Chapter 15 15. The Appeaser!
Emilio’s PVO
"So, you are my mother," I said, flashing at her the biggest smile I could muster.
"Just remember that for the rest of your life," she responded, her voice warm.
They called me Emilio Destin, but the name itself was a relentless question mark. I've always felt my life had no meaning, and that I came into existence by pure luck. My parents weren't just absent; they were faceless ghosts in the thick, confusing fog of my mind, that I couldn't even summon their images in my dreams. When I became old enough to understand, I spent a long time wondering who had bothered to bring me into this world, and why was I then left alone in it. My name, was it chosen with any love? Or was it just a random, meaningless label, carelessly slapped on by a stranger? Every time I heard my name, it sounded like a cruel reminder of a life puzzle with far too many missing, crucial pieces.
I grew up in an orphanage that stood right at the edge of a small town. The exterior was a visible monument to long-term abandonment: its once-white paint was peeling away in jagged strips, exposing the bare, gray wood beneath. The whole building seemed to sag slightly, as if physically burdened by the years of deep neglect. But inside, despite that overall air of decay, a certain harsh order persisted. The worn floors, though deeply scarred, were scrubbed clean with painful frequency, revealing the faded paths worn smooth by years of footsteps. The walls, permanently stained by time and abuse, were routinely wiped down, keeping the worst of the grime at bay. Even the main rooms had a rigid arrangement; tables were set with a trace of forced care, their surfaces always cleared of clutter, though the wood itself was chipped and brutally scarred from years of heavy use.
This disciplinary arrangement extended to the rest of the facility. Upstairs, the boys' sleeping room was a long, cold barracks lined with tightly packed metal cots. Each cot was dressed with a thin, scratchy blanket and a pillow perpetually punched flat, forming sharp, military-style corners that were checked daily. The girls' dormitory was housed in a separate wing entirely, accessed by its own dedicated stairwell and outside door, ensuring the children were kept apart. The heavy, always-locked wooden door on the main floor served only as a forbidden, secondary access point. Their side held the same arrangement of metal cots and scratchy blankets, reinforcing the strict division of the children.
Downstairs, the heart of the house was the space most of us knew as the kitchen. It was a narrow, damp space where meals, usually simple rice and beans sourced from the island's meager produce, were prepared on a worn, fire-scarred cement counter with iron grill. Every pot and spoon was kept in its exact, designated place. Even the small, dedicated space for schooling, was cramped between the outdoor laundry area and the storage room, had its own severe rules: a single slate board hung crookedly on the wall, and the few dusty books were always aligned perfectly on the splintered shelf, serving as a silent, reminder that control was the highest virtue.
In spite of our ragged clothes and generally weary expressions, tidiness was not an option; it was a mandatory habit. According to the uncompromising rules of the orphanage, if we were capable of speaking or walking, we were instantly instructed to pick up after ourselves, keeping our few meager belongings contained neatly in corners or arranged neatly on the sagging shelves.
The children aged seven and up were immediately given dual responsibility: not only were they accountable for perfectly making their own beds, but they were also tasked with tending to the beds of the younger children. Each morning, they moved through the barracks with quiet, mechanical efficiency, smoothing out the wrinkled sheets and tucking in the corners with practiced, swift hands. The younger children, some still clutching their worn-out stuffed animals, watched in profound silence as their older peers ensured their sleeping spaces were manufactured into neat, perfect squares. An early lesson in the relentless power of appearances and control.
The staff, indifferent to the children's quiet efforts, barely noticed the neat rows of made beds, taking it completely as a given that the older kids would manage it flawlessly. To them, it was just another necessary task cleared off their endless list, something they were successfully relieved of having to bother with themselves. The orphanage was a place of emotional chaos (due to neglect, sadness, uncertainty about the future). Life felt random and unfair. this utmost responsibility was a small, vital act of control in a life otherwise dictated entirely by others. By keeping things neat and ordered (the made beds, the aligned books), us children created a predictable pattern on which we could rely. This order served as a mental shield against the emotional mess and indifference surrounding us.
Despite the obvious state of decay, he orphanage remained the only real home we had ever known. While the attempts to provide comfort were evident in the routines, they established a vital, familiar baseline for life. Maintaining tidiness served as the expected structure, not a façade, creating a sense of predictable safety. The stark contrast between the well-kept surroundings and the facility’s worn state was simply our normal; it was a visible testament that routine and order were the true foundations of survival here, offering a security that a chaotic, uncertain world outside could never promise.
It was a place where every single child carried the heavy burdens of their history, regardless of how tragic or fragmented that past might have been. Each of us possessed a narrative, a vital strand connecting us back to a background, a location, or even just one other human being. On the other hand, I was the exception. I was the child without of a narrative, the absolute anomaly, a puzzle even among the forsaken.
I soon discovered that some children weren't true orphans at all; their parents, faced with the crushing reality of poverty, had placed them here out of desperation so they wouldn't starve. They were left with the promise, however slim, of a return. These children clung to that fragile belief, guarding it like a small, precious firefly glowing in the darkness. They had a tomorrow to dream of. As for me, I had nothing to hold onto. No sense, No hope, and no promise to await. All I possessed was a name, accompanied by a past as fleeting and empty as the wind. The emptiness where my history should have been made me entirely unique, and alone.
The cold, hard truth was this: No one was ever coming back to claim me as their child. I was invisible, a child designed to fade instantly into the background whenever adoption day arrived. Every three months, the staff would execute the routine with mechanical efficiency, rounding up all the children, preparing us to look as presentable as possible. We were harshly scrubbed clean, dressed in our best clothes, and our hair was neatly combed.