So, here's the last bit:
Now, I know what you’re thinking. But that spot was sacred to me. So much so, that I didn’t ever notice if it had a smell. It was actually part of the venting system, I think, and I could just pry off the screen and slip right in. The time I remember most about my spot was when I was seven going on eight, and I decided that I was going to be a writer.
An older girl had snuck a Harper’s Bizarre magazine into FCF. And inside there was an article on some man, who’s name I can’t remember anymore, but I do remember hearing girls talk about what he did for a living. He wrote stories. And I couldn’t believe that someone could actually get paid for that. It was then and there that I decided that that’s what I wanted to do.
I ended up stealing that magazine and taking it to my spot. I tore out the page like they were covered in gold and pasted them to the walls. I couldn’t really read all that good then, but I could dream like a champ. That was one thing that we all learned at FCF. Dream or die. And in my little spot, which really wasn’t any bigger that three feet squared, I imagined the world. A world where I was paid for writing the stories of my mind, and I was wanted, and I was loved. That vent in the bathroom was how I survived those first twelve years at FCF. And I’ll never forger when I realized that I had outgrown that place. I was afraid that since I couldn’t fit into my spot anymore, that maybe, just maybe, I couldn’t fit into the dreams I created there. When you’re a kid growing up in an orphanage, you have silly thoughts like that.
After my decision to become a writer, I worked hard in my studies. We were all required to attend class from eight in the morning to four in the afternoon. We had one 5-minute break at 10a.m. in which we closed our eyes and placed our heads on our desks to “reverence our thoughts.” Lunch was at noon. We would have 20 minutes to eat, and then we had to run around a path that was in the courtyard of FCF for 15 minutes. Then, it was back to class.
Maybe a few more descriptions of the actual building of FCF would give you a better idea of what I’m talking about. So, let me tell you here, that FCF was shaped like a square horseshoe with the two sides leading away from the main road. Looking straight at FCF you wouldn’t even know that it extended down those two sides. You see, it was imposing from the front because it had five floors while the two sides only had three.
But, enough of that. Like I was saying at the age of seven I decided that education was going to be my ticket to life. And that writing was going to be my train through the world. In fact, when I look back on it, those years flew by because they were filled with learning. That was one thing the orphanage did really well. They made sure to provide all of us “lost souls” with a solid education. And although they wouldn’t allow us any contact with the outside world through radio and magazines, they did allow us to learn about the world through great works of literature.
It’s just occurred to me that I haven’t told you my name. That’s funny. I got so involved with my story that I forgot to include myself in it.
I'm going to retire this story for now. Maybe down the road, I'll decide to do the research, and flesh out my ideas more. But, I'm inherently lazy, so who knows? (It took me an hour to write the stupid thing, and that's all the time I wanted to dedicate to it.)
Thanks for reading and not saying "You suck, Liz!" (even if that's what you thought).