Spencer looked up at the older woman as she did something on the counter. He wasn't quite tall enough to see what. He'd never approached the matron like this before. She was frightening and always glared at him. But he'd seen one of the older children getting a snack from her earlier, so it was probably worth a try, at least.
"Please," Spencer said with a hint of a whine. "I want. I'm hungry." Perhaps it was a belated onset of the terrible twos, or perhaps it was just his overwhelmed childish emotions. The orphanage may not have starved him, but he had never been full either. His portions tended to be smaller, and he almost never got seconds since every other child was given the option before he was allowed. He rarely even managed to get dessert. If they didn't run out before coming to his plate, one of the older kids would steal it before he could take more than a bite, if that. Some days, when he was given less than usual and no one else was around, he would check the garbage for edible scraps lying on top.
"No," the matron, Mrs. White, snapped. "You will wait for dinner like everyone else, you selfish child. You are not special or any sort of exception. Behave and stop acting like a glutton, or I will send you to bed without any food at all."
Spencer was a hungry, upset toddler. The flash of anger, of stubborn defiance shouldn't have been surprising. He reached for a cracker anyway, pouting and furrowing his brow as he stretched on his tiptoes.
A wooden spoon slammed down on the back of his hand, and he recoiled with a yelp.
The woman bore down on him furiously. "Don't you dare – "
Spencer hunched over and attempted a snarl, a resonating growl ending on a hiss that She, the Other in him, sometimes used to demonstrate anger. His vocal chords were not made for those sounds, but they were identifiable enough that Mrs. White stiffened and grew pale with overwhelming anger to mask her fear that this devil child would not only attempt such wild, inhuman noises, but that he would direct them at her.
She struck him across the face with enough force to send him to the floor.
As he lay in stunned silence, she reached down and grabbed his upper arm so tightly that it hurt and yanked him up, muttering furiously as she hauled him out of the kitchen. "Until you learn to act like a proper, God-fearing, human little boy," she opened the broom closet and shoved him in, "you can sit here and pray for forgiveness!" The woman slammed the door and locked it.
Spencer curled up in the terrifying dark, sucking on his thumb to silence his sobs as tears poured down his face. His cheek stung and his shoulder and arm ached from his inability to keep up with Mrs. White's long strides. But crying out loud just made the adults angrier, and attracted a more focused, unkind attention from the other kids.
At least he wasn't completely alone. He didn't think he could last if he had been.
She purred for him, a warm comforting rumble, and he slowly calmed down enough to stop crying.
Years later, whatever he might tell others, this would be his earliest memory. Not that everything was blank and empty before this, but anything earlier was mainly impressions built upon constant sensory input, very nearly since birth. For as long as Spencer could remember, he was unwanted and unlovable. For as long as he could remember, She was a reassuring presence somewhere inside of him that might be the back of his mind or a corner of his soul.
But Spencer's first clear memory was the first time Mrs. White hit him.