I didn't know what time it was when I opened my eyes again, nor did I care to know; my whole body ached, and the rough fabric of the sheet, pinned against the hard hospital bed, did nothing to ease my discomfort. Despite the white paint on the walls, the room was dark and gloomy, filled with that persistent antiseptic fragrance lingering in the air. In my left arm, stiff from lying too long in the same position, was the IV line delivering some kind of pain medication that also kept me hydrated.The room was small, and there were no other patients—just an empty bed beside mine. Through the curtainless window to my left, I could see the grey sky and the lazily falling raindrops, almost as if time itself had stopped. There was nothing there, no people, no sound; only me, my pain, the cold, and that suffocating silence.
Between the moments when I briefly woke, still disoriented, and the long hours of total apathy, a man came to visit me. His name was Joe Andrews, a quiet fellow with plain features, dark brown hair, equally brown eyes, and an average build. If not for the huge dark circles under his weary eyes, one could say he looked about twenty-seven. He wore the official uniform of the local police station, and spoke so softly and slowly it was almost a whisper:
"Good afternoon, Isaak. My name is Joe Andrews, but you can call me Joe. Forgive my lack of delicacy, but time is short. I'm here to take your statement about the fire that destroyed your home and took your mother's life."
At that point, I was but a shadow of the lively, mischievous child I once had been. I didn't have the strength to care about the officer's insensitivity. My mother—my everything, my reason to live—had been taken from me in the cruelest way possible. And fate? That cruel, ugly, incompetent, malicious fate didn't even allow me to leave this world with her… What more did it want from me?I refused to say a single word. I didn't grant myself the relief of letting even the faintest sound escape my lips. I chose silence—yes, silence, like the only answer I received from her on her deathbed: nothing.
A few days passed after that—maybe weeks, I don't know, as I said, I couldn't care less. At first, Mr. Andrews came to see me every day. He was rude, then irreverent, and eventually kind. By the time he started treating me as the child I (undeniably) was, the public outcry for answers had already quieted down. After all, who cares about the fate of some prostitute from the outskirts? Better to close the case as an accidental fire and pacify the population. The officers couldn't spare another second of their precious time on such an unfortunate incident.
Mr. Andrews—Joe, as he preferred to be called—was a man of calm demeanor, with hollow, dull eyes that seemed to have witnessed every sort of tragedy this world can conjure. His voice was low and husky, like someone forever in need of rest. He spent hours telling me about his day. He omitted the more gruesome cases or anything that might remind me of my own misery, but he would occasionally make an effort to share something pleasant.
"I went to the merchant community fair in the XV Square today," he said once. "There were several beautiful flower arrangements there. I heard it's tradition to give flower crowns to maidens you're interested in—something to do with the goddess Hera of Fertility or something like that. The boys, though, prefer the games, like the fishing stall. You pay one denarius for a chance to play and then catch some toy that might be useful. Kids love it. You would be happy there, Isaak."~Silence~"Haaaah… It would be nice to at least hear your voice, kid…"
Joe told me he did volunteer work at an orphanage called St. Joseph—the same one I was supposed to go to as soon as the hospital's interdisciplinary team cleared me. Truth be told, I had been physically fine for a while, and the doctors and nurses knew it. But the psychiatrist had said something like, "the patient is suffering from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD), which triggered selective mutism; his mental state is too unstable to place him in an orphanage and make him interact with other children."Whether the diagnosis was true or not, I think the hospital staff simply felt too sorry for me to send me off just yet. Even if the world is full of misfortunes, some tragedies weigh heavier than others, and deep down, they mourned for me too.
But no matter how much I wished to wither away in that hospital bed—to escape reality or cling to the futile hope of seeing my mother again—time, ever severe and indifferent to life's hardships, kept moving forward. And the day I would have to leave that cold, somber hospital room finally came. The diagnosis remained unchanged, but the hospital could no longer keep me there, even though the government covered the expenses since I was a minor orphan. There are limits to "political charity," and so the entire medical staff bid me farewell with forced smiles and empty words like "Stay strong, boy, you have so much life ahead," or "No matter how bad things seem, therapy will help you. Don't give up."
And so, I walked on my own two feet, wearing nothing but the clothes Mr. Andrews had donated to me, toward the police car that would take me straight to the so-called St. Joseph Orphanage. As always, the weather was inhospitable; the moisture clung to the air, making my clothes stick to my fragile skin, and darkening the street shadows as if evening had already fallen. As I stepped onto the hospital's staircase, I stopped for a moment and looked up. There it was—the sky, grey, heavy with shapeless clouds that looked like a mixture of dust, mud, and sorrow. The raindrops began to fall—cold, heavy… The sky never again shone with the bright celestial blue of my mother's eyes. Even nature and the heavens mourned her.
On the way, Mr. Andrews didn't say much. He promised to visit me and said I would have a chance to start over there. Then, murmuring almost to himself, he added, "I hope that when you meet other unfortunate children there, you'll find the desire to live again and seek a new beginning."The streets were empty, as usual for very poor neighborhoods on a Tuesday afternoon. Not even the stray dogs seemed to be around, despite the impressive amount of trash in the corners. After a few turns, we began driving along an uneven path—so rough it made the car groan as if we were on a dirt road.
The farther we got from the city, the more dense and forested the road became. Apparently, there weren't many orphanages in the state—which wasn't surprising, considering how little the authorities cared about the well-being of miserable orphans like me. St. Joseph was the closest "charitable home" to my hometown, and perhaps the only one with room for another moribund soul. Mr. Andrews mentioned something about the institution being funded by the Clergy, which made me uneasy.
In this world, the clergy is not as trustworthy as it once was, and there hasn't been religious uniformity for ages. There are as many religions as there are people, and every now and then a new sect appears. I think the only thing that distinguishes the church from the rest is its economic power.Soon, we stopped before a huge, rusted, spiked gate with a large gothic sign that read "St. Joseph Orphanage." By then, the rain that had accompanied us the whole way had stopped, leaving only the strange sounds of the forest surrounding the mansion behind the gate.
When I stepped out of the car, the mud dirtied my worn-out shoes, and each step made a wet, squishy sound, like some reptile hopping in the muck. Mr. Andrews glanced worriedly at his analog wristwatch, recalling his conversation with Sister Mafalda the day before, when she had clearly told him to bring a new resident at the stroke of 3:00 p.m.Just as he was about to open his mouth to call someone, the gates opened on their own with a mechanical sound that made it clear they weren't used often.
And so, I held my breath even more, in some futile attempt to hide my nervousness, and followed closely behind Mr. Andrews as he urged me to come. After a few minutes of walking, we reached the front of the mansion, which certainly did not look like a place inhabited by children. Through the dark stained-glass windows of its gothic architecture, I thought I saw a flicker of movement. Then the front door opened, revealing a woman dressed entirely in white, wearing the traditional garments of the church's affiliated sisters.She had a gentle expression, round cheeks, and pale blue eyes that resembled those of an abandoned pup. As soon as she saw us, she bowed her head slightly in greeting and said, "Mr. Andrews, little Isaak, please come in."
After acknowledging her, Mr. Andrews looked at me sideways and whispered, "Good luck." At that moment, all I could think was that my grey, quiet, and somber days were far from over, and that no matter how unknown my new reality was, I would never return to the warm, sunny days I had lived with my mother—the woman with the most beautiful celestial-blue eyes and golden hair like the sun. Time would never return to what it once was, and I would never again see Lizzie's comforting smile or hear her sweet, cheerful voice telling me how much she loved me and that I was her most precious treasure.