Where do I start? I suppose the main theme of my life, is about a boy I once knew, a boy who was orphaned and practially deaf.
He was born on Mother's Day, oh sometime back, down the road a bit and just around the corner. When he was born, like most people, he had a mother and a father but by the time he was four years old he had become an orphan and soon afterwards was committed to a state institution for orphans.
Except for a few months when he was placed for adoption at the age of eight, he lived in the orphanage until he was eleven years old, at which time he was transferred to the State Juvenile Home, another large state institution, where he stayed until he was fourteen years old. At the age of fourteen he was then transferred to the Training School For Boys. The Reform School.
I never thought he was such a bad boy, anyway not so bad that they should have transferred him from one institution to another, finally to the reform school. But I guess the reason he was transferred from one institution to another was because, as they put it, he would not conform to the ways of the institutions. They hadn't seem to understand, he couldn't conform, not that he didn't want to. On top of all of that, he was almost deaf.
Now who would think, that nice looking boy in the above photographs would be such an aggravation to all of those adults? An aggravation, I guess he was for he was classified as a "Chronic Runaway." Each time he would "run" they would bring me back and try to straighten him out, as they put it, "break you of running away." Break him? I think they came very close to killing him. They tried to "Break him" but at the first opportunely he was gone again. I guess he had been a pain in the neck to them. I know, he felt they were a great deal of pain to him in many ways and in more than one place.
Above you will see the four faces of the Orphan Boy. When he was eleven years old. (Wearing a red belt and with red stripes on his pant legs.) The next photograph is of him in the State Juvenile Home, about two months prior to his thirteenth birthday. (Oh yes, he was smiling in that picture but in an hour the smile would be gone and there would be tears in his eyes.) In the next photograph he is in the girls' reform school, two weeks past his fifteenth birthday. (no that is not a typo, he was in the girls' reform school at the time that photogaph was taken) I point all of this out so those who may be interested, will know how the Orphan Boy appeared those years he was growing up in institutions, for he essentially grew up in institutions, not being released until he came of age. The fourth picture is how he looked in the last photo taken of him. Surprisingly he wasn't killed along the way.
About his handle, "The Orphan Boy." As he was growing up he was referred to as, "That orphan boy" or simply, "The Orphan Boy." During those years of growing up he was very much ashamed of being referred to that way but eventually he became proud to be called, "The Orphan Boy." Based on what those years cost him, I think he has earned that privilege.
Shortly after coming of age, the most wonderful thing in his life happened, he met the girl who would become his wife. They have two sons and one daughter. They were married for twenty-three years before his wife divorced him, I might add, for good cause. Many years have now passed since then, he never remarried and lives alone in Denver, Colorado, many, many miles from home and his family.
Vices? I don't think he has any. He doesn't drink, never did but maybe he does spend a lot of time looking for answers about a boy he once knew.
The purpose of my pages is to tell the story of a boy I once knew, a boy who I never want forgotten nor the life he had to live. Maybe this account will make a difference in another child's life. Hopefully, so less children around the world will not have to, when they grow up, look back and cry for the ones who once lived there.
This was not written out of anger nor bitterness, for that boy was never that. I have written it like it was, how he thought, how he felt and perceived life to be through those years. It is written only as the boy himself could have written it and now after it has been finished, I have found I no longer have the obsessive need to cry for a little boy who once lived there. But when Hell gets on the Net, I will surely send those people a message as to what they did to that boy.
Thank you for your time and patience. Larry Eugene. The Orphan Boy WARNING! By the author.All events, the names of all of the places and people herein are real, no one is protected, not even The Orphan Boy. All events portrayed in these pages happened to a young boy (who had no choice) but if you feel uncomfortable with child abuse in state institutions and elsewhere, in all of it's forms, sexual and otherwise, committed by adults outside of the institutions, by older "students" and by some of the staff of institutions who are paid to protect that child, if you can't deal with the real world as it is and you don't want your children to know, then I recommend you go no further. Hopefully, your children or grandchildren will never have to live the life The Orphan Boy was forced to live.
I received a message from a reader a short time back, he had asked, "If you could live your childhood over, how would you live it different?" I simply replied, "Make them kill me."
Before we leave this page I wish to extend my graditute to some of those who have helped me to accomplish what I have done here in these pages. First I would like to thank my ex-wife, "TweetiPi" (who I still love dearly) and her mother who both have been very supportive through the years in bringing these pages to a reality. To "Oprhan4" who has been very supportive and my eiditor over the months. "Orphan4" has given me a few laughs along the way when the going got tough -- I want to extend my graditued to my very good friend Harry Todd who recorded Amazing Grace espcially for my pages and whose MIDIs you will hear throughout these pages -- he has really brighten my life up at a time I was feeling very low for these pages have not been easy to write.