It was a frigid, wintry New Year's Eve night as little Tom Riddle sat on the edge of his iron framed bed. He stared intently out onto the starry night sky and snow-covered front lawn before sighing deeply. Closing his eyes on the falling snow, he began to quietly sing Happy Birthday to himself. Tonight, December 31, was his ninth birthday. In his mind, it was a big step in his life. Another year and he would be turning the big double digit. However, nobody in the orphanage remembered or even seemed to care that it was his birthday. Mrs. Cole usually forgot the birthdays of all her orphans, although she tried to remember them. But that wasn't often, as she was usually drunk from one of her drinking binges, which usually took place at least three times a week.
It was sad to say that this year was no exception for her forgetfulness, as unfortunately, the flu virus had broken out among the children and staff, leaving half the occupants of the orphanage very ill. Tom was one of the few fortunate ones who hadn't gotten sick, as he routinely stayed shut up in his room whenever possible so he wouldn't have to be around the other children and their continual taunts toward him. It grew very tiresome for Tom, having the other children constantly stare at him like he was something unpleasant, or whisper about him behind his back.
Though tonight was his birthday, it was no different from any other ordinary night that exceptionally cold winter. The hurried and fast-paced footsteps outside of his room told him that someone had gotten sick again as a loud chorus of screams from the girls could be heard in the distance.
A sad feeling washed over him. Just once he wanted someone, anyone, to remember his birthday. Was that too much to ask for?
Sighing once more, he got up and headed over to his cabinet and opened it up. Sitting inside it was a small stack of white paper folded neatly in half. He took a single sheet from the stack and carefully unfolded it. Tom had stolen the stack of paper from Mrs. Cole's office. To this very day, she never noticed it was missing or suspected Tom of any wrongdoing. Stealing had become a new habit for him. It made him feel powerful and it, even if only momentarily, took his mind off the sadness he often felt overwhelm his young heart.
Along with the paper, he had also stolen a pen from within her desk.
Sitting the paper carefully on his nightstand, he scribbled four words near the top left corner: 'Dear Mother & Father'. It had been a sort of secret tradition of his to write to his parents every year on his birthday. Though all his previous letters were mere childish rambles and whatnot, this letter was the first time he felt he had something important to write.
Another one of my birthdays is here, though no one at the orphanage remembers it. Turning nine is a big step for me. Just another year to go and I'll be turning the big one-o. Though I can't remember either of you, I miss you both so much. Do you remember me? Do you even think of me, wherever you are? I wish I knew why you left me here at this place, as nobody likes me. I have no friends, and everyone thinks I'm weird.
Mrs. Cole spends most of her time drinking and giving out orders to the others. One of her other favorite hobbies is having doctors examine me. She thinks I'm crazy, and I don't know why. The other kids think I'm a freak. I'm sure they're just waiting to send me to the asylum. I'm certain of it. Because of it, I keep everything that happens to me to myself.
One thing I've kept quiet is that just recently, I learned that I can make things move without even touching them. Or I... I know this sounds a bit odd, but I seem to be able to control animals. It's like I can make them move, or do things at my command, but I'm not sure why I can even do it or even how. I haven't tried doing it again in case someone finds out. If anyone found out about what I can do, especially Mrs. Cole, she would surely send me to the asylum.
I really hope that one day, I can leave this place and live in a much better place than here. Please don't forget about me.
Your son,
Tom Riddle
Folding the letter, he placed it carefully back into his cabinet, among the small collection of other letters he'd written in years past. He stacked the letters in a little pile where they would slowly gather dust and wait another year for another letter to be placed on top.