The beginning

June 1, 1938

Wednesday

The feeling started growing deep inside. It felt like a huge volcano was spilling scalding lava around my solar plexus. At some point, the sensation went totally out of control. All I felt was an impulse. The impulse of the desire to destroy. To turn it into nothingness. To kill.

"Tom!" Mrs. Cole called out to me.

Mrs. Cole, that nasty one. Sometimes I hated her so much. With every cell in my body, I could feel her neglect, her disgust, and, most of all, her fear, which she so desperately hid. It's probably not common knowledge, but fear has an odor, and I can smell it even at a distance. Fortunately for this boy, the stern matron seemed to pull me out of some parallel world where were just Billy and me.

"It's late; get back in the building! What's going on here?" A persistent glance darted from Billy to me.

"Nothing," I said calmly. My face remained expressionless, and I gave Mrs. Cole a pitying glance. "Billy and I were playing, and he fell."

"Is that really so?" Mrs. Cole stared at the blond boy.

"Y-yes!" he stammered.

And when you tried to insult and humiliate me, your speech was very confident. How disgusting you are! You're definitely lucky she noticed us.

"I'll get him to the place, Mrs. Cole," I said with a faint smile.

"Okay," she snorted, and headed off to survey the small area next, corralling other kids in the orphanage.

I attempted to come out as friendly and responsive. Billy and I headed toward the building after I leaned over and extended my hand to help him up from the dusty area. I put my hand on his shoulder in a friendly way and felt him shrink with fear.

Did you really think you could just insult and humiliate me and think you were better than I? No. I'm special. I know that. And you know that, Billy. And absolutely no one will ever dare to offend me.

The front door creaked monotonously, humming the same rusty song that I had known by heart since childhood. Once inside, I tightened my grip on Billy's shoulder, not letting him leave as quickly as he wanted. I took a close look around; the first floor was empty. In the middle of a small hall, there was a staircase leading to the upper floors. In the late afternoon gloom, it did not look welcoming at all. I opened my mouth to tell Sweet Billy that I'd let him go because I was kind, but on one condition: he should apologize.

"Please forgive me, Tom!" The apparently intelligent boy begged, ready to burst into tears in the next moment. "Please, I'm sorry. I will never say anything bad about you or your mother again."

"Of course you won't, Billy." I paused for a moment, looking intently into his eyes. "After all, next time, Mrs. Cole might not be around."

He looked at me with frightened eyes and panted. And his somewhat translucent face was flushed like a tomato. Even his entire head under the thin, whitish hair was a burgundy color.

You are so pathetic.

"Go," I said calmly, pushing the puny shoulder away with disgust.

Billy ran as fast as he could up the life-saving stairs to our floor. I followed him with my eyes and realized once again that I hated haste and fidgeting. I felt the urge to throw a boulder in his wake.

With my hands in the pockets of my dark brown shorts, I slowly counted the steps up. There was a huge elongated window along the stairs, and the glass was either dirty or darkened. However, it was quite visible that beyond this window, the dusky summer night was coming into full force. The lights out was scheduled for 10 minutes from now, so I had plenty of time to make my way to my room without even drawing the wrath of Mrs. Cole. Three kerosene lanterns glowed in the dark hallway. My left hand's finger glided over the wall as I walked to the end of that corridor. I stopped at the second lamp and moved my finger in closer to the light source. It was clean. Insanely poor, yet always clean. Perhaps that was the one benefit of having Wool's orphanage run by Mrs. Cole.

Every bully was always punished without fail and diligently scrubbed the corridors and floors, which made me insanely happy. I rarely got caught. And when I had my adventures for fun, I did not disdain to push the blame on someone else, making it look like there was nothing to hold me accountable.

The tile beneath my foot shook, making a distinctive sound. I kicked it idly, and the horrible scraping sound reverberated through the hallway. Sighing heavily, I pushed a piece of tile back into place with my foot—that was all the entertainment. At the end of the corridor, I turned right and stared at the shabby numbers "27". Even though I felt a little nauseated, I pushed the door open and closed my eyes. Maybe this time it would be different... When I opened my eyes, I was disappointed for the fifth time this week: everything was exactly the same as yesterday, the day before, a week ago, and a year ago... There was a bed, a table, a chair, and a wardrobe inside the small space. Perhaps everything looked exactly the same in prison; only our place was clean.

I routinely hung my neat, but already well-worn, clothes in the closet and took out my pajamas, which were a little too big. Every time I put them on, I couldn't shake the compulsive feeling that they weren't made for me. Dressed in orphanage rags, I passed by, shuffling my feet to the bed, which was cold even in summer. It must have been because the building is made of stone. The bed was quite hard, and sometimes it annoyed me terribly, and sometimes I was sincerely glad to finally be on it, under a cool blanket, like now.

I occasionally find myself thinking a lot, especially right before bed. It doesn't bother me one bit, though, and I always end up falling asleep soundly. Sometimes in my dreams, I see my mother wearing a strange green locket around her neck. She's giving me a hug. Probably it's just a dream, because I've never seen her before. I was born in this Wool's Orphanage in London late on December 31, 1926, and she was gone. But Mrs. Cole told me that my father was somewhere. He would surely come back for me. I was named Tom after him, and my middle name was Marvolo after my grandfather. I wonder if my grandfather is still alive. Maybe he simply isn't aware of my whereabouts either.

Annoying noise and loud voices interrupted my thoughts. The sound of some fuss was rapidly approaching the second-floor corridor. I wondered what had happened. After giving in to curiosity—or perhaps annoyance—I carefully got out of bed. Must Mrs. Cole be dead? Well, that would be nice. A shadow of a smile touched my face.

I sneaked noiselessly to the door. There was no point in opening it—it would be too loud—so I quietly bent down to the keyhole. Tough luck! I could see nothing except for the orphanage staff's aprons. Also, the voices became more clearly audible.

"Who brought you here?" It was Miss Blair's voice.

She was quite a kind lady. Sometimes, of course, in secret from Mrs. Cole, she gave me some sweets. It happened rarely. However, that's probably all I could say about her.

"Why are you silent?" Miss Blair made a frantic attempt to speak with someone, but nobody responded. "So take a seat in this chair and wait over here. We'll get a room ready for you."

Finally, the women dispersed. 

I could hardly see anything in the dim light of the corridor, but I could still make out what was going on. I patiently waited for the slow, shuffling steps of the last woman to vanish at the end of the corridor and for the ticking clock that hung in the corner behind the door to be heard here.

With a slight movement of my hand, I turned the handle and confidently opened the door. What stirred it all up? Or... who? There was a little girl, about ten or eleven years old, like me, sitting on a chair in the corridor. She was shaking her skinny legs in the air because they didn't reach the floor. She wore a simple light dress, white socks, and black sandals. Her curly hair was a flowing river streaming down her shoulders.

The door creaked, revealing my presence, and the girl flinched. She froze. I couldn't see her face in the corridor's darkness, but I felt her stare.

"Hello," she finally said, realizing there was no danger.

"Hello."

"My name is Irene," she said in a monotone and stopped shaking her legs, which clearly showed her tension.

"Tom," I mechanically introduced myself.

The girl turned away, peering at the end of the corridor. There were stairs to the third and first floors.

Where did she come from? Late at night... Did her parents bring her here? Anyway... I'm not interested. I heard muffled footsteps—someone was coming back. I slowly closed the door, went to bed, and fell into a long-awaited sleep.

___________

https://youtu.be/bgaphSb2gn0

❗This story is not about the one who could fix him. There's a lot of philosophy and psychology. Some chapters contain violent scenes.