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Ever since arriving at the orphanage, the feeling of being utterly lonely has been ever-present. It’s not that the others bother me, we talk from time to time, but none of them make an effort to actually know me. I guess it doesn’t really bother me.
He’s there, peering at me. Edward, my mind supplies. I’ve noticed him peering at me sometimes, always within close range of a hiding place, though. The other kids don’t like him, that much is obvious. They tell newbies to ignore him, he’ll just scare them away anyways, it doesn’t matter in the end. “Don’t go near Edward,” they say, “he’s weird. He’ll probably just ask you some creepy riddle.”
Right now, the other kids are on the other side of the yard playing. What's the problem with a few silly riddles, anyways?
He’s just behind the brick wall. I can feel it, feel his eyes burning into my skull. I want to turn around and ask him what he wants, tell him to get lost, but I don’t. I don’t like yelling at the other kids, even when they shove and push. I decide to just go and ask him what he wants. He silently returns to his cover behind the bricks when I turn around.
“Hello?” I peer around the wall, eyes adjusting to the shaded area. He’s standing there, pressed against the wall and staring at me with large, pale eyes. His pupils are strangely large, even if he is standing in the shadow of the orphanage's walls. His shoulders are hunched like he was caught stealing, his green shirt is crinkled around his almost skeletal form. It was unnerving, to say the least. “Sorry, did I startle you?”
He doesn’t respond, just continues to stare and stare and stare. I noticed his appearance then; his palms, pressed against the brick, are scraped and in sharp lines, like he was gripping the stone block with such force it tore through skin. His face isn’t faring too well either, an angry bruise staining the flesh around his left eye. Blood seeps from his nose, mixing with a trail of spit when crossing his mouth. The wounds are fresh, but not extremely so. If I were to guess, I'd say he got most of these at breakfast. I open my mouth to ask if he’s okay, but the pale boy beats me to it.
“I… I am a warning, avoided by all. I can be felt, but not touched at all. I can be seen in lines on faces, a-and I always live in troubled places.” His sudden riddle makes me reel, why a mind exercise now? I was told about the riddles, but now seems like such a… strange time, to say the least. He continues to look expectantly, but with a twinge of sadness. Like he’s expecting me to leave. His face- that expression- hurts to look at. I try to decipher his riddle to maybe make him happy, but I’m too focused on how the more I look at him the more cuts and bruises I notice.
“I don’t know.” He visibly droops, shoulders falling and avoiding my gaze. Ouch. Does he really like riddles that much? Maybe I should write some down to ask him... “Can I take you to the infirmary? You, um, don’t look too good.” The added sentence seems to jolt the boy awake, eyes wide behind his glasses. He watches my face, searching for something, and I let him. He probably doesn’t trust me, especially if some of the other kids here are responsible for the now-dried blood on his philtrum. He eventually nods and takes my hand, I cringe as his bloodied palm smears against my own. The frail boy doesn’t seem to notice, he looks like he’s completely resigned to his own world. It’s fascinating. I absently wonder if he’d even notice if I was leading him in the wrong direction.
The nurse watches us with mixed emotions, a face made up of pity and resignation. She rubs her forehead while pointing to the medicine cabinet. The boy (Edward. He acts so elusive, it’s almost easy to forget that he has a name and isn’t some wild animal.) opens the cabinet, knowing where the bandages and rubbing alcohol is without having to think about it. He’s probably been here many times before. He washes his face in the sink, hot water forcing the blood to flake off and leave the water red as it swirled down the drain. I offer to clean up his hands for him- it would be difficult, seeing as both are scraped up- and he agrees easily. The cuts contrast against him, everything about the kid is pale. Pale skin, pale eyes, pale brown hair. He drifted around the orphanage, whispering riddles and eyes searching every dusty corner of your soul. He was like a ghost.
“There you go, Ed. Your hands will probably heal soon.” I get no response. His hands start trembling, and I look up quickly. He’s staring again, but his eyes are big and shiny and he’s crying. There’s no gulps for air, no choked back sobs, just silent tears welling up and spilling over. I begin to apologize for making him upset, but he shakes his head.
“N-no one really calls me ‘Ed’.” He’s suddenly smiling, teeth bared with nothing but pure joy. It’s infectious and I can’t help but smile back. Edward wipes his tears away with his deep-green sleeves, still grinning. I can’t stop, either. I fish a marker out of my pocket, popping the cap off with my teeth and gesturing for Ed to hold his hand out. I draw a small bat insignia on the bandages.
“Bats are my favorite animal.” He quickly takes the marker from me, scrawling a question mark underneath it. The symbol fits him, for the mystery he is. We grin at each other again, and I can tell we’re both thinking the same thing: we should draw these everywhere, as a code that only we’ll know.
Maybe finding a friend here wouldn’t be too hard, after all.