As much as Madame didn’t particularly like me, and that much was certain; through my resilience and desire to see my prized possession returned, it obviously struck a chord in her blackened soul. Strangely, in her only spark of humanity, she returned the watch to me, unscathed. I like to think that that was my only element of control I had in that place. Though the truth of the matter was she couldn’t explain a malnourished, or dead child should something have happened to me and someone came to check on me. I prayed that someone would, but no one ever came.
I was happy no more than a few weeks before, sleeping in my own bed and I only had a dusty, smelly dog-bed as a replacement. At least I had that watch. Madame left the door ajar that night to let in more light; but I didn’t leave, as there seemed to be little point in doing so and the threat of another beating kept me in position.
Then one day, it all changed as a well-dressed gentleman finally liberated me from my new cell. He went by the name of Cyril. I listened intently from my room, or prison, and heard Cyril speak to Madame. He addressed her by her name, but I didn’t catch it through the walls at first. The sound of footsteps started to bounce around the exterior hallway, so I stepped away from the door and sat on the dog-bed. An extra sound, tapped in unison with their walking, which I shortly comprehended, was the end of a metal-tipped walking stick.
“He’s remarkably strong for a little one. I’m sure he’ll be just fine,” Madame said as the door swung open. “He’s barely said a word since he’s been here, cried a few times but got on with it.”
“What is his name?” the suspicious man said.
“Names, Cyril? I don’t have time to get attached to these kids.”
“Have a heart, dear Gretchen. They are beautiful. Innocent. Pure.”
The two shared a chuckle between themselves. Gretchen was a wicked-sounding name, suitable for a wicked woman. How stereotypical of you, Gretchen. He stepped towards me and crouched down looking into my eyes with intent. His hands clutched the large, silver chrome knob atop his walking stick. It was beautifully decorated; silver streaks that led down the ivory stick and met at a chrome-tipped bottom.
Looking from beyond his hands and chrome orb, was a rather round face, perfect cheekbones, and a rough five-o’clock shadow. He appeared like quite a handsome man in hindsight, but also with flaws, namely his putrid breath. The smell of coffee and cigarettes corrupted his words to the point it felt as though I was being spoken to by a carcass. “What is your name, boy?”
“Sebastian. Sebastian Blackwood, sir.”
“Polite, too.” He smiled wickedly and gazed through ice blue eyes. “You’ll be coming with me now, son. We leave immediately. And what is this?”
His eyes shifted towards my father’s timepiece. Madame told him to leave it. As if honour among criminals, or thieves, he didn’t so much as look at it again. He left it with me and without any grumblings whatsoever, allowed me to keep it in my pocket on the road home.
We left swiftly, with Cyril carrying a small bag containing a few of my personal belongings and a change of clothes. I felt rather uneasy going with this strange man. Whatever fate had in store for me next, I was leaving the alleged care of Madame Gretchen and anything seemed better.
It was a strange journey to wherever we were going. I sat in the passenger seat, with Cyril driving. He put his hand on my knee whilst looking dead ahead at the road in front of him. He didn’t break his concentration but rubbed his hand suggestively against me before muttering in a paternal tone.
He told me that where we were going, there was a set of rules. I would have to refer to him as “Father” for a start, though he cited he liked when I called him sir. He said there were other children and it started to sound appealing. The second rule was that the kids were to respect each other and not fight, unless asked to. Asked to? I was puzzled. The third rule was curfew had to be adhered to. Anyone who broke any of the rules would be put into the cage.
“Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir!”
I felt his hand run up and down my leg. I’d spent days in that dog-bed without so much as human touch, other than my watch being taken. If not for being a total stranger, I might have enjoyed the soft feel of Cyril’s stroking. I was a child after all; it was like a soft tickle and I wasn’t aware of the obvious inappropriateness of the stranger’s touch.
He started talking softly. “Son, I don’t think you’ve listened to me.” That softness in his hand and his voice turned in to fire as I felt a little sting on my leg. His grip got tighter and started to hurt.
“RULE ONE!” His nails dug into me. His concentration still didn’t break as he focussed on the road. I weakly reacted with moans of discomfort and the sharp inhalation of air. Rule one, rule one. I didn’t dare speak until I recalled what the rule was. Suddenly, it hit me, and I responded, “Yes, Father!”
Cyril, sorry, Father, released his grip with a smirk on his face. I felt a sudden pang of loneliness. What I would give to be back in Miss Battersby’s antiquated old room with the old dolls. I could feel the conflict in my soul; not sure what I had done to deserve the sudden hurt. Not sure how to engage with my new caretaker.
The road was long. It started to rain again, only this time; thunder followed. I sat in the passenger seat in complete silence. Relief washed over me as father removed his hand to adjust himself around the groin area and later flipped his main headlights on. My young naïve self sat dumbfounded, unsure what was going on or what gratification he got from inflicting pain.
My mind went to my mother, as she had been in the same position as me no more than a few days, or weeks before; I had lost track of time. Part of me sank emotionally as I thought about that. I was hurting on so many levels that I almost wanted a van to run into our car and take out my fake ‘father.’ I was only five, yet I was having deranged and damaging thoughts about my own well-being, and my driver’s well-being.
Hours passed in the car and then we turned off the main road. The cover of trees only served to darken the road; nor the moonlight, nor the rain, could break through. It was like nature’s very own tunnel, eerily beautiful. Artificial light eventually started to break through the proverbial tunnel from the lights of my new home. A crooked wooden and metal sign read: Fort Rose Orphanage. Fitting really, I hadn’t quite thought about it, but I truly was an orphan. A title and a statistic.
The car was still silent as my new father pulled up outside the main doors to avoid as much of the light rain outside. As the handbrake of the car was pulled up and the engine shut down, he turned to me and just stared. The raindrops steadily hitting the window and the metal roof of the car broke the silence. His face was gaunt, and he had a rather evil stare on him.
I could feel my heart thumping through my chest, and I started to zone out, focussing on the beats. Thud, thud, thud. The sound of the rain started to lower until it was gone; I focussed more. His stare matched mine and then a slight smirk appeared on his face. That was my first ever dance with evil. I felt it in every fibre of my body. This man was not to be underestimated.
In that moment, my body sensed I was in dangerous clutches. Fight or flight and despite my youthful innocence, I was choosing to fight. I consumed his stare, refusing to break eye contact. His smirk fuelled the fire inside me. His lips started to move but I wasn’t hearing him. He mouthed a few words and I tuned back in.
“…belong to me now. You’re home now, child. I am your father and you’ll learn to love me.”
Our stares were still matching. That was it; I opened my mouth with a foolish sense of pride.
“This isn’t my home and I won’t love you.”
Those words, I regretted them instantly. The next thing I knew, I was looking at the floor, dazed. He had a hard slap to him. There was a ringing in my ears. Everything from the Mexican standoff stare to that final slap played in my head. Home? What an idiot. This wasn’t home. This was a desolate pit where people came to die. I could feel it. The sense of danger I was in and sadness
that fuelled the air was evident, even to my younger self.
I almost laughed when he said I would love him, but my youthful bravery and strength decided to keep that one to myself. Madame could hit and I cried, but I had cried enough tears. My vow was that I wouldn’t cry for someone like this ever again. Like a phoenix rising from ashes, despite my tender age, I was a new person.
I snapped my head back up at ‘Father’ and looked him in his eyes again. The depravity in his look, his urge to adjust himself again after striking me; he enjoyed it. I wouldn’t and couldn’t let it get to me, despite thinking all the right things in my head. Hating my current predicament and despising the company I was in; with a twisted stare of my own, and matching smirk, I just uttered the word, “Home.”
He guffawed at the fire in me, snorted, and brazenly said, “You’ll be dangerous one day, boy.” Before laughing some more. His awful breath carried across the car and almost broke my gaze. I think back to that moment and know that if I could face Cyril as a man, he wouldn’t be guffawing.
Quite a backhanded compliment and accepted with silence; we then proceeded to break the stalemate and got out of the car, my bag in hand.
The air outside the car was unlike anything I’d taken in before. The mild freshness of the country air was poisoned with sorrow and wretchedness. It felt like I was walking into Amityville. Bright lights illuminated a stained-glass archway above the coveted, crooked doors. He pushed me up the stairs from behind with his ornate walking stick. My bag over my shoulder and watch in one hand, he said, “Don’t ever forget I am the one letting you keep that. It’s important to hold on to things from our past. Things we hold dear. I said you’d learn to love me because I am your protector now. Keep that trinket as a reminder of where you were and what you can become here. Keep it as a show of how generous I can be if you do what I ask of you.”
The only thing I ever thanked ‘Father’ for teaching me is that one part of his statement: where it’s important to hold on to the things dear to you.
He reached for the large metal handles and I started to count in my head. One, two…
He opened the door and as much as I expected it to creak ghoulishly like in cartoons, not a sound. Three, four, five…
The light that illuminated the stained glass shone on my face. I looked in the entryway at a tall desk, presumably a reception. It was late enough that no one was around so the place was a little lifeless. He didn’t say a word, just pointed with his stick and nudged me. Echoes filled the hall with that stick: ‘Tut, Tut, Tut;’ a sound I would later learn to abhor.
Ornate dressers and cabinets filled a wide hallway that infrequently topped up with light from a few dusty wall lamps. Pockets of light were leading the way to my new home. It wasn’t that long a walk in reality, but the unfamiliar surroundings, feeling of sadness, and tutting of the stick added to the length.
We got to a large blue door, childlike in design compared to the old feel of the rest of the orphanage. It was the most authentic and innocent part I had seen yet. He opened the door and sudden mutters and whispers went silent.
The room was deathly quiet and in absolute darkness, with the windows covered by shutters to block the light out further. I felt like I was on parade. The faint glints of eyeballs were barely visible, following me as I walked in to the abyss.
The sound of shuffling could be heard as people moved around in the darkness. I felt intimidated and a little frightened to the point I looked back at “Father,” who had become a silhouette in the doorway, enlarged by the lack of light and outline of shadow; giving the false perception of grandeur.
I’d never felt so small, and equally worthless in my entire life. What surprised me more was the unknown entities in the darkness almost mentally manipulated me into thinking I needed him to protect me from whatever sat around me.
He chuckled at the door and announced that I was a new brother for them all. He flicked a switch and light filled the room immediately. Sudden movements around the room as children shifted their gaze to me, some turned into their duvets and feigned slumber, some looked at the door in fear.
I felt every single emotion in that room. Fear, dread, hope, and worry at the front of the queue. A few of the older children looked at me in disgust, which I never understood at the time. As I scanned the room, there were old rickety beds, filling both sides of a large room, with a small play area in the corner. A small blackboard with chalk was at the end of the play area, and some building blocks; clearly for the younger children.
That’s when I caught the eye of a rather picturesque young girl. She had bright red hair, amazing blue eyes, and a dim nightie on. She smiled at me and the purity in her eyes relaxed me. I smiled back.
That’s when I heard the “tut” and brisk walk of Father behind me. He pushed me out of the way and started shouting. “How dare you disobey? The rule after curfew is no talking. Everyone up!”
All the kids stood up, as if on parade. I froze in place, in the centre of the kids lined up either side of me. Father demanded they line up and show their hands, palms up; I watched everyone throw their hands out and felt obligated to do the same.
As Father patrolled up and down, he walked in front of me and came down to my height. “Son, I admire your respect, but I know this wasn’t you, come with me.”
I followed and he led me to a bed, put my bag down and told me to get comfortable. I sat on it and watched as he went back to his patrol. Looking over my shoulder, I gazed upon a note on the blackboard: I hate father.
That’s when he found the culprit with chalk on his hands. I vaguely recall his name being George. He was berated in front of the other children, tried to defend he didn’t do it, and was immediately threatened with ‘the cage.’ He was dragged out of that room and never seen again. Ultimately terrifying.
As I sat on the bed, the room was left in darkness again and tensions eased off. Father was gone, the tutting of his stick against the floor now distantly merging into nothingness.
Some of the children spoke. Such phrases like, “Who is the new person?” echoed in the room. I much preferred the more innocent comments like, “I hope he likes us,” as opposed to the more aggressive hisses of, “I hope he doesn’t get us in to trouble!”
Then I understood. The small break of light through the shutters fed directly into the play area, where moonlight was able to show the small blackboard. The children were using it to communicate more sensitive matters safely without waking or notifying anyone, namely Father.
I couldn’t believe George was taken away. If that was even his name. I met him for only a few brief seconds, didn’t so much as exchange conversation with him and he was gone. Our meet was ever fleeting, and the memory so faded I even doubted whether or not it actually happened. If it did happen, I suppose based on the exchange in the car with Father, it was a direct way to disrespect his good will. After all, he did put a roof over us and we were permitted to see daylight, unlike my recent resting place.
Wait. I just defended him? Had he made it under my skin already? Our exchanges had been painful, full of hatred, and I defended his supposed good will? Fatigue must have been setting in. I somehow, after hours of worry and silence, drifted off in the hope that this was all a dream.
That moment of silence in the night, listening to the drips outside the window from the weather as my only comfort made time stand still; as still as the broken watch I clutched hold of for dear life.
After a night of broken rest, and as light began to fill the room, some of the children came to see me.
Rather eerily, they stood looking over me without saying much so when my eyes adjusted to the sight of numerous kids looking over me, I staggered, and tried to push away in the bed.
“It’s okay,” the young girl said. It was the same redhead I saw the night before. Her sky-blue eyes relaxed me again. Her voice tapered off to a whisper when she realised she was talking too loudly. “My name is Alexia! What’s yours?” She stuck her hand out to welcome me
with a handshake, which was a little odd for a girl probably not much older than me. I figured she was about nine or ten years old. The other curious children looked on in delight as I put my hand out to meet hers.
“Sebastian, Sebastian Blackwood.”
“That’s a long name,” she said, as if disappointed. “We’ll have to call you Seb on the blackboard, for when we need to talk.”
“Why do you talk on the blackboard?” I asked, matching her whisper.
“It’s the only way we can talk about the things they shouldn’t hear. They don’t like when we talk about bad things, even if it’s on the board.”
“Why don’t they like it?”
“They don’t like it because they are stupid!” A boisterous young boy blurted out. His eyes matched the girl in how bright blue they were. He had an ice-like stare with fiery locks to match his fiery personality. He looked similar to Alexia, to which I later found out they were twins.
“Robert,” Alexia blurted out.
Anyway, we will catch up later. Alexia went to the blackboard and rubbed out the message already on there, before putting up her own. She wrote ‘Seb’ with a small smiley face and love heart and a badly drawn arrow pointing to the face.
Footsteps and tutting could be heard; the children retreated to their respective beds and pretended to sleep. I was still sitting up taking in the sights of the room. There were about fourteen other children in the room with me, and seven empty beds. The door crashed open, and Father marched to the window with the shutters before opening them. As soon as natural light filled the room he spun around and noticed the message on the blackboard. The poorly drawn arrow made him rant about the devil as it looked like an inverted cross.
Dancing With Devils Page 6
