The Schnitzel Grown-up
With no school and no sense of time, I sit on the orphanage stairs minding my own business. Summer makes me feel alive, its warmth seeping into my skin and filling every inch of me. The air is still and quiet, devoid of any wind or rustling leaves from the forest that lies behind the orphanage. I smile to myself, dressed in shorts, sandals, and a boy's t-shirt that nobody cares about. I don’t either. Sitting and observing has always been my pastime, my thoughts racing like a dragonfly on a summer day. I find joy in watching the world around me, like the buzzing insects above the pond in the forest behind the orphanage. Other kids are scattered throughout the grounds, but their whereabouts don't concern me. Just like how even the stairs I sit on are gray and mundane compared to the colorful world around me.
The main entrance has nine concrete stairs facing the train station. I know the number of stairs because I can jump over them from top to bottom, even with my backpack on. The building has a fence, letting strangers notice the sign “The Orphanage.” The sign’s background is white with black capital letters, hanging on the left side of the gate entrance. The sign is too small to be understood but big enough to be ignored.
Does the concept of no color even exist? And if so, is gray considered a happy color? Because looking at the orphanage building behind me, is just shades of gray sadness. The walls of the orphanage are painted in shades of grief, with all the children's clothing and shoes blending together in a gray reminder of the absence of love. Does that mean that love is colorful? At not even 7 years old, I find myself pondering like a grown-up. Am I? Or is there anything more to growing up? Are there any other humans I could merge into instead?
The orphanage is a maze of two stories, a bustling kitchen, and creaky wooden stairs that always seem to lead somewhere new. There are children ranging from three to 20 years old, crowded among too many adults, and sleeping in double beds. We all have our own dreams, but we don't share them because they are too big for us to understand. A mountain of brown leather shoes sits in the corner, I am scared of. As a punishment, I need to clean them, pair them, and put them back to the shelves. I don’t know how! I'm at a loss, and it's incredibly frustrating. The tears always well up in my eyes as I try to figure them out.
The principal, with his short black hair, piercing eagle-like scary gaze, (I have no idea how tall he is, and it doesn’t matter because all grown-ups are tall anyway), caring his beer belly, exudes an aura of arrogance and authority. He takes pleasure in intimidating and striking anyone who crosses him. We all know to be on guard around him. It's no secret that he enjoys watching us shower, but for some reason, he seems particularly drawn to the older girls. I'll never understand grown-ups and their strange behaviors, I remind myself repeatedly.
And there is an elderly, grown-up, a man who handles maintenance around here, resembling a door knob in his boldness. I've nicknamed him the "schnitzel man" because he loves to eat rabbits. He waddles like a pregnant duck. His voice sounds like a heavy wheel barrel, he pushes around with all the coal to warm the orphanage with. His hands are large and rough from years of hard work. Not having kids of his own, he always wears the same dull colors: blue and gray, and the same brown boots. It feels sad inside me that he has no one to call him daddy. And his round glasses give off the impression that he must be a kind old man who enjoys reading stories to children. But he isn't like that at all. Instead of bonding with the rabbits like I do when no one's around, I talk to them often, he locks them up in wooden crates in the forest behind the orphanage. He feeds them dry grass until they're big enough for him to turn into schnitzels.
“Want some?”, he offered me a piece of rabbit schnitzel the other day, smiling, thinking he was doing me a favor.
“Would you turn your kids to schnitzels and eat them?!” I asked angrily, pushing my tears back to my eyes. I have no idea why I said that. Where did that come from? I kept looking directly into his eyes, brave and strong, thinking, I am glad I didn’t give them names. It’s easier to miss them without knowing their names, I sobbed.
The schnitzel grown-up once told me that he sees rabbits as nothing but food, unlike my imagination which cherishes them as friends. Hmm….It seems like his imagination resides in a different universe than mine since he has no qualms about eating mama rabbits' babies, which just doesn't seem right. Even my mama still hasn’t picked me up, I am still her kid. So, is he going to turn me into schnitzels too?
Also, there is a black dog, named Sharik, we all are terrified when it gets off the leash. It barks and bites our ankles, especially during routine exercises happening at 6 o’clock every morning.
I see lots of chickens running around the fence in circles, screaming like crazy. Once, I wanted to get closer to one of them, pet them, and had a conversation with. Let’s just say it didn’t work out. They have wings but they don’t know how to fly. They are weird. If I had my own wings, I would use them to find my mama.
Just across from the main orphanage, there is another building that is part of the whole facility. There is a laundry room in the basement, the principal’s office, an upstairs where some grownups live, an attic where all spare supplies are stored, and a small room for developing photos, we are not allowed to enter.
“Come with me,” the schnitzel’s grown-up dark silhouette interrupted my thoughts, “I’ll show you something interesting.” He added.
His words linger in the air. While we are not permitted to trail anyone, I am not worried because they don’t care for me, so I see no reason to obey their rules. I stood up. And decide to follow my own curiosity instead.
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