The Call of the World

The rain hammered against the corrugated iron roof of the orphanage, a relentless drumming that mirrored the frantic beat of my heart.

I huddled deeper into the thin blanket, the chill seeping into my bones despite the summer night.

Fifteen years.

Fifteen years I'd spent within these drab, grey walls, a life marked by a quiet, gnawing loneliness. Tonight, though, the loneliness was a sharp, piercing ache.

I'd overheard the orphanage matron, whispering to the groundskeeper.

"…foster family… gone… accident…"

The words, fragments of a shattered hope, echoed in my mind. A family and a chance. It had all been so close.

A sob choked in my throat.

I wasn't crying for myself, not really. I was crying for the idea of family, the warmth of belonging that had been dangled before me was snatched away.

I was crying for the future I've dared to imagine, a future painted in hues of laughter and shared meals, of bedtime stories and whispered secrets.

A sudden, violent gust of wind rattled the windows, and a piercing shriek cut through the storm's roar that was followed by a sickening crunch.

I instinctively knew what it was.

The ancient oak tree at the edge of the property, it's gnarled branches reaching like skeletal fingers, had finally succumbed to the storm.

Fear, cold and sharp, pierced me. I'm always been afraid of that tree. I've dreamt of it, its roots snaking through the earth, reaching for me in the dark.

I scrambled out of bed, a primal urge to escape gripping me. I instinctively knew that I had to get away from the tree.

I burst out of the dormitory, the rain lashing against my face, the wind whipping my thin cotton pajamas around me like a shroud.

I ran, heedless of the darkness, driven by a terror I couldn't explain but I didn't see the fallen branch until it was too late.

It lay across my path, a dark, silent predator.

I tripped, my ankle twisting beneath me. I cried out, a small, lost sound swallowed by the storm.

Then, the world went white. A blinding flash of lightning illuminated the scene for a split second.

I, sprawled on the muddy ground, my face pale and contorted in a mask of pain and fear, the massive oak branch pinning him beneath its weight.

The thunder that followed was deafening, a final, brutal punctuation mark on my short, tragic life.

The rain continued to fall, washing away the last vestiges of my existence, leaving only the storm and the broken oak, a silent witness to my untimely end.