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Take Me Home
Written by H. R. Connelly
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PROLOGUE.....
I never knew my parents. My first memory is one of a large backyard surrounded by a tall red brick wall. There were a few sickly, skinny-looking things that everyone else called trees planted around the yard. I remember standing in a doorway, a warm hand on my shoulder, but a cool voice speaking. She called attention to me by having the motley assortment of children running about happily, stand primly in three lines and say in unison: "Welcome to Charity House." While Mrs. Cranton, as I soon learned to call her, introduced me, the girls whispered and giggled behind their hands, and the boys eyed me suspiciously. I was introduced as Becky, and though I knew that wasn't my name, I couldn't remember what my name really was. The only clue I had to my past was a small, silken purse I found in my pocket up in my tiny attic room later that day. I sat there alone and looked through things most certainly from my past, a past of nearly nine years. A past forgotten. Inside my room,
quietly sobbing for a forgotten life, and a bleak future, I carefully opened the small silvery blue purse and dug through its contents. There were a few coins and bills that were as alien as my own face. Next I pulled out a very small cloth covered book. The only title was one of Short Stories. I opened the dog-eared book carefully, and on the front page found an inscription written on it in beautiful flowing calligraphy.
"For the amusement of my sweet little butterfly... -Father"
I read over it about three more times, the tears welling up in my eyes. I had obviously been loved, most likely very much. But if I had been loved so dearly, if I had been someone's "little butterfly" why was I sitting here, in the attic of Charity House?
Mrs. Cranton seemed to think my parents had abandoned me. When I arrived, on the doorstep of Charity House, I had been covered in bruises and scars, open wounds and what looked like lash marks. I was a 'special case' and was taken to many doctors. Each one tried to pry out of me the secrets of my own past; secrets I didn't even know. My first year at Charity House was one where my memory was poked and prodded in every way possible, trying to figure out who I was, why I was there, and where I had come from. Mrs. Cranton stopped taking me to the doctors after I started crying in one session. She felt that going to the doctors was causing me greater mental pain than I had had before. I had been adjusting well at the house and in school, and my bruises and scars had faded some. She was right to take me out of the therapy sessions. It helped, and I was soon able to adjust to my new life.
Take Me Home
Written by H. R. Connelly
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
PROLOGUE.....
I never knew my parents. My first memory is one of a large backyard surrounded by a tall red brick wall. There were a few sickly, skinny-looking things that everyone else called trees planted around the yard. I remember standing in a doorway, a warm hand on my shoulder, but a cool voice speaking. She called attention to me by having the motley assortment of children running about happily, stand primly in three lines and say in unison: "Welcome to Charity House." While Mrs. Cranton, as I soon learned to call her, introduced me, the girls whispered and giggled behind their hands, and the boys eyed me suspiciously. I was introduced as Becky, and though I knew that wasn't my name, I couldn't remember what my name really was. The only clue I had to my past was a small, silken purse I found in my pocket up in my tiny attic room later that day. I sat there alone and looked through things most certainly from my past, a past of nearly nine years. A past forgotten. Inside my room,
quietly sobbing for a forgotten life, and a bleak future, I carefully opened the small silvery blue purse and dug through its contents. There were a few coins and bills that were as alien as my own face. Next I pulled out a very small cloth covered book. The only title was one of Short Stories. I opened the dog-eared book carefully, and on the front page found an inscription written on it in beautiful flowing calligraphy.
"For the amusement of my sweet little butterfly... -Father"
I read over it about three more times, the tears welling up in my eyes. I had obviously been loved, most likely very much. But if I had been loved so dearly, if I had been someone's "little butterfly" why was I sitting here, in the attic of Charity House?
Mrs. Cranton seemed to think my parents had abandoned me. When I arrived, on the doorstep of Charity House, I had been covered in bruises and scars, open wounds and what looked like lash marks. I was a 'special case' and was taken to many doctors. Each one tried to pry out of me the secrets of my own past; secrets I didn't even know. My first year at Charity House was one where my memory was poked and prodded in every way possible, trying to figure out who I was, why I was there, and where I had come from. Mrs. Cranton stopped taking me to the doctors after I started crying in one session. She felt that going to the doctors was causing me greater mental pain than I had had before. I had been adjusting well at the house and in school, and my bruises and scars had faded some. She was right to take me out of the therapy sessions. It helped, and I was soon able to adjust to my new life.