It is nearly here. The orderlies tell us that we are for life, not just for Christmas, but that is the day they will dress us in our finest and put us on display. So many adults cannot have children of their own to lavish gifts upon because of the bombs. So they make a gift for themselves by visiting the orphanage and taking one of us home. Every year for five years it is the same. And every year I am left behind.
“You are not cute.” Delilah says to me. “You creep them out, talking like an adult and doodling imaginary things.”
“I will be an artist.” I say. “I will be a scholar.”
They always give us a present, even though the only gift we really want is a real home, with real parents. This year, Miss Brown says they have something special for me. She has tears in her eyes and I cannot understand why.
A bottle of pills. A present that I am made to eat.
Head hurt. Can’t concenstrate.
I have real home real parents for Chrismiss.