Hopeless Place

The door creaks open. It is cold to touch and wet-looking rust has found a home in all the hinges. The cribs line up on either side of this war-torn makeshift room. You are left behind in this abandoned building like old furniture or clothes no longer wanted. Paint is peeling from the walls and their cracks continue their downward journey. The floor is bleak and fits in well with its surroundings. It is a grey tile that would be just at home outside. The smell of damp is choking. The cribs are as old and dilapidated as the building. Good thing, ironically, you are malnourished or it might not hold you.

You looked at me that day with sadness your whole world. It was a stinging November morning and every piece of my three warm layers were needed. You had a worn child’s vest on(that had seen many previous owners) and just a diaper you were getting too old for. Even at your young age, thoughts of cold had passed you and deeper troubles were now etched on your once innocent face. Your room was empty at the time and lonely, like solitary for a prisoner, too lonely for someone your age to feel. A room which should have had the sound of youth was absent of that joy.

Your cries were now silent as they gained no response through locked doors. So now you are mostly mute with only your eyes talking silently of your hopelessness and despair. Their story is of one who has given up. You have relented to an unforgiving fate. You do not deserve this remote orphanage home in this post-war wasteland. You stand tall in your crib like you could have been someone and you have anger in there too because you will probably never have the chance. You grip the rails with your unwashed hands with steadfast motionless.

You see my tear but yours have long since become dry. Your gaze is fixed on me as I heartachingly see you through the last glimpse of a closing door. You don’t look away as you have nowhere else to go and nothing else to see.

Darragh Quinn