It was always dark in the forest where the orphanage was. However, the children quickly learned to tell the difference between day–dark and night–dark.
Not that it ever made much difference. Their routine was always the same, strictly enforced and rigidly adhered to. Up at seven, with the biting chill of the early morning seeping through the cheap seams of their shabby pajamas, clawing at their skinny bodies like a hungry animal looking to put an end to the dogged beating of their tough little hearts. Mysterious grayish substances on toast or in bowls for breakfast. A chance, while eating it, for the orphans to see who was back from the infirmary, and who was still in there, recovering from their latest beating for being 'naughty' by Andrew DeSalvo, the fat, ugly guard who watched, punished, and sometimes came to visit the children in their beds.
After breakfast, lessons in the high-ceilinged classrooms on the second floor. At three in the afternoon, a bell would ring, and the orphans would charge out of the classrooms, down the stairs, and out the front door for their hour-long break, hurling themselves into the colorful liberation of the playground in front of the orphanage. At four PM, the old matron Agnes would waddle through the heavy front doors of the orphanage and ding her little triangle, signaling supper and the end of the orphans rampant capering in the playground.
For little Walter Sullivan, the sound of the three-o-clock bell represented joy and freedom from the dusty oppression of the classes, while the foolish little ding of the triangle cut like a blunt knife into the bright happiness of the playground. Nevertheless, he still savored that hour of freedom. When the bell went, and the teachers reluctantly relinquished their steady control over the orphans minds, he hurled himself out that door with just as much enthusiasm as any of them, if not more so.
Walter was nine years old, and the three hundred square feet of grass, playground, and the grey wooden orphanage building was all he had ever known. High walls rose on all sides of the orphanage, the trees of the forest in which it lay towering over them oppressively, all but completely blotting out the sun, like haggard overseers surveying their subjects. The only way out of the orphanage was a single large, heavy door, set into the wall opposite the front of the orphanage.
The Outside was dangerous, and forbidden to the children. The teachers said so. The matron said so. The faded sign next to the Outside door said so. And yet for Walter, the prospect of a world outside this one was intoxicating. Because although Walter was quiet, well-behaved for the most part, and got on reasonably well with the other orphans, he was not like them. Walter alone yearned for freedom. Walter alone yearned to go Outside, to see, smell, hear, touch and taste the wonders of the rest of the world.
Walter alone yearned to see the orphanage burn.
"Sullivan, I am sick of telling you. Stop daydreaming and PAY ATTENTION!"
The harsh shout ripped him from his glorious daily classroom reverie. These usually ran along the lines of him making a daring escape from the orphanage and leading the other orphans to freedom. He looked up to meet the cold stare of Father Stone's piercing blue eyes.
"Sorry, Father?"
With a final glare, the head teacher gestured to the blackboard. "If you had been listening, you would have heard the question: what did the woman offer to the sun when she prayed for joy?"
"A reed, sir."
A look of surprised flittered across Father Stone's face, quickly dispelled. Turning back to the blackboard with a grudging "Well done, Sullivan," he continued, "And so, feeling pity for the people, God…"
But Sullivan's attention was already wandering again. He was not, however, sinking back into his usual daydream. This time, he was staring at the head teacher's desk. Or more specifically, the set of keys sitting atop the desk.
Sullivan had turned ten last week, old enough to move up to the more advanced Scripture classes taught by Father Stone. Only yesterday Stone had moved him to the front of the class for not paying attention. And since yesterday, the keys had fascinated him. Particularly the large black one, labeled with a capital 'O'.
Sullivan knew the orphanage well, inside and out, and knew – or at least fervently hoped – that the 'O' could only stand for 'Outside'.
The bell rang half an hour later. Sullivan was, as usual, swept out of the classroom and down the hall by the jostling tide of playground-hungry orphans. Managing to detach himself from the throng at the top of the stairs, he waited until the crowd of orphans was outside, and then crept back down the hall. Peering through the grimy window of the classroom, he could see the head teacher had already left through the side door.
Slowly turning the doorknob, wincing at its rusty squeak, he slowly swung the door open, scanning the room carefully. If he was caught now, he would never have this chance again. And if he was caught with the keys, he would get a beating for sure. The thought frightened him, but did not dissuade him. Tiptoeing between the rows of desk, he reached the head teachers desk, and looked down.
The keys were no longer on the desk.
Again, the impulse to turn and leave loomed over him. Again, he swallowed his fear. Moving quietly around Father Stone's desk, he noticed a single drawer set into the front. Trying it, he found it was unlocked. He opened it, and the relief hit him like a truck.
The keys were in the drawer.
They sat, gleaming tantalizingly, atop several old books. There were other items in the drawer – a tiny glass vial, a pair of rusty old scissors, and a small plastic package of some golden-brown substance that looked like a dried-up plant of some sort. But none of these things interested him. The keys, and the promise of freedom they held, commanded his full attention.
Seizing them, closing the drawer, and stuffing the keys into his tightest pocket so they would not jingle, he ran.
Midnight.
Sullivan stood at the door to the Outside, keys in his hand, heart in his throat. His blood was pounding, his hands hot and sweaty. He would look, that's all. He would open the door, have a look around, and then go back. They wouldn't catch him, he reasoned. Why would they? It was past midnight. The orphans had all been put to bed; the teachers and guards had gone to bed as well. None of the orphans had stirred when he had slipped out of bed and snuck out of the orphanage, they couldn't tell on him. All orphans knew what happened to naughty children, and the staff knew they knew. They relied on this knowledge, this fear, to keep the orphans well-behaved, and it worked. Those who did act up, never did so again.
One way or the other.
Little Walter Sullivan tried to put these thoughts out of his head. He knew several places he could hide the keys. He would use this opportunity to plan the daring escape he had always dreamed of. The word "reconnoiter" was not yet in his child's vocabulary, but it was what he intended to do.
And he would NOT get caught. NOT get caught. NOT get caught.
Three deep breaths, and he was ready. In a single fluid motion, he inserted the marked key, turned it, and pushed the door open. Stepping through, he quickly pulled the heavy old door shut behind him.
He was Outside.
To his left, what looked like a loading bay, presumably for the supply truck that came every fortnight. To his right, an old shed, the door secured with a rusty chain and a heavy old padlock. And ahead of him, a long path, lit by lamps hanging from poles, winding through the trees of the silent forest.
He tried the other keys on the padlock on the shed. No luck. Beyond the shed and the bay, nothing but velvety darkness, full of soft, sly rustlings that slithered into his child's imagination and transformed themselves into a thousand slavering demons. Feeling the fear intensify, he turned back to the light of the path, and began walking down it.
The lights of the path keeping the fear at bay, Sullivan was able to marvel at his accomplishment for the first time. He was Outside! The path was long, and he knew every second that passed made it more likely he would be found out, but he still savored them. For they were seconds spent outside the grip of the staff, the authority of the teachers. For the first time he was a person, his own person, and not just the property of the people who had controlled his life with an iron fist for as long as he could remember.
And just as he was beginning to think he had spent too long walking, and was about to turn back, a large object loomed out of the shadows to his left, just off the path. An old warehouse, or storage building, by the looks of it. Huge sheets of corrugated iron, crudely slapped together, glinted dully in the fringes of the light carved by the lamp. There was no door, just a gap in the front wall. Perhaps there was somewhere in here he could hide the keys?
He stepped carefully inside, letting his eyes adjust to the gloom. There seemed to be nothing at all inside the makeshift warehouse. No, wait. There, in the far corners. Large drums of some sort. Oil drums, perhaps? Curiosity rising in him again, he moved carefully over to the objects. Yes, large ten-gallon drums, a foul, yet strangely familiar, smell seeping through the hole in the top of each one. His foot brushed against something on the ground. Crouching down, he found several plastic containers, also containing the same substance – a thick, reddish brown gunk that reeked to high heaven.
Suddenly the memory hit him. He knew where he had seen this substance before. The teachers used it to light the lamps in the orphanage every morning. Many times he had watched, fascinated, as the flame leapt eagerly from the match to the oil, burning fiercely once it had taken hold.
He stepped back. There was nothing worth having here. He would go back to the orphanage, find a place to hide the keys, and save further exploration for another night.
The fear was overcoming the curiosity now, grasping his mind with long, clammy fingers. He scuttled back to the entrance and began his trip back down the path to the orphanage.
Arriving at the door, he was sweating freely. The outer side of the door had no handle, and his hands were damp and clumsy as they fumbled with the keys. So close. If he could just get back into bed without anything noticing…
He turned the key, opened the door, and stepped through, pulling the door shut behind him. He turned around.
DeSalvo was standing there, waiting for him.
Fear froze Sullivan in place. His hand froze on the inner door handle, keys still dangling from the lock. He was dimly aware of a warm gush down his leg as his bladder opened involuntarily. He swallowed, opened his mouth to speak, found he could not.
DeSalvo stepped forward, a large smile on his pudgy face, his pale gooseberry eyes gleaming with a filthy hunger as they moved from him to the keys. "Naughty, naughty," he said, still smiling gently. Then he slammed his knee into Walter's gut.
Walter doubled over, badly winded, feeling vomit rising to the back of his throat. Seizing him by the hair, DeSalvo pulled him upright and punched him twice in the face. The first blow closed his left eye. The second broke his nose with a crunching sound that made him think of the sound crispy cereal made when he chewed it.
DeSalvo released him, grinning gleefully as he watched Walter try and fail to remain standing. He collapsed backwards, cracking his head on the ground. A spectacular display of lights and stars danced before his eyes. He heard DeSalvo's boots tromping over to where he lay, then felt the weight as DeSalvo placed one of his grimy boots on his chest.
Another, familiar voice. "That will do, Andrew."
The weight disappeared instantly. Sitting up slowly, tears and blood blurring the vision of his one good eye, he saw Father Stone walking towards them. He offered Walter no help, simply waiting until Walter was able to get to his feet before turning to DeSalvo and saying "Get back inside." Again, DeSalvo complied instantly, with a final cheerful wink at Walter.
Father Stone moved towards Walter, but just as he did all the strength left Walter's body. He fell to his knees, sobbing desperately, the fear and pain hitting him all at once with the force of a speeding truck as the shock began to wear off. A look of contempt on his face, Father Stone picked Walter up, slinging him over his shoulder like a piece of meat, and took him inside.
Four AM.
Walter lay in the infirmary, wounds washed, broken nose carefully dressed. His eyes were blank and dull, his face wooden. His mind was the same. He was not asleep, but was not really awake either. The pain in his face and stomach still throbbed dully, but it seemed distant, unimportant.
Gradually, the gears began turning again in his mind. The orphans would be up soon. They would be noticing he was not there for breakfast, for Scripture classes. Awkward questions, maybe even taunting, would have to be endured, both behind his back and to his face, for how long? A week? Two? And nothing would have changed. All of it would carry on, keep happening, to others as well as himself. He had failed. Achieved nothing. Worthless. He didn't even have the keys…
The keys.
Walter's eyes widened, the fire flooding back into his brain. The keys were still there. DeSalvo had noticed them, but had been too excited to care. Stone had not noticed them. His eyes were still heavily crusted with sleep, his face tired. He had probably seen the whole thing as nothing but a minor irritation. And after seeing to Walter in the infirmary, Walter had lain there, listening to his heavy footsteps trudging back upstairs, to the teachers' dormitory.
Which meant that the keys were probably still dangling from the lock, where he had left them.
If he waited too long, he would lose his chance. The head teacher would realize his mistake. The keys would be recovered. The teachers knew – or at least thought – that Walter wasn't going anywhere. That the pain of the beating, and the fear and promise of more, would be enough to keep him obedient, as it had done all his life. And it probably would have, had not a distant memory seeped into his mind, and the faintest stirrings of an idea begun to creep into his brain…
When Walter slipped once more through the front door of the orphanage, he was little more than a pallid shadow, filtering through the first few rays of the breaking dawn.
The trip back through the forest was hazy, distant, as though his mind had completely separated itself from his body. The retrieving of what he needed from the makeshift shed, the moment when he cast the keys into the darkness that still lay on the edges of the path, knowing they would no longer be needed…it all seemed like something on TV, interesting but unconcerning, something he was seeing but not involved in. Even the memory of wandering through the ground floor of the still-sleeping orphanage, splashing the thick, foul-smelling gunk liberally here and there, could not penetrate the thick, blank fog that had enveloped his conscious mind, erasing all emotion, all thoughts of reprisal, reproach, regret.
When he finally came back to himself, he was lying beneath the slide on the playground, staring at the front door of the orphanage. A book of matches was in his hand, an empty container in his right. He did not know where he had found the matches, nor did he care. He knew what he had to do.
The night-dark of the forest had been almost completely dispelled, the day-dark taking hold once again. The orphans would be out of their beds soon. The teachers would be up, preparing the day's lessons, coming into the infirmary to check on him. He had to act now.
So he did.
He climbed out from beneath the slide, drew a match from the book, and lit it. The match burned brightly in his hand, like the fire in his mind, symbolizing hope, freedom, joy…and revenge.
Without hesitation, he threw it.
The match flew ten feet through the air, hitting the front door of the orphanage, which he had left ajar, and instantly ignited. The fire surged inside the orphanage, a purifying scourge, following the trail of oil he had left and consuming the ground floor of the orphanage within seconds. The frightened screams of the orphans, the panicked shouts of the teachers, could be heard clearly over the crackling of the flames. But Sullivan's face did not change. A smile lit his face, his eyes blazing with a fire of their own.
The entire orphanage was ablaze within a minute. Sullivan stood watching it for a further five minutes. Windows exploded violently. Pitiful screams of fear became high-pitched shrieks of agony. At one point, a burning figure hurled itself, screaming, through one of the upstairs windows, plummeting twenty feet straight down before hitting the ground with a sickening crack. Walter could not tell if the figure was that of an adult or a child.
Nor did he care.
And then, just as he was about to turn and leave, the front door of the orphanage burst open. Andrew DeSalvo staggered through them, body ablaze, eyes dissolving into their sockets, clothing burned away, body fat dripping from his scorched flesh and sizzling as it hit the ground, like a roast on a spit.
He lurched to within three feet of Walter, who stood immobile, watching silently, before collapsing to the ground. The flames fed on his flesh for another few minutes before dying down to a dull ember, smoldering in a satisfied way, like a well-fed cat basking in the sun.
The orphanage burned. The screams had fallen silent, replaced by the cracks and crashes of collapsing timber. The building would not last much longer. There was nothing left for him here now.
His face blank as a wax sculpture's once more, Walter Sullivan turned and left the orphanage for the last time.
The sun's rays filtered through the trees of the forest, becoming stronger and more prevalent with every step he took. The darkness that had personified his entire life was finally being left behind him. But he knew he would carry a part of it within him for the rest of his days.
He passed the makeshift warehouse, continuing on down the path for another mile or so, until he finally came to the edge of the forest. A large, chain-link fence blocked his way. Scaling it did not prove difficult. Beyond it was some sort of scenic overlook, a plateau overlooking a huge lake that lay before it. Looking to the edges of the lake, Walter could see roads, buildings, a town, people.
Seven AM.
Walter Sullivan stands on the edge of the overlook, his eyes closed, his arms outstretched to the world, his face filled with a radiant joy and triumph, the lake beneath him sparkling like a gigantic diamond in the ever-burning rays of the proud and merciless sun.
THE END