From the perspective of the children in the orphanage, the earlier years of Tom Riddle Jr
Our Hate
We can see it in his eyes.
The hate.
We recognised it as our own.
When we took his food away
He is quiet.
He'd learnt not to make a scene.
Out in the playground we sing.
The boy bleeds.
He shouldn't have gotten in our way.
We snigger, ears on his door.
He weeps.
He'll soon learn what happens to cry babies.
Weak little Tom Riddle Jr.
Aged 7.
A handy human punchbag for us.
One wet December day.
It changes.
Suddenly we hurt.
Agonizing pain through our veins
As he watches with his burning hate
Which was always much sharper than ours
And it doesn't stop even when we scream
Because our screams are not heard.
He made sure of that, when the end came.
