One more day feeling abandoned, one more day of sleeping in this god awful place, one more day, an orphan. My name is Vincent and it has been 5,839 days since I arrived on the doorstep of Saint Hills Manor. That makes me almost sixteen years old. In fact, my birthday is tomorrow, but I’m less thrilled. We don’t celebrate birthdays here. Saint Hills Manor is a place where people go to leave their burdens and a child’s happiness goes to die; it’s an orphanage. Ms. Poppy is in charge of the girls ward, but don’t let the name confuse you. She’s a dreadful old hag and she reminds me of a witch, but more plump and I think a real witch would be more pleasant than her. Then there’s Mr. Luther, and if Ms. Poppy is a witch then that man must be Satan himself. He’s in charge of the boy’s ward and he’s an older man but the bags underneath his eyes and sour demeanor make him look ancient. He has a pretty bad knee problem and can’t walk around without his cane, but he has a nasty old habit of beating us with it. God, I hate that cane! If I had a quarter for every broken bone, bruise, or concussion that each of us have gotten throughout the years, I would have enough money to buy this wretched manor and burn it to the ground. The beatings aren't nearly as bad as his nightly roams throughout the manor. Every night Mr. Luther patrols the hallways and our sleeping quarters. The worst thing is hearing the tapping of his cane against the wood floors especially knowing the wraith that comes with it. I remember my first encounter with his cane as if it was just yesterday. I was only eight years old and had always tried my best to stay out of Mr. Luther’s way, because god forbid I run into him when he’s in a bad mood, but with my luck, that’s exactly what happened.
I had just finished helping the other boys clean up the dining hall. I trudged up to the third floor with a mop and a bucket of water in hand. When I finally got there my arms ached all over, so I decided to take a break before beginning my task. I stared into the bucket admiring my reflection. My hair was the color of coal and hung just below my earlobes; I definitely needed a haircut. I hated my eyes though. They were like two pools of mud that were just waiting for a couple of swines to come to plop themselves in. It had been awhile before I had noticed an ominous figure standing behind me.
“Mr. Luther!” I exclaimed.
“Boy, what exactly are you doing?” he asked with disdain.
I held up the bucket.
“I-I-I was just-”
Then my fear intensified, as the bucket slipped out of my hands.
Next thing I knew I was waking up in the infirmary with Ms. Poppy looking over me. “Good you’re not dead.” She sounded less than concerned about my well-being. “Serves you right,” she continued, “pouring water all over Mr. Luther, The nerve of some of you ungrateful brats. He would have beaten you to death if I hadn't heard the commotion and stopped him.” I had acute memory loss for a couple days after the event. Oh how I wish I could’ve forgotten what he did to me. Maybe I wouldn't be so afraid whenever someone rose up their arm or maybe I wouldn't shrink away whenever someone moved a little too fast for my comfort. I’m done with living my life in fear and I’m done with just accepting that this is my life, but I’m going to do something about this and maybe then, I’ll be able to put my fears behind me.
I came up to the third floor about an hour ago, or maybe I’ve been up here longer? I honestly don’t remember, but I’ve just been sitting on stairs this whole time. All the other boys are sleeping so there’s no one awake to wait with me. Soon enough, the wait is over and I begin to hear the familiar tapping of a cane approaching me. I stay silent as I hear the tapping get closer and closer until it’s right behind me.
“Boy, what exactly are you doing?” Mr. Luther said sounding somewhat annoyed.
I stood up and just stared at him.
He began to speak again, “Are you deaf or something? I asked you a question boy. What exactly are you doi-”
I yanked his cane from his grip and watched as his body fell down the stairs into a crumpled ball. I rushed down to where he lay and he slowly turned his head toward me. I lifted the cane over my head and watched his eyes fill with fear. I began beating him repeatedly over and over and over again. I had repainted that section of stairwell with a lovely shade of red by the time I was finished and he moved no more. Now he couldn't hurt me or anyone else for that matter. At that exact moment, I heard the old grandfather clock in the hallway resonate with sound to let everyone that a new hour had begun. It was midnight. Well look at that, Happy Birthday to me.