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One moment, and Hood is pressing a freshly sharpened Swiss army knife to her throat. The gag, made of socks filled with dry beans and stones, muffled the demands for answers flooding out her mouth. When all left in her were squirms in a desperate attempt to break free, her final words were determined; cries for freedom from the only people in the world left to love her.
”Maybe your fingers just aren’t made for this. Your knots look like a patch of wild snakes!” Bucket snorts as he pulls his (equally bad) Granny knotted rope taut through sweaty fingers. The boy shoots her a sneer that says enough to shut his sister up, but not enough for Bucket to catch a hint, and calm his windpipe. With a loud WHOMP, he’s shoved to the floor; the metal on his face making a hollow sound upon whacking his skull. Girl and Hood laugh and point from opposite sides of the entirely white room, moving delicate charcoal pencil maps out of the way to encourage the play-wrestling. Against the chipped wooden floor, the sound of paper tearing echoed off the drywall.
“Oi! Hop off each other before you erase days of work! We’ll never get out of here at the likes of you lot”, Bandage half yelled, half grumbled as he shoved ration wrappers, flashlights, and drawing supplies out of the circle.
The instigator and the reactive perk up and respond with deaf ears, while Girl and Hood shoot each other looks of concern at the sudden urgency; gentle had never been the word for how the orphans treated the inanimate world around them.
Upon receiving these glances, however, Bandage retreated back to ignoring the pair. A sense of heat beneath his fabric, he immediately regretted speaking up at all. He never liked feeling Hood’s face twist underneath her pointed mask, and he especially hated the looks of pity from Girl when his messages went unnoticed.
How her lips puckered slightly and pulled to one side, eyebrows hidden by dirty bangs and porcelain he knew were pouting.
Before his fingers could begin picking off bits of cuticle, all five were halted by slow, clicky, familiar footsteps.
It’s the nun. Hood scream-whispered, a level of authority in her tone that snapped Boy and Bucket out of their bicker. The Nun of the orphanage had always been a caring woman; she ensured each child was clothed, fed, and kept busy with chores, but she ran a tight ship.
The boys were to be separated into an equally worn dormitory after 9:00 PM (the large holes in the wall overrode this rule, allowing the pack to sneak outdoors past curfew), and each bunk risked punishment for ill tidiness. While reasonably created rules, the risk of rats was rampant in the place, 7 days of extra chores, bathroom duty, and an earlier bedtime were all foreseeable for both groups. It wasn't long before Hood and Girl scrambled out of the room to manage their own spaces.
Through the tin over his head, Bucket could be heard deeply breathing through his mask. As Boy led the charge toward a tidy, non-rat attractive space, he noted Bucket’s sudden nervousness at the idea of solo work. Not a slacker by any means, but the youngest of the group was certainly not one for working alone. While Girl was generally more of an overseer, Hood a stubborn teammate, and Boy & Bandage constantly adding fuel to each other’s fires, Bucket was usually tagging along and adding more character to the group than anything. When the time came for planning, he was detached. He stayed close to offer suggestions, trying to show his maturity despite the year-or-so difference between himself and the others, yet he always kept a skin’s difference as a means to protect his fragile mind.
The things he shouldn’t have been forced to understand.
But for now, the five were in pairs (minus Boy, a lookout for when the Nun came past their doors) pulling loosely fitted sheets into corners of each bed.
When the Nun eventually reached the Girls dormitory, she jiggled the wooden handle adjacent to the #5 written on surrounding drywall in permanent marker. This was a detail all the orphans appreciated about her: the respect for children’s privacy which most adults had lost when the war began.
Viewing children most commonly as deadweight, their comfort was no more valued than anyone else's. Shelter became scarce. Comfort became scarce. Only those orphaned before the war kicked off had the pleasure of a bed alone, Boy and Girl the only ones aware of this privilege.
Their parents had died during a factory raid at work, a desperate attempt at vengeance for those hiring under-the-table spies for the opposing side. The kids never knew anything about what happened during work hours, though. All they knew were the bleak days spent either inside avoiding the men with guns patrolling the townhouse neighborhood, or flying 15 cent paper kites on the rare non-rainy afternoons. Then a few days after Girl turned nine, they were sentenced to the rest of their youth in a decorated prison cell. While the name proposes a chance to find a new home, they knew that children came with no benefits. Painfully aware for children, they knew they weren’t gonna feel that lightweight ever again.
A few seconds of rattling, and the door brushed open with a heavy scrape and series of clicks against the uneven floor. The way her black dress dragged on the floor behind her, and her long black hair waved outward toward them made her look like a grim reaper. Fitting, they thought. All the orphans had quickly taken to calling her the reaper once Bandage had coined it.
The raise of both her printed on eyebrows told Girl and Hood she was satisfied with their performances. Bedspreads tucked, floors (mostly) clear, and drawers closed. The task wasn’t hard to complete with the orphans owning so few items in general, but nevertheless, the room looked better than it had in weeks.
The look of satisfaction was short lived, as the Nun saw Hood without the pointed wool covering her hair. A matted ginger-brunette nest sat atop her head, tangled together by sweat, rainwater, and whatever else. Her face lowered and went hot, cold veiny fingers combing dreadfully slow through her hair.
“These bangs are awfully overgrown, and it looks like you haven’t bathed in weeks.”
Hood slapped away her hand, the instinctive motion surprising both the Nun and Girl in front of her. The Nun looked her top to bottom before dramatically scoffing.
“Your choice. If you want to continue living with this mound on your scalp, you better consider that hood permanent.”
Hood could only scowl at the remark, watching disproportionate hands flailing around as she spoke. A mom would take care of her hair, she was just an underpaid wench who thrived on flashing her ugly teeth at orphans. Besides, living with her mask on was her plan for the future anyways. She felt perfectly safe inside the stuffy, unbreathable fabric hood.
She sneered at her, baring her crooked front teeth into a fake, scrunchy nose smile. Girl notices this and seals her lips to not laugh at the out of character expression.
“Sleep now, and I don’t wanna wake up to any more chaos this week”.
She references the shelling alarms that blared just after sun-up the previous day. And Bucket’s waking up sick in the middle of the night after eating a half-smoked cigarette on a dare the day before. And Girl’s glass slipping out of her hands and shattering while getting a late night drink before that.
She saunters out of the room to harass more children, and Girl gently pushes the door closed, pretending to slam it. She raises her middle finger at the closed door, finally provoking a laugh from Hood.
”Serves her right”, Hood spoke harshly, planting herself on the twin bed beside Girl’s.
“Don’t see what she’s on about, I like your hair as is”.
She points to the two tufts sticking up, Hood’s face stretching into an embarrassed smile as she raises her arms to tug them down.
They note little details in each other as they gather their things in pursuit of sleep. Girl slumped onto her stomach, and began using a snake-like motion to pluck gadgets and hidden trash from under her bed. The flashlight guiding her hand illuminated her pale skin under the bed. While simply a result of low UV and probable malnourishment, it did make her quite unsettling to look at in sharp contrast to her deep brown eyes.
Hood removed her dirty grey coat-dress, electing to sleep in pants and a white undershirt instead.
“I will say, a nightgown is way more comfortable than trousers.
Girl would say with concern when they first met. A message she’d quickly learn went unreceived through a sarcastic “Hmph” from Hood every time. But that was when they shared a room with three others, the beds falling empty as girls aged out, got adopted (before the war began), or simply changed rooms. That left Girl and Hood to become quickly close. A respect between them, they had vowed to watch each other's backs along with the boys.
But that was before.
When Hood could still listen to Girl hum as she tucked into bed and played with a slingshot made from rubber bands & carved rock to fall asleep. When they could argue playfully about who blew out the candle every night after lights-out, both wishing for the same things.
Back when both girls could lay uninfected. From touch, from monsters, from a boiling rage and a reanimated guilt.