Orphan

Smoke. It knew her past too well, and it began to stalk her present. All the family photographs of the house were covered by it, becoming incense with the intoxicating fog. The burning scent was strong and long-lasting; years held onto tragedy like a mother to her newborn.
Jackson Perez was the holder of burdens. She knew them more than she knew the blood plodding through her uncertain limbs, as she walked with such slowness towards the same fires of her childhood. She knew flame by different pseudonyms. This one happened to be a shelter of some sorts – the place she was forced to grow into her hollowness since the age of 10.
Her mother and father were good people; they had their bad moments like any other human beings with a faulty conscience, but they were her parents. The fire had no right to consume them like unworthy prey; they deserved life. She deserved life. Death swallowed her whole as she entered the doors of St. Catherine’s Orphanage. Six years have passed since then.