Prologue
The tragedy of life is not that it ends so soon, but that we wait so long to begin it.
-W.M. Lewis
“Number three, please step forward.”
Silence. No one moves, no one breathes.
“Number three, please step forward now.”
Number three doesn’t move. All eyes go directly toward her. Directly toward me.
I’m number three. That’s my name. Or at least that’s what I’ve always been told.
It’s all I know.
But even I know “ the deprived, unwanted, wretch who was abandoned “ I know that’s wrong.
I’m a number, not a person.
I was left on the Holmer-Traitmann Home for Destitute Children, an orphanage, days after I was born. Been there ever since. It’s a pretty dumpy place, but for me, it’s home. I have nowhere else to go. I was left on the doorstep.
Literally, I was just dropped off. It makes you wonder and dream. Dream for someone, anyone to actually care about you. Countless children have lived all their life at the Holmer-Traitmann home. And countless children have died there. Died there alone.
They both lived and died in a world where no one cared for them. My world.
I have no family. At this place, you’re told that no one wants you, brainwashed into believing that we’re just not the lucky ones. Sorry. Once you’re here, you aren’t going anywhere. You can’t get out, can’t get away, can’t escape. A wave of vomit rises in my throat - I want to puke, I want to die - fractured images race through my fevered mind - my last try for escape - pain in my lungs and stomach, burning, I hadn’t been able to go on any longer - and when they dragged me back, even more severe, intense pain - punishment - for my own good, they say - I don't know if I can face it. One tear rolls down my cheeks and I prepare myself.
“Number three, step forward. Now.” I reluctantly step out of line. Separated. I’m apart, different. No one wants me.
I’ve been through this so many times. I know exactly what she’s going to say, she’ll act all sorry for me, overwhelming sympathy that couldn’t be any more forged and forced. I don’t want her pitiful smile, I don’t want anyone’s pity. No pity for me.
I refuse to accept it. I’ve gotten enough of it. I’m not worth it. Go cry over all the starving children in Africa if you want to. But not me. There’s no meaning for it. My existence is one that even, I, myself, can hardly understand.
“Now, please-”
I bolt toward the woman talking, and smack her across the face, causing a piercing scream to break the silence. Racing out the door, I grab up my stuff, and head for the towering gate surrounding the facility, my fifth tried escape in two weeks. I race past the beasts they hold here - at an orphanage - tears racing faster than my feet. I will get away. I will escape. I will escape this time. That’s why I was in that scary room, being given my punishment for all the rule-breaking. But I don’t care about punishment.
I just want to escape this hell.
I'm Only Number Three by LukiLaeta
Story Notes:
Thank you, Snowlily, you are SUCH an amazing friend! Without you, my ideas would just be a load of blubber, that even I wouldn't be able to understand! I give you much credit. Thank you!
Chapter Notes: Do I look like J.K. Rowling to you? I'm kidding. I don't own Harry Potter, blah-blah-blah. I expect you understand by now.