Chapter 1 – Platform Thirteen - Nina
The voice of our caregiver comes through the speakers. In a harsh tone, she announces that we have two minutes to be in our beds. When the intercom goes silent, spoons start clinking faster against bowls, someone turns on the formula warmer, and someone else hides in a corner and starts crying.
I turn my head toward the sky. It's estimated that there are between one hundred and four hundred billion stars up there. Even though those beautiful, flickering bodies stay stubbornly silent, it feels like each one is trying to whisper that I'm not alone.
It's strange that stars remind me of life more often than people do.
"Time for bed, children," another caregiver warns us.
Children.
That's what they always call us. I'm seventeen, and to them I'm still just one of the children. It's probably easier than calling us abandoned.
Someone turns off the light. The dining hall sinks into half-darkness, and I'm still sitting by the window. I don't care about the rules.
That's why I deliberately don't move, even though I should. My first small act of rebellion - one no one will notice anyway.
I used to follow everything. Even that stupid rule saying you're only allowed to cry until ten p.m. Whoever came up with that must have had something seriously wrong with them. I'll never understand how you can forbid someone from crying over their parents. Or over someone they loved with their whole heart.
My eyes drift to the empty seat where Mika used to sit. They said he ran away. They talk about him like a criminal now, but I know he just couldn't live here any longer.
The media searched for him for a while. Then everything went quiet. If I disappeared, it would probably be the same. First a child alert, then silence. I wonder if he would really look for me.
And yet I'm still looking for him.
The group home would probably give up too. To them, I'm a problem. Maybe they'd even be relieved to have one less future suicide on their hands. They wouldn't have to hide my razor blades or check my arms, legs, and body anymore.
They'd have more time for coffee.
I pull my sleeves down to cover the new cuts.
Does suffering ever end? Will there be a moment when I stop hurting myself? I don't know how to describe what I feel. I'm a wreck, and I know something is wrong with me. My hands burn, demanding pain. The razor tempts me more and more - but I can't.
There's no space left on my body.
With my head lowered, I go back to my room. In the small, dark cubicle, air clicks inside the radiator. Someone coughs too loudly in the hallway.
It irritates me, but I try to calm down.
At one in the morning I'm still awake. It's always like this. I try for hours, then I just pretend I've fallen asleep.
Above my head, the emergency light blinks. It's the only light that never turns off. Sometimes I laugh to myself that they leave it on to show there's still some hope for a better tomorrow.
There isn't. We all know that here.
Through the thin wall I hear little Zoya crying. She's five years old, has eyes like coins and a heart shattered into tiny pieces. She's asked several times today whether her mom will come for her.
"Of course," we lied.
She cries louder now, relentlessly.
Everyone pretends to be asleep, and she'll fall asleep again with the hope that tomorrow her mom will definitely show up. No one has the courage to tell her the truth: her mom isn't coming back.
I roll onto my side. On the windowsill lies an old key.
Mika used to play with it before falling asleep. He wondered if it fit the front door. One evening he decided it did—then he left through the window anyway.
He left the key behind so he wouldn't come back.
I pull the blanket up to my chin. It smells like old detergent, but at least it's soft.
I miss him so much. They say that if one twin suffers, the other feels it too. So which of us hurts more?
I close my eyes and see Mika with his backpack slung over one shoulder, smiling, eyes full of belief. Before he disappeared, he whispered, "Don't let them break you, sis. I love you."
Since then, nothing has been the same. I don't know how to dream about a family like other girls do. I don't believe in adoption, or holidays, or that anyone means well. Sometimes I even envy those idiots from school who have parents waiting for them at home.
I open my eyes and stare at that damn light. Along with the radiator noises, I hear music. I don't know where it's coming from. Maybe the street. Maybe my head. I think it's him playing. I think it's a sign.
I'm shaking all over. I've thought about running away so many times I'm afraid to count, so what am I scared of now? Dreams do come true, don't they?
I get up. Barefoot, I cross the cold carpet and pick up the key. The cold bites into my fingers, but instead of going back to bed, I open the window just a crack.
I breathe in. It smells like wet grass, peonies, and citrus. From the street I hear two guitars. Someone is trying to play Dreamer, but it barely works. Maybe the strings are broken. Or maybe it's Mika, still learning.
I put the key back on the windowsill and return to bed. I don't close the window. I need a little freedom.
When I fall asleep, I dream that we're running together. I don't know where, but it's beautiful. There are no fences, schedules, or rules. Just the street, streetlights, and laughter.
The intercom cuts through the dream. "Prayer in five minutes," it announces.
Morning looks the same as always. First prayer on our knees, then porridge.
Today it's just quieter. We get the news about Max's suicide. He was the boy who always helped everyone else. He could have lived, but loneliness destroyed him.
"Ten spoonfuls of porridge… eleven… twelve…" I count so I won't cry.
"Gaitz, to the office," the caregiver says.
"After breakfast."
"Now."
I stand up without protesting and go to the first floor.
In the office I notice a plastic fern, a diploma on the wall, and a mug that says Capybara Coffee Lover. The director really wants to be "up to date." Or she's just… strange.
I sit across from her. She looks at me sharply.
"The window was open last night."
"It was."
"You know the rules here."
"I don't."
She raises an eyebrow. I know that look. Careful.
But I don't care.
"Don't start," she says.
"You started," I reply. "Because of you my brother ran away. Because of you, one of us is dead."
Silence falls. The clock ticks like a bomb.
"You can talk to the psychologist," she says more gently. "If something is troubling you"
"What troubles me is your mug."
She freezes.
"Excuse me?"
"Nothing."
She sighs and slides a folder toward me.
"Sign this and go to school."
I sign and leave.
In the hallway, I pass some girls.
"We heard you dream about jumping the fence."
I smile.
"I think about it."
"Then do it. No one's keeping you here."
I stop for a moment. Leaving this place is hard, but I know I don't belong here. I'm not understood. I feel like I need to be somewhere else - maybe even with my brother. But before I find him, I'll go to school first, just to make sure this is the right decision.Have some idea about my story? Comment it and let me know.