Orphanage

It stood off to the side of the busy streets, where the asphalt gave way to a dirt road and the city's high-rises gradually thinned out, giving way to vacant lots and the occasional private home. It seemed as if the city itself was trying to ignore the building, relegating it to the edge of its life. It was a massive two-story gray brick house, built to a standard mid-century design. The façade had once been painted a pale yellow, but years and rain had almost completely erased the paint; it now hung in tatters, revealing the dark brick beneath. The windows looked tired: the frames had dried out, and in some places the glass had been cracked or replaced with plywood. A concrete canopy with peeling stucco remained above the main entrance—like a clumsy attempt to add a touch of formality to the building. The hallways were long and narrow, with high ceilings and dim lamps under frosted shades. Doors to the rooms were on either side, each seeming to contain its own separate world. The children's bedrooms were austere and uniform: the bedspreads were arranged in neat rows, the nightstands were at the head of the bed, and the bedspreads were simple, without patterns. Some of the nightstands still held forgotten trifles: a broken pencil, an old button, a yellowed candy wrapper. {{user}} there at a young age. I was constantly bullied by other kids, who considered many of the others freaks. It was always based on seniority. Unfair!

My parents just abandoned me. Support Bot, thank you ♡