Logan Porter, only daughter to Grayson and Elizabeth Porter, becomes an orphan the winter of 1903 following her ninth birthday. She's found hypothermic on her front step, blue in the lips and blank in her eyes. She doesn't move, not when Mrs. Higgins scampers around her in worry, not with the following scream when her father's body is found. Logan stays still, huddled and statuesque, when the coppers arrive. Her violin shakes in her grasp, it's left imprints on her arms from how long she's been holding it.
"She's unresponsive," a young officer with large bushy eyebrows and an equally bushy upper lip says as he wraps his coat around her. Logan swims in the material; she only blinks at the added weight, hardly notices the warmth. She thinks how horrified her mother would be at her lack of manners.
Logan can't bring herself to thank the officer.
Mrs. Higgins is sobbing in the arms of another officer, shaking and sniffing. Her gray hair is frazzled, snot running over the curve of her lips. They're telling her to go home, that they'll take it from here, but Logan knows she just wants the gossip. It's been Mrs. Higgins' prerogative for years, reporting on the poor broken little family down the road to the other holier-than-thou neighbors. Logan thinks about how this story might just be one for the papers, immortalized in the same ink she'd use to practice her alphabets. She doesn't know how she feels about that.
Logan then thinks about how all she can do is think. Her voice is gone, lodged somewhere in the recesses of her throat. She doesn't want to speak, doesn't have anything to say. She wonders if she'll ever have anything to say again. And she'll keep wondering, keep thinking because that is the only difference between her and the corpse rotting in the chair that she learned to read in.
The officer with the bushy eyebrows is speaking to her, telling her where she'll go. She can't bring herself to care, not until his arms are around her and she's being yanked from the only home she's ever known. Logan wriggles, she panics and the officer drops her. She stands on shaky legs, stares at the layers of brick she called home, and turns away. She walks on her own towards what she thinks is supposed to be a car. Logan has never seen a car before. Her father mentioned them a couple of times coming home from work. They're big and metal, cold-looking things. She's reminded of the gun once pressed to her temple, also cold and so metal. She doesn't want to be touched either.
Logan feels like she can catch her breath as her fingers dance across the aged wood of her violin. It was a rare gift, sometime between Christmas and her birthday. Her mother was such a talented musician, and she passed that trait of hers onto Logan, teaching her from the moment she could handle the weight of an instrument. They have…They had matching blisters on their fingers from the strings.
With her violin in her arms and a rucksack filled with what little clothing they could find for the small girl – so small, much too small for her age – Logan is taken to an orphanage in Small Heath. It's a dirty, busy town in Birmingham that clogs her throat with smoke and forces her to squint through the fog. She thinks about how different it is from her family's little stack of bricks and wood by the lake, how glad she is not to have that reminder. She thinks about how she doesn't have anything to say anymore, only thoughts.
The bushy lipped copper leads her to the front steps, large hand on her thin bony shoulder. She's still wearing his coat. She doesn't like how the sleeves drag along the ground by her ankles, doesn't like how it reminds her of wearing her father's shirts or her mother's dresses. Logan cranes her neck to see the decrepit building. The Carlisle House for Orphaned Boys? I don't understand. On the sign, the word "boys" looks different than the rest, newer. It's taller than any building she's ever seen before, thin and rickety with slanted windows. She wonders if it's really leaning a bit to the left or if it's just her imagination.
Everything is gray, from the gravel roads to each and every building. Even the people, gray and bland, like those silent moving pictures Mrs. Higgins would gush about over tea. Somehow, Logan imagines that the blacks and grays in those pictures would be sharper, not quite so muddied. The sky weeps, cloudy and just as gray as the rest of the town. Logan is glad she doesn't have to compete with the chaos of colors, she can be just a gray as the rest.
The streets aren't quite crowded yet, it's still early morning. There are enough people meandering around that Logan can safely assume she isn't being left in an abandoned town. She wonders if that would be better, to be truly alone. Many people slow down to get a glimpse of the new little orphan joining their ranks. Another mouth to feed. Another child to pity. Some stare quite openly, Logan thinks it might be because of her hair, long and red. It's the only color in this gray street in Small Heath.
The bushy lipped copper – did he ever say his name? – is speaking with Mr. Carlisle, the warden for the orphanage. Something about "not speaking – cringes at being touched". Apparently, it's easier to keep her here, cheaper since the nearest girl's home is in London. The home used to be for all orphaned children, until Mr. Carlisle's wife died of infection. She doesn't particularly care where she is, only that she knows she can never be where she wants to be. Logan tunes out after hearing the word "traumatized" because she doesn't like the way it furrows Mrs. Carlisle's unibrow and brings a sneer to his stiff, wide nostrils. He's a burly man, intimidating with his muscular arms and large belly. He's short though, almost laughably so. Logan notices the eyes of the other orphans peeking through the stains on the windows. Why am I here? With these boys and this too big coat. Her only answer is the echo of a gunshot in her ears and the last exhale of a dying woman. Her shoulders feel heavy.
Logan looks away from the hallowed eyes staring back at her from the windows.
Down the street a little way is a family, bigger than Logan ever imagined her own family could be. Four children, or rather two children and two young men. Logan doubts the tall lad with the confident curl to his smile and the lean icy-eyed boy would appreciate being called children. Three brothers and a little sister. The young ones seem around Logan's own age, give or take a year. What would it be like, she wonders, to have a brother or sister? Surely, they never get lonely. They are followed by a large, unfriendly looking man with eyes hidden behind the shadows of his flat peaky hat and sharp knuckles. The older boys are wearing matching caps. There are two women as well, with similar dark curly hair and conspiratorial smiles; they must be sisters, though one of them has the same eyes as who Logan assumes must be her children. Logan thinks they seem kind, maybe her mother would have gotten along with them.
The little ones are giggling, jumping around their older siblings, trying to get their attention. Logan wonders how long that innocence will last. Not as long as it should. She realizes she's staring. Her gaze moves to her sock covered feet, her right toe peeking through the hole. She usually layers her socks in the winter; they couldn't ever afford proper boots. One day, I'll buy you a nice pair of boots. What do you think, sweetie? Logan left her other pairs of socks back at the house.
"Come along, now," Mr. Carlisle grunts from behind her, his meaty hand closing around her thin bicep. Logan flinches, whimpering as she tries to get his hand off her arm. She doesn't want to be touched. He rolls his beady, watery eyes and instead gestures towards the chipped front door of her new home. Her nose scrunches at the thought.
It's as she turns around to give the copper his coat back, chills running down her arms at the biting cold, that she realizes someone is watching her. Looking up just before the door slams shut, sea glass green meets icy blue. It's a nice color, she thinks, not overwhelming. Not grey.
Logan is led down a dark hall, nothing on the walls but peeling white paint and questionable stains. The lights flicker, and Mr. Carlisle sighs in front of her in irritation. Many of the boys in the house stare through the cracks in their doors, following her down the hall. Logan feels like she's being led to her execution. Maybe she is, maybe she'll die in this grey town with these grey people with nothing but grey memories.
She thinks about icy blue eyes and almost smiles.
There's a boy, older than her. Maybe the oldest one here. He's tall, or he just seems tall standing next to Mr. Carlisle. The sleeves of his sweater are rolled up to his elbows. Dirt and grime stain his hands. There's a smudge on his cheek. It dimples when he smiles down at her. He has a kind smile she thinks as she stops beside Mr. Carlisle.
"Watney," Mr. Carlisle heaves, it must be the way his neck fat settles over his throat. Even talking seems like a struggle. "Get the little lassie to her room, top floor, down at the end. She gets her own room." And he waddles back down the hall, leaving her with Amos and his kind smile. "Her name is Logan Porter! Not much of a talker, that one!" It's hollered from around the corner as an afterthought.
The boy jerks his head at her, silently telling her to follow. He has yellow hair. She's never seen yellow hair before. It's long for a boy and mostly tied out of his face. He has brown eyes. Logan wonders why they don't seem as kind as his smile. She follows him.
"This place isn't so bad, once you get used to it. Oh, and my name is Amos, Amos Watney," he says, adding a dry chuckle. He has an odd lilt to his voice, like none Logan has heard before. The letter "s" doesn't flow through his teeth quite properly. "Don't worry, you'll fit right in with the lads. Just give it time and make sure to pull your weight. They won't go easy on you just because you're a girl, especially Mr. C." Amos lets his fingers drag across the wall as they walk. Five thin stark paths through the dust, like claw marks. The scratching sound grates on her ears.
The stairs creak under Amos' weight, but not her own. When was the last time she ate? She can't remember, but there's a lingering taste of a sweet apple on the base of her tongue. They didn't get apples very often.
Amos glances back at her over his shoulder, analyzing her. He still has that kind smile, showing a sliver of teeth and curving up at the corners. The dimple is on the right side. She doesn't see the same kindness that's in his smile in his eyes and doesn't understand why. "You are quiet, aren't you?" She can only shrug and pretend not to notice how his voice seems to darken. It was too quick for her to be sure it was there.
Logan isn't sure how long it takes for them to reach the end of the corridor, probably not as long as it felt. The stairs seemed unrealistically steep, though maybe she's just short. There's an ache in the arches of her feet and there's the sting of a splinter in her left foot. Her door is gray and cracked like every other door in the building. She wonders if it was once white and the aging, the dust, has made it so gray. Maybe the whole town used to be bright and shiny, clean and white instead of grey, grey, grey. Maybe she should try scrubbing away the dust one day.
"This is you," Amos mutters, tapping the wood with his knuckles. "I'm just below and a few doors down. The other boys will be up soon. Most of us share rooms, so you're a lucky little damsel." The darkness is gone from his voice, she decides she imagined it. It's been awhile since she's slept. He goes to pat her on the head, but withholds when she seems to curl into herself even further. He notices the violin; Logan sees the curiosity shine in his eyes like he wonders if she can actually play or if it's just a memory of the parents she's lost. She won't say it, but it's a little bit of both.
Amos lingers for a moment as Logan enters the room. She doesn't know what he wants from her, maybe a thank you. In the end, she just nods, and Amos leaves with a huff. His shoulders hunch as he shuffles away, and she feels bad for angering him.
There's a small iron framed bed in the far corner with a dusty pillow and a folded slip of a blanket at the base of the hay mattress. Logan is surprised by the decent looking wardrobe and the round rug on the floor. Even more shocked to see the large window extended along the far wall and the rickety old rocking chair just next to it. She wonders if perhaps this might have been the matron's room when girls still resided in the orphanage. And she remembers that she's only here because it's convenient, it's cheap. This room is almost bigger than my house…or, what used to be my house.
Logan places her bag of minimal belongings on the floor of the wardrobe, marveling at the foggy mirror pasted to the inside of the door. She's only ever seen her reflection in streams and metal. She's small and thin. I really need a bath Logan sniffs, self-consciously picking at the dried blood and dirt on her cheeks. She's glad no one asked about the red spots or the tears tracks. Logan doesn't think she could wear the blood splotched dress anymore. She doesn't have much else, she'll have to scrub it.
Carefully, like the slightest incorrect movement could shatter her world, Logan lowers her violin to the mattress. She takes the photograph of her family, the only proof they existed, and props it up against the side of the wood. She just stares for a moment.
Her father had saved for months, putting spare coins in a jar they kept hidden in one of his old boots. It was her mother's birthday. Logan sat on her mother's lap, who sat on her father's lap. She was laughing, eyes scrunched closed, because her mother was tickling her sides. It was the only way they could make sure she smiled. They were all wearing their nicest clothes. Her mother was smiling at the - what was it called? the uh, the cam - camera, but her father was looking down at her, so heartbreakingly in love. Like he couldn't imagine life without her. Logan thinks about how he didn't even last a year.
Kneeling next to her new bed, a strange adjustment to make, Logan laces her fingers together and remembers how her mother used to pray every morning and every night. She's not sure if God is real, if heaven and hell are real. Her mother believed, she always wore a cross pendent around her neck. It was made of wood, smoothed through hours of work by her father. She doesn't know if her father was religious. But the possibility of her parents hearing her, even for a moment, gives her the breath she needs to speak into the open air. Her hands shake, her tears go unnoticed, and she briefly mentions the only color in her new grey town. A light icy blue.
A/N: I decided to change the title of this work. I figured it's still early in my publication of it and the new title fits better, you'll see why later on. I also changed the rating to M because of some topics that will come up later. I will be doing a trigger warning on those chapters for those of you who may be sensitive to those topics. I do not want to offend or hurt anyone with what I'm writing. Thanks for reading and chapter 3 will be up next Friday!