We weren’t even called orphans. Instead we had an ID number of three digits tattooed on our ‘thenar eminence’. We were considered underneath the bottom of the barrel. Ultimate scum with no one’s armpit to snuggle into when we felt scared.

Even the grownups made disparaging remarks about us. Why were we so cruelly hated?

But there was one lady I recall who showed a little kindness? But she suddenly disappeared as soon as she’d arrived just because she gave a few of the very young ones a doll to play with.

The men in grey would huddle together whispering and writing on their clipboards. None of them would smile as they glanced over at us, no tenderness at all.

ID 294 was the first to go; screaming whilst clutching to whatever love she felt through the once blue-eyed, blonde haired dolly. Oh how our bodies broke to see her in such anguish, but still we were unable to shed our tears.

I still sit here on my bed, stripped bare, remembering the scenes. I guess I was the last on the list but something must’ve happened and I never got taken in the end. Everybody but me disappeared a very long time ago.

Then one morning I heard a scuffle of children’s feet, shrieks and laughter, clapping and whooping; a waft of happiness drifting through the lonely, cold corridors making them mildly warm once more. But then it turned silent again and I return to my familiar, paralysed state: looking at the dolls I ache to reach out and love.

Bryn was an introvert at heart preferring to tell his stories through a series of pictures. Never indulging much in the way of conversation at star studded parties, charity or prize giving events he’d simply nod or utter a few words where appropriate.

Bryn, a world renowned photographer, is a tortured soul. He’d met his kindred spirit at the age of five and his mission, really, was to find her again no matter what and at any cost. Her, being Sara.

At eighteen she’d declared her love for him whilst staring into the lense of his Nikon F2; too stunned yet elated to say anything at all Bryn had stuttered and merely smiled. But at the same time he had captured her essence in just one single click. It would haunt him for the rest of his life.

And that was the last time he ever saw her.

Bryn’s quest to find her over the next thirty three years; his burning desire, obsession and depression all journaled via an all mechanical, antiquated single-lens reflex camera. Some of the most insanely, exquisite women imprisoned onto a thirty five millimetre film; aching to mean something in his life but never being able to quite compare.

And Bryn would travel the world searching and taking his pictures. Once he even thought he had seen her, but he couldn’t know for sure as he wasn’t quick enough to grab his camera and anyway the crowds had somewhat engulfed them both at such an alarming speed.

The night of Bryn’s “Torn” exhibition was a stormy one. It was non-stop rain with most of the guests arriving bedraggled and a bit annoyed. That didn’t stop his work being bought though - all but one photograph forever present at every exhibition but never for sale. Sara.

Bryn silently paced the floor and he felt he could never be at peace. His life had felt like one wretched stretch; trying to feel what he had felt in those very few minutes when she realised he was the one. How cruel life can be and how he finally no longer wanted to participate.

The knocking at the window was slow and echoey. A lonely figure had been watching him from afar, waiting for the last couple to leave. The hairs on the back of Bryn’s neck rose as her voice resonated through the empty hall.

“Hello Bryn. It’s me. Sara.”

The little red man is adamant he’s not going to change. I actually feel a dead weight in my chest as I’m wondering what this person standing by me is thinking?

Am I weird? Do I mumble when I speak? Are my facets of information dull? Is my style too Tom-boy? Do I ask dreary questions?

I turn to her and she gives me a saccharine smile. I can see she senses my awkwardness just as much as I can tell she’d rather dive into the Co-op, behind us, and scrutinise every product on the shelf.

I don’t know her. I met up with two other mums at Nero for coffee and a natter and she’d come along and I hadn’t been fully prepared, mentally, for this impromptu gathering. Obviously she was close friends with Claire; both their daughters were best friends in school.

The little red man finally gave in to his small green rival. I felt a sudden sense of relief and the dead weight dissolve half hoping she’ll cross the road and go in the opposite direction?

To be fair she’d not said much at the coffee shop just chimed in when she’d felt necessary.

No such luck as she heads in my direction, home.

There’s some grocer stalls outside the working man’s club.

“They do great grapes there,” I pass on my honest recommendation.

“Yes. I go there sometimes I haven’t had their grapes though….”

I quicken my step. I’m at the end of my street.

“Have a good day then. Nice to meet you,” she’s lying, I can tell, as she’s practically sprinting across the road.

“It’s a coin in a bottle.” “Yes,” replied the solicitor. “Your great grandfather’s I believe.” “Ah ok. Just that I don’t remember my grandfather ever showing me?”

The solicitor gave me a pitying nod in my direction (which could have come across quite condescending I think), but instead I took it as my cue to wrap things up and take my inheritance home.

“What was the outcome, love?” My wife asked. “A coin in a bottle!” I shouted as I slumped in my trusty, tattered armchair. “Huh?” My wife burst her head out from the hole in the wall that connected the kitchen to the dining room, “interesting!”

I shrugged, to myself, feeling all sad and deflated. Nothing more was said and I placed my inheritance up on the fireplace mantelpiece.

Half an hour later we were both sitting at the table eating homemade chips ‘nd egg when the shrill doorbell rang.

“Mr Shaker! So sorry to disturb but I forgot to give you the accompanying letter,” the solicitor, earlier, exclaimed forcing the letter into my hand and then quick-stepped it back to her car.

“Oh! Thanks,” I mumbled with my mouth still chewing frantically.

My wife puzzled said, “everything alright?” “Solicitors forgot to give me a letter,” in which I read out loud;

‘Jack. I leave you your great grandfather’s coin (in a bottle). Do with it what you will. All my love…’

The letter was morosely to the point, short. I wished he had written more. My wife had obviously noticed my dejected expression as she summoned me over to sit with her on the couch.

We didn’t say anything for a while, just held hands and I enjoyed the silence. They say time is fleeting and I feel an ache in my heart.

“Come on love. Let’s put on the telly, think we’ll just catch the end of our favourite show,” my wife patted my hand.

Five years later Antique’s Roadshow actually arrived on the Rye near where we lived. My wife and I were so thrilled at the thought. We never even thought we’d actually appear on the telly, but there we were, my wife and I, smartly dressed, with my coin in a bottle.

After much scrutinising, odd facial gestures, “hmmm’s, ah’s” John Foster suddenly looked rather excited.

“So, when I see a coin like this, I start to get a little obsessed,” he laughed. “Tell me what’s the story behind it?”

For the first time in my life I stammered. Perhaps it was the beating sun, the crowds, the crew and maybe my tiredness that had caused it?

“I, I w..w…was left it by my grandfather five years ago when he passed. Sorry there’s no real story behind it just that I could do with it what I wished.”

Apparently I’d been so taken aback with Mr Foster’s evaluation I’d keeled over off of my chair. Oh the embarrassment - on live telly too!

“George V sovereigns, Mr Shaker, have varying values based on their rarity and condition. The coin despite its rattling around in a glass bottle happens to be in quite good condition. In fact this one dates from 1917! It can easily fetch up to five hundred thousand pounds at auction Mr Shaker.”

My wife and I still sit together and enjoy the Antique’s Roadshow. Every now and again I still glance over to the bottle with the coin on our mantelpiece.

Oh I know if you were me you’d have sold it in a heartbeat. But I have all I need; a wife who I love, daughters grown, married and happy. Our little house shelters us well and the good Lord keeps us clothed and fed. What more could I want?

You see my grandfather’s letter may have been short but his lifetime of love given was not. And that’s definitely something an old coin cannot replace.

I’ve been waiting for this moment most of my life. This corridor however, seems to be going on forever and a day, the door at the end remaining small and distant no matter how many steps I take.

The butterflies are starting to leap now. What if they say no? What if they hate me? What if they say I’m not good enough? What if and what if, what if and what if…?

I’m thirsty. Sweat is beading on my upper lip, but there is no respite; the sun blaring it’s way through the huge panes of glass is relentless, unforgiving.

My feet are dull and heavy but my mind is somewhat alert; “the Lord is my Rock, my fortress, my place of safety. He is my God, the Rock I run to for my protection….”

I’m startled. Where did that scripture come from? I think I recognise it but I’m feeling confused. What has this got to do with where I am right now?

In moments I suddenly feel a peace engulfing me and so also the door is near at last.

I knock. I knock and I knock again. Suddenly out of the corner of my left eye I see a familiar face; she too in a corridor of her own, my mother. But she’s looking through me, all sad. I call her out but she doesn’t hear. And then she disappears seemingly through her own door.

“But as for the cowardly, the faithless, the detestable, as for murderers, the sexually immoral, sorcerers, idolaters, and all liars, their portion will be in the lake that burns with fire and sulphur…”

More scripture! Repeating itself loudly in my ears, deafening and raging through my mind like a blood-thirsty bull.

“To those on my left, ‘Depart from me, you cursed, into the eternal fire prepared for the devil and his angels’.”

And now I remember why I am here.

My mother, I came to the conclusion (one week past my twentieth birthday), was a particularly pathetic excuse of a woman. Formerly Grace-Ann Shylock, one of eight, the shyest and the youngest of the brood and not much loved by her folk either.

My mother, it seemed, held onto these ever-forgiving almost pushover, people-pleasing traits. As if kindness could win over the darkest of souls. It didn’t always of course.

Grace-Ann met my dad, Davey, when she was sixteen at the local youth club. They’d only been courting six months apparently when she fell pregnant. Tossed out of her home the two of them went to live with his grandparents. My dad being only eighteen at the time felt he’d been robbed of his youth. My mother however, felt she had no choice: her path was set.

My grandparents soon passed when I was barely a year and when I was eleven my dad left for work one morning and decided not to come home. I don’t ever recall having an amazing relationship with my father and although it was my mother who tended to my every whim I somehow resented her.

Long, lonely months after his leaving I’d hear my mother weeping alone in her bed. I offered her no comfort, just longed for my father’s return instead.

Needless to say I never saw Davey again. I used to get the odd birthday card with his address on the back of the envelope but even they stopped.

Some nights when my mother thought I was severely depressed she’d come read her bible ever so softly over my head. I guess she was hoping for a change in her cold-hearted boy all grown up at eighteen, a man now. But I cursed every word!

It’s funny how time changes a heartless soul. I was thirty three and two months when I buried my mother; leukaemia had taken its toll and I never had the feeling or luxury to bask in her forgiveness. Yet alone ask for it.

In her last few hours my mother finally admitted the pain and torment of being forced against her will. They’d never even courted. But with me she’d found her one true love. And not once did she love me any less. With her finally gone my heart ached, and over time I was to get more bitter and angry.

So here I am at the end of the wrong corridor. Perhaps I should’ve forgiven my dad as I blew his brains out whilst he slept.

The door, at the end of my corridor, suddenly opens and now I see more clearly.

“Son,” Davey said waving me on over, “some of us are just born wrong and now we have to pay the price.”

I’ll never feel sorry for my choice and as my father and I walk farther into the creepy blackness I long for my mother’s scriptures, whispered softly over my head.

I can tell it’s nearly time. Autumn is nearly upon us; the leaves are turning into a charming array of gold, bronze and sepia’s. There’s a slight nip in the afternoon air, but the sun is still comfortably warming.

But as lovely as this season is I know a holiday is looming. I can’t help it, I’m a homebody and I like my comforts, routine, structure. I just don’t enjoy going away these days and I’m hardly what one calls an adventurist - not anymore anyway. Call me dull but I’m starting to feel old.

I did a double take as we approached the Boston Lodge reception. Sure enough this place is rather grand; the grounds, upon inspection, are vast, stunning and pleasurable for exercise. Exercise is the one thing I take seriously every day. I love it. I’m obsessed.

But I swear I’ve just seen Bob. I can almost smell him! Me and Bob didn’t get on from the first time we met nine years ago. It was a mutual dislike. As always he finds it highly amusing to invade my personal space! Bob always has that annoying twinkle in his eye, knowing perfectly well how to push my buttons. To be fair he is brilliant at it. It’s his skill.

I think Bob gets disgruntled because he is small. And I let him know about it. Ha ha. That said I know he despises me as much as I him, but I don’t honestly care.

No way! Jack has just gotten out of his car! I just saw the old, vintage blue Volvo pull up and I’d know it anywhere because it used to be mine. Jack and I got off to quite a promising start when we were first introduced, until I found out, that is, he wasn’t very loyal bar a few individuals in his life. You see in my opinion Jack is a bit of a user; likes you one minute until something more interesting comes along - like my ex, Trudy.

I’ve never forgiven him. Or her. Just three years ago I had spied them getting way too intimate in my local park. I was so sure they had seen me running on my usual route?

Jack admittedly tried to apologise to me shortly after the incident, but my heart was too crushed. For three full days. A month after that Trudy apparently moved away and for some weird reason I missed her terribly.

Anyway Jack has given up on working out our friendship, saying he didn’t understand my unforgiving attitude. You see I hold grudges well and it’s easy for me so that’s just too bad for Jack.

So what in the hell have I done to deserve to be in the space of yet another displeasing character? The funny thing is we’ve all admitted to disliking the other to our mutual friend, Charlie. Don’t ask me why Bob and Jack have an aversion for each other?Charlie doesn’t like to gossip (which is why I like Charlie in the first place) and I don’t like to pry….much.

So a holiday with these two nearby. Just great. Suddenly…..

“Bob!” “Jack!” “Rover!…..Walkies!”

With that I bound off into the nearest field. I do love my exercise after all!

For I am the menace you live with every day. I am the one who laughs and takes delight in your suffering. And when you go to bed rest assured I’ll say, “good morning” when you wake.

For I am the one who marvels at your defeatist attitude. And I grin at your hopeless ways; you don’t even try and you fail. I slap you on the back and say, “I told you so!” I know I have done well when I see you grimace, pain embedded deep in your brown eyes.

For I am the one that reminds you your future is bleak and there is no point. I take pride in the fact that you take one step forward, ten steps back with your sobbing face cupped awkwardly into your shaking hands.

For I am the one who sits by your side when you’re scared to face that big wide world. But I don’t bring your heart peace, I bring your mind chaos and there you stay alone for days in on end.

For I am the one who will be forever with you. And remember this: I’ll be your very last thought when you die. I promise.

For I will never pass away. For I will live for eternity. For I own everyone.

For I am FEAR.

I have a pain in my groin. I hate heights. I hate my brother even more for roping me into this (pardon the pun). My heart is in my mouth. Pain in groin intensifying by the second. Bile is building up in my mouth. I’m going to die. The cord is going to snap. Worse still what if my neck snaps? What if I poop my pants? Who invented this stupid bungee jumping thing anyway?

I hate my brother (did I mention that already?) I’m going to kill him….

I want my mummy….

I have lain here for more than a hundred years, every morning for thirty five minutes. Come rain, wind or shine. I like it best when my body is cold, the rain patting softly against my chest, my brown hair entangled in the long grey-green grass. I live in a time where women are persecuted, men are lazy and children are adored. I lie here arms outstretched as if reaching all away around this dying planet.

I am one hundred and thirty eight years old. I’m tired, bored of being alive and I long for my two hundredth birth-day when I can lie in my spot and pass to the other side. I will raise my cold, blue hand gently and wave. They will see me from afar, my signal. My signal that I want to die and leave this odd existence.

Then the bodies, in white, will draw near yet I cannot make their faces? Their presence is not good nor evil. They just are. I don’t even care to think much of what they will do, but I’ve heard rumour that their way is quick. But I have a long time to live before I can start to feel joyous of my departure.

When I was five I was given the title of ‘Keeper’. My parents were proud but hesitant.

Author note; just an intro at the moment