Orillia herself knew that as she made her way down the rickety old stairs, that she was lucky to have been taken into a house. Like many other children, she saw her parents die in the war herself. With no other family, she was left hungry and alone at the tender age of four. Although being such a young age, she can hardly recollect any memories of her parents. She has no known knowledge of any siblings, and if she did have any, it was unlikely that they had survived, and an even unlikelier chance she would ever hope to meet them. But, Orillia was content. She had a relatively nice house, and children to play with.

Her feet clambered down, her barefoot soles making a soft thump as she jumped upon the basement floor. The dimly lit basement was where most of the recreation for the children was allowed, and often it was a place of quiet happenings but rambunctious children itching to make some noise. Instead, however, many of the children opted to play tag, a relatively silent game as long as the children did not call out or make a ruckus.

The girl herself, her curls bobbing up and down as she skipped silently over to a corner, preferred to read a limited amount of books, or to play with one of the few puzzles. Typically, many books and puzzles were long gone, destroyed and ravaged by the long and brutal war. However, there were the select few that survived; many hardcover books, or children’s books, because of their resiliency. Therefore, there were always at least a couple worn-out books within the confines of each home. Orillia currently held a picture book, a book which she of course had held many a time before, but yet she never got tired of looking over the same old pictures.

Around Orillia were the several children who occupied the house, minus the teenagers, who were somewhere else, presumably upstairs, but at the moment, Orillia didn’t care who was where and that was that. She sat herself down onto the thinly carpeted floor, her back resting against the cold stone of the wall.

As the light bulb above the room flickered, the children briefly stopped, waiting to see if the light would go out yet again. As the momentary flickering continued, Orillia closed her book, smiling as she placed it back onto the low-lying shelf that was one of the few amenities of the basement.

As Orillia stood up, her hair falling into her face, the light went out, and the children around her squealed and screamed in delight, knowing that they couldn’t be caught in the dark.

Thundering of footsteps pounded up the rickety stairs, and Orillia cautiously made her way to the end, climbing up the stairs after the children, considerably slower than the others.

As the children immediately quieted as they reached the top, Orillia took her time in making her way back to her room. The other children all made their way to their own rooms, their silent breaths seeming to be sucked in as they passed under each watchful eye of the House Parents.

The Parents themselves were the lucky ones; they had survived through the war. Not many people had, and many of their family and friends, if not all, had perished either during the famine or during the war. The Parents, afterwards, were left alone, much like the children, and eventually groups of parents and adults had clustered together to take in select children. Typically there were five Parents a house.

Orillia made her way across the floorboards, trailing behind the other children, her small feet barely making a noise. She cowered away from the Parent’s eyes; her eyes darting to the ground. Orillia never knew how one became a Parent, because, in her mind, adults could become a Parent or a Worker. She wondered if they had to take a test when they were adults, and then the Government would place them in whatever job suited them best.

But Orillia wasn’t focused on that today. As she scurried by the Parents, her feet shuffling along the wood floor, she quietly opened her room door, and stepped inside.

Room Number Nine was Orillia’s room, the last one in the house, and she shared with a slightly older girl, who went by the name of Adeline. Adeline herself, like many other children, including Orillia, had barely any recollection of the war, but when the Parents found her, starved and dehydrated, she was alone- leading the Parents to yet again believe that she was orphaned. The thing about having such casualties, and barely any adults survive was the fact that the children had little recollection of the events, and many times the recollection was distorted- what Orillia saw as her parents dying could have been anyone.

Adeline, her hair plaited down her back, had her back turned towards Orillia as she glided into the room, her feet shuffling along. Orillia let the door close quietly. The girl was ten, five or so years older than Orillia.

As Orillia shuffled to her side of the room, the stark walls faded, her bed-sheets thin and threadbare, she sat on top of the creaky springs, and she put her head down, staring intently at the floor.

Adeline spoke, barely above a whisper. “Orillia, I don’t think your parents are dead.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Oh Lord, okay, update here. Thanks to Clove for pestering me to update, therefore it is dedicated to her because I would never have otherwise.

I have no general direction for this story, but I feel it’s leaning towards short story now.

I apologize for the shortness of the entire chapter, but it was a struggle to write.

Thanks for anyone reading. :)