Earth, Singapore,

Kai Burner

Day thirty now. Awoken and in a dreary slumber, I force myself to get up, not because I want to, I have to.

This room, like many others in the building, are hosts to the numerous prepubescents who are in the same plight as me. Our decrepit bed frames weighted with old mattresses are spaced evenly along two metres apart from one another. There are in total six beds per room. Mine nestles beside the windowpane, and as I glance through the window, I see the horizons of the once night sky shimmering rubescently from the bottom, a sign of dawn approaching. I momentarily marvel at the beauty before me, the sight providing a short respite from my harsh realities of life.

But reality kicks in almost instantly, and I turn back to look at the cracked and rusty wall of the room that could do with a fresh lick of paint. A faded old mural on the wall with the words 'It gets better' battles to get noticed amidst the thin crevices that now fester it. The mural was intended to make us feel better, but somehow, now, it produced the opposite effect. Wreaths of holly and garland festooned with colourful ornaments fill the ceiling. Decorations from Christmas, though it is now the first of January. 

This place is sort of like a bootcamp. As long as we're under the care of the organisation, there are rules to adhere to. I now belong to no one but the country.

I once belonged to a loving family, or what I thought was a loving family. We were broken, but I guess if you grew up in a broken family, how could you tell the difference? You make do with what you have. You don't get to choose your family.

It's not like in intimate relationships, where when the wrong person is chosen, their fully grown devil's horns are often tucked and kept inwards, surreptitiously, better to hide their agendas and motives. But eventually, like an untreated appendicitis that ends up bursting uncontrollably, the display of their ugliest colours becomes not only conspicuous but also causes their partner to contemplate and reflect on their initial choices of commitment, by which time it is already too late; A tether of attachment has been formed. Feelings of love exist. For the sake of the relationship, a thing called love and irreversible wasted time, ample chances are given, and that makes the relationship harder to get out of. If there is pre-existing abuse in the relationship, it is much harder. A vicious cycle then ensues.

But in some situations, the most pragmatic will still manage to untether and unspool themselves out of the encumbering tangle, successfully getting out of the toxic relationship. I wish Mom was here, she would have agreed with me wholeheartedly. Right, Mom?

When it comes to a family like mine, we were born into it. We see the constant culmination of the devilish horns on the daily, desensitised over the years by the malign that roams the household, since a time when consciousness was remotely possible. And so, to me, my family was normal.

But I never thought I would miss a life where it was just us three. Back when it was just the three of us, I did wistfully miss when we were four.

Like I said, perhaps I am just ungrateful. Maybe I need to learn to look at the brighter side of things. Positive vibes. But it seems like there aren't any. Perhaps when it comes to pessimists, there is always no positive side to things. We always find a way to make everything negative. What if I wasn't actually a pessimist, and that my life was just in the gutter? What if my life was in fact just that awful?

Before I fell asleep last night, I thought about Dad, reliving yet again the night of the incident. They say that one should sob and let go to feel better, and yet this pain has yet to dissipate. I have sobbed one too a many nights to no relief.

I ruffle my clump of raven black hair and try to recollect the dream I just had. Considering my life and everything that has happened, I wouldn't classify it as a nightmare. But I dreamt of Ezra, and in the dream, he did not abandon us. He stayed. And it was just us three. I was caring for Loving Dad when suddenly, Ezra had morphed into someone else—an entity shrouded in darkness without a definite shape—and started slashing at us. I died in the dream, which was what woke me up.

My bed squeaks as I shift myself up to sit at the edge of it, but the sound suddenly reminds me of Yucky, pulling me into a reverie back to a time when Ezra and I were much younger. Yucky was a rubber duck we used to play with during bath time, and it squeaked and squealed as we squeezed it. We called it Yucky instead of Ducky because it had an eye missing, with a beak that was frayed at the tip, making it look fugly.

I reminisce the joy on our faces as we played with our bath time toys. The water that rippled in waves as we played splash. The joy during a time when we were still too young to understand what suffering was. A time almost so far back in oblivion, when Mom would provide her undivided attention, coddling us, as if protecting us from something dangerous.

In retrospect, she was.

The sudden slew of memories hinges me with a pang of anguish, but I do not pander to my sorrowful inclinations during the day. A faint smile appears on my face, but I control myself. Any step further and my eyes will brim.

My eyes, from yesterday's solo pity party, as it stands, are probably all puffed up now. I lightly palpate my undereyes to check. I need to be presentable. I cannot afford to cry during the day, in case a lineup happens. Because although I miss my family, and as much as I love them, I still yearn for belonging. If others in a stable family can feel this way, imagine walking in my shoes.

'Fix you' by Coldplay is booming on my earbuds now. I choose to spiritually drown in the melancholies on Spotify until I fall asleep, which nowadays, being a usual occurrence, doesn't bother me anymore like it used to. But if Mom was around she'd definitely have something to say about it.

"Radiation, honey! No books or music before bed, because it keeps your mind awake, honey! Love and care for your Circadian rhythm, honey!"

Sentences of what she thought were reprimands that now seem alien to me. Nevertheless, the songs fuel my soul—although sometimes it worsens how I feel—and so, I will keep at it.

Through the blasting chorus of Fix you, I hear faint cadences of raps coming from the door. The door opens and as I see the lady sauntering in with lips spread wide benevolently, I can't help but smile back. It's Ms Tina, one of the orphanage's caretakers, who's also one of my new favourite persons in the world. I remove my earbuds and pause the music on my phone.

"Hi Kai. How are you?"

"I'm okay," I say as I pat the space beside me, inviting her to sit.

"It's okay, the rest are still sleeping. Let's go to the common room, I want to talk to you about something," She whispers as she winks at me—not flirtatiously but in a friendly manner—then holds my hand and tugs at me lightly as she goes. I resist at first, having an inkling of what she wants to talk about, but because it's Ms Tina, the one and only person who has been nothing short of a sweetheart to me since my arrival, I relent, following her, tracing her footsteps from the back.

We walk out the room and make a sharp left, passing by the toilet and study room, then descending down a row of steps leading into the common room. Ms Tina reminds me of Mom, but without the saviour complexes she exhibited. She's impartial and fair, always smiling kindly especially to me despite the situation, as if I needed the extra care and love. Even during moments where I was clearly in the wrong, she would offer a smile, sometimes adding a wink into it and say assuringly, "It's okay. Everything's going to be okay."

The wall should have been a mural of her face.

We reach the common room and she points at a seat for me. I see Mr Ang, the staff that cleans the place. I wave at him before taking a seat, and he waves back, although ambivalently.

"Would you like to have breakfast here? Breakfast is ready, and I know we don't normally have it here, but for you I will make an exception," she says as she takes a seat opposite me. I take a seat and rest my arms on the table.

"Thanks.. But I'm not hungry yet."

Her immediate response is to smile, as always, like a vessel of joy that she is. I can never sense an ounce of hatred in her.

"Okay." She pats and holds my hand briefly and then retracts. I wish she would just leave her hand on top of mine. Mom used to do that. It has been so long since I felt a motherly's touch. A touch from someone who truly cares. Or maybe she realises my puffy eyes and  feels bad.

"How are you adjusting here?"

I take a moment to ponder before I answer. Do I tell her the truth? I start fidgeting with my fingers.

"I'm adjusting just fine," I lied.

"It's okay if you aren't. It takes a while to adjust," she assures me, as if she knows I'm lying. I get lost in her smile until Mr Ang appears with a cup of coffee for her. I think he has a crush on her. All the kids in the orphanage think so too. Even Mdm Matilda, our strict and unforgiving head administrator, highly suspects this.

"Oh how thoughtful, thank you, Mr Ang!" She smiles and grins, her face all squishes up but it still looks beautiful.

Mr Ang always goes the extra mile for Ms Tina. But as an afterthought—more to impress Ms Tina, I think, than out of courtesy—he points to me, his way of saying, 'You?'

"Thanks Mr Ang, I'm okay," I wave a gesture as I speak. He nods and sweeps the floor as he moves away.

She smiles, "Mr Ang is so nice, don't you think so?"

A tinge of jealousy hits me. But even I know that Ms Tina is way too old for me and out of my league. If Ms Tina and Mr Ang decides to wed, I shall grace them with my eternal blessing.

"Yes, he is," I finally say.

"So, where were we?" She says, then takes a sip of the coffee. She smiles as she does this, smiling while drinking piping hot coffee, she must be a pro.

"Uhh... Adjusting," I remind her.

"Ah yes. You've a good memory! My memory is betraying me these days!"

I smile and give a soft giggle, because I do not know how else to respond. She notices my arm and then continues speaking—

"Is it healing okay?" She lightly caresses the bruise on my right arm, out of concern rather than pity. I pull back as a defence mechanism, because it reminds me of what happened two days ago.

"Yes, I think," I say as I force a smile.

"To be honest, it looks like it's healing way faster than expected. But if there's still pain—"

"—I, I'm okay, thanks, though."

"Okay." Her tone is much more demure now, "Actually, this is what I wanted to talk to you about..." She says in a very careful tone. I know this tone. Too careful, as if walking on eggshells. As if I had the capability to blow up like Hurtful Dad.

"Okay.." I say as my finger fidgeting visibly intensifies.

"Don't worry, you are not in trouble," she assures.

"I know. I just—" The memory flashes up—I'm sitting in the study room, colouring on a drawing paper using the shared art utensils, minding my own business, when Taufiq and his cronies, Zachary and Jonas walk in.

"But it will be good if we can talk about it, Kai," she says.

Taufiq wrests the crayon from my hand, and then throws it onto the ground.

"Let me say it again, you're not in trouble, so don't worry, okay?"

They tug me from the back, I feel myself tumble to the ground. The sound of my fall thumps and echoes through the quiet room, breaking the peaceful quiet. I try to pick myself up, but they continue pushing me against the floor.

"You're special. Based on what Mdm Matilda has told me, I think you have a special gift," she says.

Taufiq manages a few punches to my arm before I start to scream, and then it happens.

"You're so special. Kai, you're so special, you're a gift from God—"

"—I didn't mean to do it..!" I burst out saying as my eyes well up with tears, and I let go once more.