Silas - D5 [FINISHED!]

I have never really cared much for my appearance - though I've tried to steer clear of that whole perception that people believe every single orphan looks like. I'm not grimy, or barefooted, or wear rags. In fact, I guess that I shape up pretty well, for an orphan kid. My hair is a dark brown - almost black, in dim light - not too scruffy, but never perfect. Short, of course - because I can't stand it getting too long. It's already bad enough short and wavy without it getting out of hand. My eyes are brown like dirt, and I often wonder if they were like my mother's. Though hers were kind and caring, mine are sharp and uninterested. My facial structure is chiselled at odd angles, high cheekbones and eyebrows full and prominent above my eyes. My mouth is pulled into what seems to be a permanent scowl, though even a smile looks sour and out of place in my expressions.

It's not like we're underfed at Sycamore, or anything - it's just not a feast. 3 meals a day - breakfast, lunch dinner. Same old, same old. I get my nutrition and that, but I'm still skinny. Not overly skinny - but a few pounds lighter than your average sixteen year old male. My skin, the colour of sand, stretches across my long limbs, constricts them. I'm not generally fussed about what I wear - I always seem to get the out-grown hand me downs from the older boys of Sycamore, warn-out jackets and jeans, sketchy shoes and too-big jumpers. Third-hand clothes for a third-hand boy.

Distant is the first word that pops into my mind. I spend most of my time up in my room, avoiding everyone and letting no-one in but Arwen. I am moody and temperamental and gloomy and am certainly not pleasant company. I'm not sure why Arwen tolerates me the way she does, for no-one else here does. I don't really speak to anyone except the kids that reside in these old, creaking wooden walls.

Everyone else is so goddamn judgemental, and at least Sycamore knows how it feels. We're all abandoned, alone, unsure of ourselves. Of who we are or where we came from. That is one thing, if anything at all, that we can all relate to. Our personalities are so different and contrasting and clash almost all the time, but at the end of the day, we understand. I respect that about the other kids (never, ever utter the word 'orphan' in these walls) - although they drive me up the wall most of the time, it is nice to know that other people are going through this together. Alone, in our own separate ways, but together, at least.

Although I am quiet and tend not to speak often (conversation scares me so), they say that when I do, I sound wise and intellectual. Perhaps it's because I do so much think, think, thinking that when I do speak, my words are already aligned and set out for me. I do a lot of reading, picking up new words and phrases and placing them into the collection in my head, manipulating them to make sense in my mind. Often others don't quite understand me or what I'm trying to say, and that frustrates me. I try again, speaking in more simpler terms, but still, I fail. So much so that I don't even bother trying to explain what I mean. If it makes sense in my head, then what else matters?

I once tried to explain to the others how to calm Arwen down, for emergencies, or the grave thought of me no longer living in Sycamore, but again, useless. How do you explain loss to people who have never had someone to loose to begin with? The anger, the guilt, the hopelessness. The wanting to switch places, the constant mental strife, the begging with whatever Gods there were to make something happen. Make a change. Every day that passes in my life is another day that my mother could still be here. Another year that my Grandma could have used to take care of herself instead of me.Grief is hard, but guilt. That is the hardest of them all.