Once Upon a Story [ VERY SLOW UPDATES]

Odd Circumstances

I truly don't know where I was going with this one.

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Word count: 966
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I was accidentally born on a cold winter night. It was the coldest winter the city had felt in the past decade. If you stepped outside, you were frostbitten before you had time to walk down the street and dead if you dared venture further to the market. People stayed home, freezing and starving.

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Well, the poor did. The rich, dukes, countesses, and their sons and daughters all assembled around cozy fires with heavy blankets.

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But I won't complain much about my life. I have a hot meal, porridge and bread, every day and a fairly solid roof over my head. There are a few rats to share crumbs with, but not enough to cause concern. Although I doubt anyone would concern themselves with a slum kid, much less an orphaned one.

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That's right. The night I was accidentally born, my mother died, leaving me crying on the floor to anyone who would save this poor infant from sure death. Our upstairs neighbour heard me and came running. The doctors said that another minute would've killed me.

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I say that the neighbour had selective hearing. But I can't blame him too much. A lot of women scream at night, usually when they die. Or when a man decides he wants company for the evening. That usually ends the same way.

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Our neighbour dropped me off at the orphanage. I was one of many infants hoping to receive good grace from the owners. I was lucky. The old Helda was away. Miss Noelle was there and accepted me with open arms. Everything was going to be alright.

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At least, that's how it was supposed to be.

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You see, the doctors said it was a miracle that I was alive. "Any child in the cold for that long would perish immediately. Her survival is of odd circumstances."

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Odd is the correct word. Everything from that day, everything concerning me, has been odd. I was born and abandoned. Unintentionally. Babies can't remember much, but I will never forget that night.

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The cold.

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The loneliness.

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I can still hear myself crying.

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Even her scent lingers at times.

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It's bizarre. I never saw my mom. I never touched her skin or had a moment to imprint on her breast. But somehow, by some odd chance, I felt her leave. I felt the detachment between us.

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And that is the real reason they call me odd.

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I'm a loner.

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I'm a child with no interest in friends or toys. I'm a person with little interest in the people living around me.

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Miss Noelle said it was a problem.

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"Doctor, she's extremely shut off from the other children. I fear something is wrong with her."

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Maybe it was weird, the things I would do: the staring, the mumbling, the fascination with mirrors. The last one was the most concerning somehow. At least, I thought it was, but Miss Noelle is more concerned about the mumbling. Everyone is.

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You see, I have trouble processing things, emotions, and information. Externalizing speech helps me acknowledge what's happening. I blank out otherwise.

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Miss Noelle used to panic every time. My eyes tend to glaze over when I disassociate like that. It scared her a lot. She always had to ask me if I was listening.

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"Listening. Miss Noelle asked me if I was listening. Yes, I am." And I'd repeat what she told me. It was the only way I paid attention to anyone. Otherwise, I'd find myself getting lost, thinking about nothing.

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A lot of the boys thought I belonged in the looney bin. We have one in town. Kind of. It's the hospital for the poor. It has an attached outhouse for treating the "mentally stricken."

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The orphanage is close to that place. Sometimes, if you stay awake long enough, the place comes to life, but paying attention is hard. The kids in my room always try to talk to me, even during the day. They're always telling me to help them. I ignore them, like all the other kids at the orphanage.

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It's what Poppy told me to do.

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"Annabelle? Are you okay? You've been sitting at this chair all morning."

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"My name. Okay. Miss Noelle asked me if I was okay. I'm perfectly fine, Miss Noelle. I was thinking."

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"Oh? What were you thinking about?"

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"The playground in the basement." I watched her face blank noticeably as if I committed a crime.

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"How do you know about the playground in the basement, dear?" she asked me. The hand on my shoulder trembled. "Did your friend Oliver go tattling again?"

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I smiled. It was weird for me, smiling, that is. But I smiled because Miss Noelle and I had something in common.

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"You didn't tell me you knew Oliver."

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I don't think I'd ever seen my caretaker so sick before. I thought she'd faint. So I offered her my chair.

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"It's a little small, but it'll do. Should I ask Madam Helda to call the doctor?"

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She sat down, eyes wide and fearful. "No... You should go eat lunch, sweetie."

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I waved at her and left the reading room for our little cafeteria.

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"Lunch. I need to eat lunch. I need to eat lunch. I need to eat lunch. Eat lunch. Eat lunch—oh, hello, Oliver." I looked around. "Where are Poppy and Kissy?"

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*points down*

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"Playing hide and seek again?"

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*nods*

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"Fine, I'll join as long as I'm in bed for bedtime. I don't want to run into catnap."

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