Little Suspicion

Peter, fixated on the aged wall before him, grappled with a haunting sense of self-identity.

In the depths of the orphanage's dimly lit corridors, he was a young soul, a mere thirteen years in age, grappling with the enigma of his parentage.

According to the "principal" of the facility, he was discovered abandoned in a desolate alleyway, forsaken by his parents, thrust into solitude.

Solitude.

A solitary word that reverberated, whispering and hissing into his ears, evoking tears from his eyes.

This single word plunged him into introspection, questioning his very existence in this wretched abode.

Solitude.

A word that relentlessly hammered his psyche, churning his stomach in revulsion.

Alone.

His chamber bore a somber reddish-brown hue, the single window adorned with crimson-polka dotted drapes.

Beside his bed stood a diminutive dresser, atop which rested an old, dusty timepiece.

He gazed at it reflectively; it was the sole relic from his enigmatic past.

In pensive contemplation, he reviewed the thirteen years of his life, grappling with the vicissitudes of his existence.

He was a target for bullies, particularly those nearing adulthood, even the girls among them.

His heart harbored affection for a certain girl, Gwen. She was resplendent, with auburn locks and a fair complexion, her very presence lifting his spirits like a feathered cloud.

Yet, all his endeavors proved futile.

His life unfurled as a perpetual, agonizing cycle—a monotonous loop of days, weeks, months, and years.

A ceaseless cycle, monotonous and agonizing.

He glanced at his watch, signaling breakfast was near. With a sense of urgency, he donned his jacket, still in the clutches of sleep.

Stepping into the hallway, he encountered a throng of fellow students, each grabbing their uniform jackets.

He maneuvered through the crowd, disconcerted by the unpleasant odors clinging to their garments—evidence of neglectful hygiene.

Ahead, the corridor forked into two paths: right and left. Opting for the right, he treaded the slower route to the halls. His fingertips grazed the rough texture of the stairs, cold like the room itself, as sunlight spilled through a solitary window.

The scarcity of windows made the light streaming from this lone aperture oddly mesmerizing.

Absorbed in the sunlight's dance upon the windowsill, he inadvertently collided with the door leading to his destination on the first floor. He swung open the rectangular door, a torrent of students rushing past him.

He craned his neck, eyes fixed upon the bell tolling resonantly above him.

The Hall of Bell.

In unison, the other inhabitants of the "orphanage" assembled, including Gwen, her gaze curiously roving.

Captivated by her grace, Peter involuntarily offered a faint smile.

Abruptly, a voice from behind, a sly one, belonging to a fifteen-year-old boy, interjected.

It was Micah.

Turning, he regarded the dark-haired lad with a smattering of freckles across his nose, sporting a neatly buttoned uniform jacket.

"Who has garnered your smile?" he inquired, tapping Peter on the back.

Micah was Peter's sole confidante, his best friend, sharing a plight akin to Peter's own.

"No one," Peter hastily replied, a blush of embarrassment coloring his cheeks.

Micah grinned, positioning himself by Peter's side.

"There's no harm in smiling here; it's not a prison."

"I never implied that."

"Why hide it then?"

Peter stumbled in his response, grappling with the urge to elucidate.

"Is it Gwen?" Micah astutely deduced, a small smirk playing on his lips.

Peter looked down, astonished and embarrassed by the rapid deciphering.

"Yeah, she's very—" Peter sighed, "—nevermind."

"It's perfectly normal to like someone. In fact, it's how we even ended up here," Micah reasoned.

Micah surmised that Peter likely misconstrued his statement.

"Well, not here, but on this Earth," Micah corrected.

"It's fine," Peter shrugged, absently fidgeting with his hair.

Their conversation was disrupted by the piercing toll of the bell, prompting a man and a woman, appearing almost skeletal, to approach them. Mrs. Jist, the austere "principal" of the orphanage, was known for instilling a sense of inadequacy in the children, her preference for ear-piercing high-heel shoes evident.

Perhaps, Peter mused, her stringent demeanor was an attempt to instill a spark of destiny and discipline in their souls.

However, the only spark ignited was one of regret, particularly for Peter.

"Hello, students!" she bellowed, her voice a raspy but elegant cadence.

She continued, "I trust you've come to terms with your status as children, not to complain about the sustenance provided."

"Not complaining?" Micah quickly retorted. "The food you serve is worse than what rats would consume."

"You are children, and you are to heed the words of your elders, understood?"

"Yes, Mrs. Jist."

"Follow me."

Now, the impending trudge seemed even more ominous.

As they marched, Micah voiced his discontent about the orphanage.

"How can anyone endure existence in this barren wasteland?"

"Wasteland?" Peter inquired, puzzled by the metaphor.

"Yes, wasteland," Micah affirmed, averting suspicion. Peter, concerned about the potential repercussions of their conversation, acknowledged, "You know we can't criticize this place without facing consequences."

Micah glanced back at him.

"Do you see what I mean?"

"What do you mean?" Peter asked.

"They stifle freedom of speech here, despite the Constitution declaring it as the First Amendment!" he exclaimed.

He turned his gaze forward.

"Ever wonder why they appointed Ms. James to teach us History?"

Peter could recall her circular spectacles and precise enunciation, and the moments when she'd offer them candy.

"She's the only kind soul here, and Mrs. Jist doesn't favor that."

"It makes sense," Peter conceded.

Micah nodded, looking back at him, then fixed his gaze forward, offering no further commentary until they reached their destination.