Present Day: Iris is 16, she has been in the orphanage for roughly 6 years.
Early this morning, I awoke to one of the younger child's cries. I haven't been receiving much sleep anyways, let alone my insomnia. I threw off my sad excuse for a sheet and sat up. I squinted my eyes at the clock, up on the wall. It read 5 am. I stood and walked over to my bathroom with my one set of day clothes. I changed in a mere five minutes. Fixed up my hair and brushed my teeth. I quietly snuck out of the olders area; where all the children over eleven years old stay. Walked down the hallway to the youngers; where all the children under twelve years and over six years of age stay. I entered without a sound, careful not to wake the mistress of the orphanage. I assessed the room of sleeping children and found the one who's crying woke me. It was Yasmin, a seven-year-old. She'd been through foster care for her entire life, she recently arrived at the orphanage. She couldn't remember her parents, but she missed them dearly. She laid on her cot, clenching her single sheet. She was fast asleep, though tears spilled down her cheeks. I walked over to her and stroked her hair, in a soothing motherlike way. I often remember how my mother would stroke my hair when I had nightmares. Tears welled in my eyes suddenly, at the thought. Though I pushed them down, not wanting any of the others to see me cry. Yasmin soon calmed down and was peaceful once again. I stood and took my leave.
As I exited the youngers room, Ms. Ivory was suddenly in my path. Ms. Ivory, the owner of the orphanage or at least the person who runs it. Her hair styled in a permanent bob, a nasty seaweed green color, or maybe more a vomit color. Eyes much like a snake, cunning, and full of evil ambitions. Her gaze can make most feel like they're suffocating. She glared down at me. She never liked me, from the day I arrived here. She makes me work day and night. Clean the place once and then clean it twice. If it's not done to her standards by then I have to clean it thrice. I do my best to hold her gaze and not look away. "What are you doing here at this hour," she asked, clearly angry. I paused before I spoke. "Soothing a youngers cries," I replied, bracing myself for the yelling I could sense coming next. "Why are you not cleaning?," she asked, with seething anger. "I-," I said. "No good excuse, no dinner for you tonight, better yet, no meals at all this week," she said. No meals?! Does she want me to die of starvation. She hardly feeds me to begin with. "B-but," I said, hoping to convince her to let me keep my meals. "Save it, clean all the nooks and crannies of this place before noon or you'll regret it," she said before storming back into her room and slamming her door. I sighed under my breath and walked to get my cleaning supplies.
By 10 am, I had three fourths of the orphanage cleaned. Only two hours left, just the kitchen left to clean. The hardest part was the dishes. They were piled high, just about ten stacks, with fifteen plates in each stack. I walked over to the sink and got started on the dishes. Half an hour later, I was finished with them. I swept and mopped. By then it was 11 am, all that was left to do was dust and wipe down the counters. I was completely finished by 11:45 am. The others were in the common area. The infants; all the children under five years of age, were napping in the nursery. I made lunch for the other, like I am required to everyday. Chicken with green beans. It smelt good and probably tasted good, but how would I know. I'm not even permitted to eat breakfast or lunch on a regular day. Now I cant eat anything, lest I'd be in trouble. I set out portions on the plates for the children. The clock struck noon when I called the rest for lunch.
I sat in my room while the other ate their food joyfully. A few tears slipt down my cheek. I missed the taste of food, I hadn't eaten over the weekend. This past Friday, I finished at 12:01 pm and my weekend dinner privilege was restricted. I quickly wiped away my tears before them could fall off my cheek. My mind started to drift, to the question I used to play in my mind. The question played in my head, "Why?" Why did my life fall into shambles. Why did the house burn down. Why didn't anyone save my parents. Why did they just let them die.
My mind wandered to my mother and the things I could remember of her. I remember much more of mother than father. I remember how she would stroke my hair to calm me. How she would hum me to sleep. I remember the lullaby she would sing to me. It likes to play in my mind when I lose hope. Even if they are gone, a part of them still lives on.
