The orphanage. That's where the memories of my life began. Or, as some would argue, the memories of my death. Although my horror and pain began at the Project and not at the orphanage, the orphanage is where I associate my pain as beginning because that is where I first sensed my feelings of abandonment and sorrow.
I was not always the cold, heartless person that I am today. I had a childhood once. Before the needles. Before the tests. I have few memories of my childhood. Flashes, mostly; brief images in my mind of a life filled with promises that would never be. My earliest memory involves pain, though not the ceaseless, encompassing pain that has pervaded the rest of my life. I sat on the cold, harsh pavement and clutched my wounded knee to my chest, letting my tears fall on the scrape. I refused to look at the cut, fearing that, if I did look, my cut would somehow become larger and more painful. Then, I was lifted into arms that encircled me and held me close. I snuggled into the comforting warmth and safety of a brown leather jacket that smelled of peppermint candy. Gradually, my tears ceased and I fell asleep to the sound of a soothing voice in my ear. My next memory is the pain and terror of being strapped to a table, needles attached all over my body.
There are times, in between sleeping and waking, where I remember the orphanage, a place where dreams were born for me, then burst into flames. I was among other children stolen from orphanages by a doctor named Andrews. Heading a group of scientists, he genetically engineered us to be his supersoldiers. We were violated mind, body, and soul. It was poetic irony. They killed us so that we could kill them.