time sped by. I had earned myself a cut forehead, a lightly bruised neck and a busted lower lip. Plus, a sprained knee; hereby continuing to exist in spite of.

In the background, Spencer and I had reached an agreeable dissensus, forced together by our Toothbrush adventures. But I could get to that later, because there were actually more pressing issues.

March 25th, today, marked the special day Lori was born, and we planned on getting as lit as humanly possible, limited resources aside. This also marked the end of her eighteenth year on the planet, the end of her stay at the orphanage.

Whenever it was anyone's birthday, we ritually did a sing-song dedication downstairs in the common room, which was headed by Madam Castille, supported by her subordinates. She never sang though, but ensured the rest of us did as she stood around like the figure head she was. We'd then take turns to give the celebrant hugs and wishes. Lori got all this, eyes excitedly wide at 7am in the morning. I wasn't much of a hugger but Lori lingered and I squeezed her back.