Thoughts from a Desk

"Time out!" yelled Mrs. Cole. Aw, applesauce, thought the young Tom Riddle. He pocketed the new yo-yo he had stolen from Eric and crept to the small desk in the corner of the room before he got in any more trouble. Mrs. Cole glared down at him while patting her hand with the leather strap she used for beatings. As she went on watching the other children scream and cry and fight over the few toys there were, Tom waited patiently at the desk until his five minutes was up.

Tom knew that there were exactly eleven children his age and one-hundred-eighty-three children total in the orphanage. Tom also knew that Mrs. Cole watched everyone by herself, mostly. A young student between the ages of twenty and twenty-five came every weekday to teach the older children for three hours, while Mrs. Cole focused on the younger children. "Older" meant ten years old to fourteen years old. There were two children above the age of fourteen at the orphanage during the summer. Both were being sponsored to go to a school during the other seasons by some old philanthropist who didn't want the burden of having a teen in their homes. Tom knew that when the other children turned fifteen, they'd be sent away to some teen school that was "very highly rated" according to Mrs. Cole, and a "flophouse" according to the older children. In other words, it was a dump were dopes learned to gamble and got (maybe) two meals a day. Tom was already planning to ditch the "teen school" and live on the streets. He knew he was worth more than the scummy ginks. He knew he was special. Tom knew that one day he would show all of these fools that he was better.

In fact, Mrs. Cole didn't know that Tom had stolen the yo-yo from Eric. She just thought he was jingle-brained, so any time a smirk crossed his face, it meant he had done something wrong. Also, she was still angry with him for wetting the bed the night before, and she was angry with the five other boys his age for not taking the mickey out of him for his constant bed-wetting. Truthfully, they had all been afraid of him since he hung Billy's rabbit. That was fun.

Tom hated his name. Tom Marvolo Riddle. He sneered. His father who wouldn't even acknowledge that he existed had that name. He liked Marvolo, though. He new almost nothing about the man, but he liked the name. He told the others to call him Marvolo whenever they addressed him, which was rarely. Tom began using his finger to trace anagrams of Marvolo. Volaram. Ramovol. Varloom. Tom hated the desk. He was often stuck sitting in the corner at that bloody desk. He wanted to burn it. Tom wished he could torch the desk. And the whole bleeding orphanage too while he was at it.

A spark. Fire. The desk was on fire. Tom scrambled away from it. He looked at the site. Beautiful. He grinned at the blaze in its magnificent glory until Mrs. Cole rushed over to put the dying desk out of its misery. The room was quiet except for Tom's heart beating from the exhilaration. Mrs. Cole stuttered at him a sort of garbled, "what happened." Tom shrugged. He knew he'd get some lashings, but he'd never have to sit at that desk again.

Six-year-old Tom felt free as his eyes burned with a vehement vindication.