CHAPTER 3

My mom isn’t my first mom. She’s the third. I don’t know who my first mom is, but the first memory I ever had is that I’m in a dumpster. I was perhaps 2 or 3 years old at that time. I’ve dreamt of the dumpster once in a while in my sleep. I can’t remember what is inside the dumpster, but I do remember my hands being dirty.

I have a vague memory of something purple passing through. I don’t know what that is, but I never saw it again. I sat in the dumpster for hours until my second mom found me. To this day, I’m not sure if she’s associated with that purple object or not.

My second mom ran an orphanage. Strangely, there were many kids like me with a streak of red hair longer than the rest of their hair. I was envious at first, but I found something strange about them.

Once in a while, some of them would be called to my second mom’s office. Sometimes, my fellow housemate were called there because they did something to make her mad. Most of the times, they’ve done nothing. What’s constant was that they would return without the red streak on their hair. It just… turned into their original hair color. At first I thought that second mom colored their hair. But that doesn’t explain the screams. Some of them would return shivering. Some crying. All of them are afraid of being called. They would check their bodies for… something. They would also be afraid to let other kids touch them. When it first happened, I was jealous because I thought that they received a special treatment. But after a while, I’m starting to feel lucky that my hair isn’t red.

Those of us without any red hair were given a different treatment. Our heads were shaven clean. Dirt and filth were smeared on our face and limbs. Our clothes were ragged and dirty. We would enter a clean and pristine minivan. Then, we were dropped in slums. Our locations would rotate on a weekly basis. Everytime it happened, we would be given each others’ clothes. We were only tasked with holding a cardboard. I never knew what was written on it, but people kept putting their money on my bowl. Second mom called it our job and we should be proud of it. Some of the kids my age said that we were beggars. Some said slaves. At that time, I thought that I never beg for anything, so I’m not a beggar. Then slave would be my job. What else do I call it? My little mind only had two definition to work with.

One day, a woman saw me. She was nice and she gave me candy. She asked me to follow her. I didn’t because I was doing my job as a slave. The woman got mad. She tried to pull my hand. It hurts! I still remember the pain to this day! I resisted but she kept dragging me. I managed to break free and ran away. One of my second mother’s friend found me. She pulled me back to home. My second mom gave me special treatment in the house that day. I’m thankful for that. I’m also thankful that she didn’t do anything to me in her office.

Some years later, a lot of people enter the house. They wore strange clothes while holding weapons. They shot my second mom and brought me into their lorry. Back then, I thought that they were kidnapping us. It was only later on that I learned that they were actually rescuing us. They didn’t have any reason other than its their duties to do so.

I was brought to see some nice people. Some sort of counselor, I think. They gave us good food and cute clothes. I fell in love with bread. I hate cinnamon. One day, a woman came to see me. She’s my third mom. She adopted me into her house.

Now, I’m taken out of the house. I will never return back there. A stalker with dirty hands stole me away from my life. I’ll never forgive him. If I was given another chance, I want to repay him back for everything that he had done to me! He came in like a creep and used me as his canvas of crimes!

There is something with me right now. I don't know what it is, but it only peek at me at the edge of my view. I can only see its silhouette. Is... is that my stalker? No. It doesn't say anything. The weird guy would've said something creepy right about now. I want to speak, but nothing comes out.

The figure touches my forehead. It pulls something out of my forehead. It looks like a stone.

"Take good care of this Perfect Blent."

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