The Innocent by Muted Dragon

Note to reader: this story does not reflect the conditions of orphanages, or the procedures of the state department. Any similarity is purely coincidence.

Foreword

The overseers open the door, their faces pulled down by age. Their breath mars the fresh air, telling of their sweet addiction and poison, alcohol. The olive skinned woman is small, with hair kept up with the latest styles. At the end of each brown hair, a blond tip points outward from her face. Yesterday it was completely black for a more solemn look, or was it blue for the new age adopting parents? It doesn’t matter. That was yesterday. The male overseer stands in a new suit, paid for by the state taxes. It is black with white pinstripes, covering a starched stiff light blue shirt and a navy tie. He nervously fidgets with the tie, hoping its straightness will balance out his corruptness.

The potential adopting parents smile bravely and step inside. The place is well lit with a high ceiling like that of an office building. To the left is a separate set of rooms, filled with individual desks and long tables. A few children in the study rooms scatter. The others hide their faces behind their textbooks. As the visitors pass by, the children pass on the message. “We have guests.”

Before them is a set of stairs to the top floor. To the right is the living room, and further down is the kitchen and dining area.

The overseers, more by habit than care, bring the adults to our first subject on the top floor. She sits in the corner with a thick book clinched between her thin fingers. Her oval face looks up with eyes of the freshly turned earth. Her skin is a waxy vanilla, with a tint of purple along her fingers. The parents smile and coo their greetings as they enter the room. The child frowns deeply and flattens her back against the wall. Her eyelids lower slowly. Her figure shimmers, then wavers. She disappears.

The overseers curse loudly as the male charges at the corner. He swings his arms about. The child is gone. The adopting parents nod understandingly. Frightened children often use their powers. The overseers nod and move on to the next room and child. This time we meet a topaz-skinned girl holding a rather small boy’s hands. They sit facing each other in chairs too small for the girl. The boy smiles as she swings his arms and begins the chanting game. “One for lost hope,” starts the boy, “two for the rope, three for the noose, four for the goose, five for the chair, six stops the air, seven for the bruise, eight for the blues, nine for the head, ten we’re dead.” The morbid chanting starts again. “One for lost hope…” The boy laughs softly, his pink cheeks lifting with each giggle. He is no more than ten, with dark hair but heavenly eyes, balancing his complexion.

The overseers cough. The boy jumps. The girl merely drops her hands onto her lap. She turns to the group. Her eyes are a dark brown, like bittersweet chocolate. Her hair is dark, but the light reveals some abnormally bright strands of pure white. Stress, some will explain it. Others know more.

“What game are you two playing?” The female overseer asks as she tilts her head calmly. Her eyes demand an answer. The boy shrinks back, not accustomed to the harsh scrutinizing glare. The girl remains silent.

“May I play?” The female parent asks as she takes a step forward and kneels slowly to meet the boy at eye level. The coarseness of the carpeting hurts her knees but she does not show any sign of discomfort. Her manicured fingers reach for the boy’s hand. He shrinks away even further and turns to the girl with pleading eyes.

“He is not used to attention.” The girl finally speaks, her voice seeming to hold the wisdom of an eighty year old, rather than the arrogance of a girl not yet eighteen years old. “You have to talk to him for hours before he will let you touch him.” Her dark eyes turn up to the male parent. “For males, it may take weeks before he will trust you.” A silence hangs in the air, thick and sickening.

The female parent nods and retracts her hand. “My name is Gloria. What is your name?”

“Dirt,” The boy answers in a voice so soft one fears that hearing it will break it.

“That’s not a suitable name for you,” The female answers and turns her face up to the overseers to see if it is their doing.

“That’s what Mama called me. She says I am as worthless and ugly as dirt.” The boy sticks out his chin, not knowing the true meaning of his words. Gloria bites her lip to stop herself from hugging the child and telling him different.

“Well, I think you are much more than dirt.” The male parent takes a small step forward. The boy doesn’t shrink back. The conversation begins. Two weeks pass before the parents finish the proper documents to adopt the boy.

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