The fire. Her parents. The orphanage. Her life and dreams shattered into a thousand pieces.
She was always haunted by these vague yet disturbing recollections, memories she cursed Fraud for not being repressed. Every night, she awoke in a cold and anxious sweat, frantically fumbling around in the dark for the tattered Bible she always kept with her. And every time, she felt the immense guilt that embodied her as the vivid dreams remained in her mind, reminding her of the lives that were sacrificed to save hers. She imagined Jesus looking down at her, a river of tears winding their way down his cheeks. I'm going to hell, aren't I?
But one can get used to anything.
Living in Wammys, a so-called "genius institute" for orphaned kids, wasn't really as different or "all that" as others may depict it. It was really quite normal if you removed the fact that everyone there was definitely strange in some way or another, or, as bystanders would say, "freakishly gifted". Regular activities still commenced; she had cherished those afternoon soccer games and the occasional "red letter days" when the local ice cream truck would stop dead center in the orphanage's central courtyard, and the kids would circle around it, firing hundreds of demands for the poor driver, who usually ended up just opening the trunk and letting the kids fight it out for themselves. Of course, the kids never paid a cent for these delicacies. Life was good back then.
Looking back, the good memories were abundant. But they all seemed so far away, even though her Wammy days had merely been a few years ago. She recalled her life in perhaps her final moments, lying on the hospital bed, alone. The white walls reminded her uncannily of the rooms at Wammys, and with the IV methodically keeping its rhythm, she began to write.