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.