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The Wilting Orphanage

by People! Just say Something! 2 months ago in satire

This is a short piece exploring the wretched lives of the children put under my care over the years. Written in loving memory of their beautiful green limbs and colourful faces.

This post is a short creative writing piece; please take the following as fiction and for entertainment purpose only.

This is a short piece exploring the wretched lives of the children put under my care over the years. Written in loving memory of their beautiful green limbs and colourful faces.

I looked after my first baby when I moved to college. She was beautiful, young and vibrant. Her arms were veined and her colour deep. It is a shame that I left her in a room with no light, no water. It is a shame she was dead in her ornamental bed, her arms no longer spread.

I had other children. I cherished those who were given to me as gifts. It is a strange concept to gift a child. But I loved these children the most; they had a short life. Their limbs would fall on my bedroom floor. Their smiles drooped as the days passed. Their complexion darkened as they seared in the sun.

Many left their children under my care as they went away, trusting me with their lives. I would tend and protect them. Take a particular interest in keeping them alive. But it seems my orphanage is cursed. What more could I have done? I fed them, spoke to them and gave them water from a cup? Why then did they bend, bow and sag? Maybe it was my words that killed them.

I wonder how children live on the streets—born in the darkest crevices of the city. Trampled and beaten day after day. How do these kids survive? Where do they get their endeavour to live? Should I throw my children out of my orphanage? They may prefer the erratic caregiving of the world.

My children come from all over the world. They are deported, taken by force. It is a planned attack. Cut and weakened, pinched from their mother’s land. I take them in, naturally. My admiration for them is rooted deeper than they are. But we do not speak the same language; we do not like the same sun. I continue my massacre.

Occasionally, I steal a child—a careless kidnapping. I am sure you have done it too. The vivid pigmentation of a vulnerable child is too tempting to resist. I will grab it thoughtlessly, stripping it from its vessel—a simple assassination.

I paint my children when I see them grow and bloom. I reminisce about their short lives. I do not think of them as death portraits; the art outlives them. An existence even I cannot exhaust.

I have tried to create my own. To make my orphanage a house or a home. But the conditions I try to keep them in are not fertile. Or maybe I lack fertility? Why do you not want to exist? Sprout for me, child; show me some hope, a sign of life.

These lives that I am taking could be life-givers. I crave their existence. My cravings outweigh my acts. My children could bring so much to the world. Why do they then fail me? The expectations aren’t high in my orphanage. Grow, live, survive.

Do not glare at me—the mass murderer. I have tried everything there is; what else do you want me to do? Do not think I have intent when this is only an omission. I have watched films and read books, but my orphanage is plague-ridden. Clue me on how I can save a life or how to start one. You are not innocent; you must have taken a life yourself. It cannot only be me.

There was a survivor. She was strong, unlike my others. She was feisty and did not need the care and attention I lacked. Still, her life was saved when my brother took her from me. He scowled and muttered how I should never leave cacti in the attic.

People! Just say Something!
People! Just say Something!
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People! Just say Something!

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