INEFFABLE
(adj.) To great to be expressed in words.
The words weren't voiced but they rang harshly like a church bell resonating death with its low hum. Loud and haunting.
The low ring of a church bell always did remind me of something dark and sinister. Similar to voices in a way. Words can both be a wonderful thing and horrendous; a church bell is able to mimic words with its ghostly hum and happy chime that always brought dark fog with hits of light in my head whenever I'd hear it resonate every week, but it always managed to save me during the worst parts of my dream by scaring me awake. It sucked the church was pretty much behind the orphanage, strangely enough, I never saw any nuns wandering around; but I was thankful for that, nuns reminded me of aliens.
Voices whispered behind me. Exchanging what I knew were censored words about how I stared at them. Some call me a ghost. How I would just stare at people, how I would randomly scare them for attention, and how I'd play mean pranks. I got attention, but it would only last for a few a moments, but it gave me a sense of existence, that I was alive and had purpose; even if they threw rocks at me, I was content.
Not to be pessimistic or abruptly rude, but it was almost guaranteed that if I had died one day or had gone missing, not many people would have cared; Yes, they would notice, but they would see my disappearance the same was as an obstacle dissipating.
The taste of gritty iron began to crust on my bottom lip, carelessly, I wiped off the blood with the back of my hand, grimacing at the painful contact of my fresh cut meeting with my dirty skin, I'd have to wash my cuts with some clean water before it gets infected. Blood continued to seep out; it was received when some stupid older kids grabbed me from the back, I only managed to escape when some perv named Ibiki had interfered.
When his eyes met mine, through dark sunglasses, he merely nodded at me as to dismiss me. He was one of the few adults that have tried to keep me fairly safe, but adults like that don't go out of their way to protect me since they don't acknowledge me in public. They don't go so far to risk ruining their reputations. Then again, maybe he only helped me cause he was a priest from the church, but what kind of priest keeps porn in his bag?
Mental note: don't mug priests cause they might keep porn in their bags with tentacles, especially if it was Ibiki, he kept Gay Porn.
I didn't have anything against Gays, I was just fairly certain children aren't supposed to interact with any piece of pornography.
When I asked Ibiki about it, he slammed the door and threatened to call the police because I was 'blackmailing' him.
But that's okay, I'm used to being treated like this, because it doesn't hurt anymore. Even now as I sat against the rotten, chipped, wood of the exterior of the house, I wasn't hurting; the open window above my head spewed secrets like heavy smoke. Choking, and toxic.
"I can't believe we still have him here...Why does Sarutobi think he's a kid? He's nothing but trouble." A girl spoke, pounding what sounded like dough. From what I knew, it was some fifteen year old girl.
Harshly, I spat at the chalky ground with bits of dead, hazel grass.
Bitter.
"I personally think Sarutobi should have locked him in a cage, he's a monster. Why do we need to take care of him?" Another female spoke, it was the caretaker. Stupid hag.
"He's gross, he just stares when I draw... Why? I hate him."
This time it was one of the much younger kids. By the squeaky pitch and tone, and inarticulate words, she was probably between 3-5 years old.
"He's just a monster, it's not like he cares what we do to him." This time, the voice that spoke and echoed in my thoughts, bringing a flashback of a girl I once trusted. If I remembered correctly, her name started with an S I think. I didn't take it to heart since she was cornered and pretty much forced to say it, but ever since she said that, we've grown apart, a shame too since I liked her in a crush sort of way.
I spat again, this time it tasted dry and sour. Blood was mixed in. My muscles ached, my fists clenched to my sides as my jaw began to ache like a sore tooth.
"He should die like the killer he is."
I'm not a killer. Every adult I had ever confronted, refused to tell me what I had done to be accused of killing a person, were humans always this complicated? When did I start realizing that for all I knew everyone was just lying to me?
My grime tinted nails dug into what once was a white shirt; it's current state was the twin of a muddy sponge. Those words, those harsh cold words cut inside a dark part of me, the part where I couldn't protect from others, forcing me to bleed out my inner anguish.
Their voices were silent now, they must have left the room.
My bleeding fingers stroked the wood almost affectionately, I ignored the splinters of wood that imbedded in my skin like a needle when my skin brushed against the sharp pricks of oak; oddly, the pain was pleasant. Eventually I jumped to my and climbed through the window to get inside, my goal was the secluded storage room that was my bedroom, I gave the extra effort to wipe my dirty heels into each step I took on the polished ground. The childish satisfaction was delicious.
The hallway of rooms was a mixture of black and white. Gray everywhere, peeled wallpaper of ducks, and some scissors stabbed in the wall. The single light bulb twitched fabricated light in brief flashes. Unaffected, I walked forward to the last door, my room. Other doors were coated with a transparent, burnishing liquid that made their doors glow amber, my door was half burnt with a broken knob, black markings pointing upward gave guidance as to how far the flames made it to the door. The story behind the orphanage was a dark one.
I pushed gently on the door, some of the soot from the burnt wood rubbing off my palm before I sat in the corner, the room was also cold from the window that was shattered. Before I knew it, I was hugging my knees tightly. Silently I thanked the Cicadas for singing loudly, they offered me some sort of comfort, maybe because when other people approached them, they'd fly away contrary to when I approached them; they'd continue singing no matter how close I got.
My internal clock had set off as did the sudden noise of adult chatter began to sneak through my window,
It was almost eleven in the morning.
My eyes stared at the clock, the 'tick, tock' was a repeated reminder of my departure.
The bitter old woman who owned the orphanage, always forced me out the house until the next night.
It was because on days where the couples came in to pick the kids, I was to leave so I could take away any discomfort my presence would bring them if I was there causing discomfort for everyone. My stomach began to feel sick when the smell of mold and festering garbage suddenly became forceful; I needed to clean up my ramen cups and soured milk.
Of course, she only used this as an excuse to keep me out longer so she could have peace knowing that I was gone since most parents that visit were from out of area and had never heard of my 'crime' until she'd fill them in. Immediately, fear would fill in, and they'd be blind to see that I had done nothing wrong except live.
I'm so used to this that I don't feel sad anymore. In fact, I just feel cold, empty loneliness, but I suppose that wasn't any better.
My own leg kicked against the weak wall, I grumbled knowing that if I don't leave now the old hag would probably scream at me and throw everything she could find at me, I was covered in dirt and sweat, sour milk wasn't a good addition.
It was hard enough with no lunch.
So I wandered through the quiet, thick, forest that was rich green blushes. Dizzy slightly, I hugged myself to keep myself stable, the sunlight offered a warm hug to me.
Soon I reached my sanctuary.
A large, healthy oak tree that seemed to dance in the wind upon my arrival. The small fox's grave just below it. My fingers traced the indented words I left on the bark in honor of the young fox, I was silent for a full minute, and the Cicadas stopped singing as well, only to pick up once my limbs began to ascend to the top of the old oak.
I settled on to a thick branch that wouldn't break, I made myself more comfortable by leaning on the dry, rough bark before admiring the rich leaves around, carelessly I wondered why I couldn't live in the trees with the beautiful dyes of green around me. A village of leaves didn't sound so bad to me.
"I wonder how many more kids are gonna be afraid of me now?" I asked myself in a disappointed whisper, wanting to laugh at how pitiful I sounded, why I bothered to even care, was a mystery, perhaps I was getting too lonely. Some children would get a bail from the jailhouse if they were the old hag's favorites; while new children arrive the next day to fill in spots. This whole system was screwed up.
Fuck this.
Viciously, fingers grabbed a bunch of dead leaves, they made a crisp, dry crunch when my fingers crushed them, and I threw them in the air in annoyance. I glared at the crumpled leaves that began to flutter to the ground along with some shreds of the other leaves.
No matter what all the new arrivals end up hating me, perhaps they saw me for what I really am. A monster, a freak they could use to lash their unproductive anger for no longer having parents.
After all, no matter what they had gone through, no matter what they did, I was worse than any of them. No matter what I did, nothing changed.
I was the worst out of everything.
Perhaps it made them feel better, to make someone already more miserable than them, make someone feel worthless.
At least I was useful in some way. Maybe my death would provide a smile for someone out there.
But maybe someone would cry for me―not likely though.
My tanned legs dangled quietly as the Cicadas began to perch on the oak tree and slowly harmonized together in summer bliss.
These depressing thoughts caused my emotions to sway and drain once again. I rubbed my warm palms against my cheeks and forehead. Taking a deep, slow breath through my nose and exhale, I knew that I could get through this. I was getting myself upset for no good reason, it was becoming a bad habit; one that I couldn't afford.
Shakily, I clutched my stomach tightly as I hugged myself tightly once more. The empty ache clawed my stomach. It was looking for something foreign, something I desired for all my life.
Warmth.
That word that described a feeling of safe and pleasant comfort, something I didn't have.