Only at Night Can We Escape

The wind was harsh that night. It whipped across the deserted streets chilling everything in its path. But, on that night when no other person in the world would have there, window open, across town in an old dormitory in the St. Boniface Academy for Children, I, Rayen Morana, sat in front of my only window with it wide open. The wind lashed into my small room covering it with an icy sensitivity that I could feel to my very core. My long bright blonde hair wrapped around my neck as the wind blew it around me. I sat on my bed that was assembled on the opposite wall to the window. My eyes were closed as I breathed deeply enjoying the smell of the cold wind that had a scent of an on coming snow. My patience was running low as I waited. He was late and he never once was late, never. Putting my head into my hands I tried not to think of all the ‘what ifs’, but I failed miserably. It was then when I decided that they had caught him, but the small thud that sounded from across me, made my heart leap. I looked up and saw my reason for living. But this is by no means the beginning of my story…
It all started when I was placed into the St. Boniface Academy for Children when I was three-years-old. My parents, I suppose, were unable to provide for me and dumped me at this hell hole with a back pack and a stuffed bear. I assume that they believed that the nuns that ran the facility were compassionate, caring people. They unfortunately were mistaken. The nuns are nothing like the cordial, happy, yet strict nuns you see in films. Here, they are the equivalent to Roald Dahl’s character Ms.Trunchbull. Awful, lonely women they are. I use to feel bad for them, but now I have no sympathy whatsoever. They have put me through to much.
By the time I was thirteen years old I came to the realization that I was not going to be adopted by any of the young, cheerful couples that came through the Academy at least twice a month. No one wanted a pubescent girl who rarely talked. All those couples wanted was a baby, someone they could raise, not someone who had already been brought up by the Witches.
So, here I am, an angry 17-year-old girl, with no hope and an attitude that could put even the most hormonal pregnant woman to shame.
Because of my belligerent and overbearing personality, many of the other kids never wanted to make friends with me. I don’t blame them though; I’m terribly mean and too good of a liar to be any ones friend. So, I spent most of my childhood in my own little world pretending I was some where else. That was until; Ethan Jacobs became a new addition to the Academy. I was 14 at the time and so was he. Both of his parents had recently died in a boating accident and he was left all by himself. When he came here he was completely happy go lucky. I remember being utterly confused; I couldn’t understand why he wasn’t upset or angry that his parents were killed. And that is how our odd friendship began.
The school was going on a field trip about two months after his arrival and something went wrong with the seating charts, thus letting us choose our seats. Of course, I chose a seat in the back, far away from the majority of small children that inhabited the Academy. Staring out the window, I was taken by surprise when I felt someone sit next to me. He didn’t say a word to me just sat with his hands folded and stared straight ahead. We went the whole trip near each other, but never speaking a word. Nevertheless, my curiosity and tenacity got the better of me and I ended up blurting out how I couldn’t believe he wasn’t upset over his parent’s death. When he explained that his parents weren’t the best and that they were actually quite abusive in more ways than one, I understood his absurdity.
From that day, we were inseparable. We spent our years together telling each other everything. Not that there is much to tell when you live in the same place. Yet, at night when he left to go to boys dormitories and I went to the girls I always had a sense of longing when I saw his frame walk away.
I never let it get to me, though he was always there when I needed him and I was there for him. We were each others own little support group.
All the same, sometimes having a support group isn’t always enough. By the time, we were both 17 neither of us could take another minute of the hell we were unable to choose. So we devised a plan.