Nixon lost himself to his spiralling thoughts as he sunk into a half-aware sort of state, he lost sense of the cold floor beneath him and the protesting of his muscles and the constant whining of his stomach, he envisioned a world where the sun shone happily and villagers went about their day with a purpose, to better their homes and protect their families. A world where politics were not important; did not take lives. Where money was not valued over sympathy and understanding.

a world of imagination.

Nixon took a deep breath and saw a steady stream of light pour into the dark abyss of a room like a beacon, a warning. Nixon next heard heavy footsteps echo cautiously on the walls like voices "get up, foods been eatin'. To bed," Mr. Adam spoke roughly, obviously he could not care less. Many orphans had died under his watch but seeing as most (all) were abandoned (the cause being greed or death varied) the state did not care if their young lives were twisted or snuffed out. Why care about tiny sparks when there was warm fire just a few feet away?

Nixon slowly (as he dared) unfolded his aching limbs and tried to shake his tired daze away as he walked past Mr. Adam, he made careful to look at the ground intensely and not provoke the old drunk in any way, a lesson well learned among the dirty orphans. Mr. Adam locked the room with a rusty key that he kept within his old rag he called a shirt, Mr. Adam was about in his late 40's (no one knew for sure) and he had constant stubble attached to his round chin that never seemed to leave, he was a greasy, grubby old man and he came with a beer belly. Proof that he had more food than he was willing to share. Not as if anyone who met him actually expected any different.

Nixon dragged his feet groggily along the narrow hallway passed the various closets, there was four main rooms (the biggest in size, but still small.), two were dedicated for them to work, another made to store and serve the minimal amount of food handed out, another, the last room was the place where all orphans slept on the floor on blankets so dirty rats would refuse to sleep on them, and you only got a blanket if you were lucky, however Nixon never tried to get one seeing as he would rather shiver as opposed to getting (possibly deathly) sick.

Another thing Nixon had to think over, he had no friends, no allies. That was dangerous in their world, a world made and shaped by the twisted and corrupt.

but there was possibilities in that as well. but only if we was willing to sacrifice it all in a bet with life and luck.

Nixon arrived at the doorway of the dorms, the doorway was just that, a doorway. There was no door on the rusted old hinges anymore. It had been that way as long as Nixon had been there. Nixon made his way soundlessly into the shabby room and took a breath of the sweat-filled air and his nose scrunched up slightly. It was a journey to the only non-taken corner, there were about four hundred something boys, most of them ended up in heat preserving piles in various places in the room he always ended up alone in the corner of the room. Nixon dodged hands as he trudged to his long-faithful spot and he once or twice had to make a sharp stumble to avoid enraging someone by stepping on their hands. He finally made his way to his corner and plopped down into it and curled up on his still aching side, he desperately longed for a pillow and carefully crafted quilt, a long-lost memory surfaced of being swaddled lovingly by hands without any recognizable faces attached,

he had no desire to learn who abandoned (or was taken, by death or the state) him,

that was part of what made him different.

Nixon curled his knees up as he stilled into fetal position, and he wrapped his arms around his pale legs and felt his stomach weakly protest. he ignored it.

perhaps there's a life different to this one, he mused carefully some choice I could make to change things... Nixon went over everything in his head, the layout of his life, the orphanage, the other boys, the world outside of this one, the world outside this one... Nixon's lips curled into a previously long-forgotten motion;

a smile.

It was easy, a clear yet dangerous door, beckoning to be opened.

he would run away.