A life in an orphanage by Erik Sinulingga

Guide To An Orphanage

An orphanage. When you read that, what do you think of? A run-down house? A set from The Dumping Ground? Or even an inspiration for ginger musicals? None of these examples show you what an orphanage really is. I guess that’s what I’m here for.
I’m not a very expressive guy, but I give feelings credit where credit’s due. And these feelings were well past their due date. I was walking home when this all started. The route to my house was almost done and I finally crossed the last street. That’s when I hear the sirens. Never a good sign. Especially when your parent has a severe heart condition. Yeah. Sorry about dropping all that emotional stuff on you right now. I rushed through the wave of paramedics and spotted a familiar face. My dad. On a bed with an oxygen mask to his face. Trust me, there isn’t a worse sight on Earth. Tears streamed down my face. Nothing could have stung my heart more than the straight line I saw as the word ORPHAN echoed in my mind.
The car screeched to a halt and I clambered out reluctantly. This was it; the orphanage. I knew this moment was coming, but I was anything but prepared for it. It kind of had the layout of a mansion and the interior didn’t disappoint. The man, who brought me here, and a woman in a pink blouse said they were going to have a chat and encouraged me to play with the other children. I looked out the window and saw children running around the field. Some were just sitting. Some were engaged in a highly competitive water gun match. And there’s always that one kid who runs around the field, screaming like a remorseless banshee. I opened the door and made my way out. The other kids were alright and I met Andy. Sorry, that’s Andy not Annie. We played a penalty shootout and he seemed nice enough.
Keep your head down if you’re ever put in my position. Participate, but don’t be that kid who runs around the field, screaming like a remorseless banshee. I adapted to these rules pretty quickly as the days blended into one other. It was a normal night, but as soon I lay down on my bed, I started crying. Like, really crying. The woman in the pink blouse was called Mrs Radley. She came into my room, said nothing and hugged me. Back then, it was all I needed.

I could bore you with more details, but we’re coming to the end of my story. I’m afraid there are no more specifics and definitely no musicals. I hope you are never put in my position, but in the unfortunate event you are, remember this; there is a light at the end of the tunnel. Things will get better. But what you need is a reflection. A reminder. I guess that’s what I’m here for.