The next day was a slow walk toward hell. The morning went by with classes and chores. As Wilson ate breakfast and then lunch he watched the doors and the edges of the hallways from the corner of his eyes. Some children were more carefree today. Others like him knew what was coming and knew they couldn’t avoid it. The topic was one that the priests talked about often. Punishment and retribution, mercy, and forgiveness. He knew that the time was soon approaching for the payment of failure.

It didn’t matter what kind of failure. They all found a way to fail in this blessed orphanage. Failing was something they had done from an even younger age. That priest made sure they were reminded of it.

Wilson finished up his lunch bringing his plate, cheap fork, and spoon to the bucket for the children assigned to clean up to take care of. As the pieces clattered into the bucket with the rest of the dishes he heard the priest’s voice. It was disappointing but expected. The time for work had come.

“I see that almost everyone has had a good meal,” said Priest Damon. “Some of you will be with me today. You know who you are. We will be working outside today. I know you can work hard out there. If you hurry then you can catch the last of the overcast sky.” Priest Damon scanned the group of children. Some hurried to move. Others were frozen in place. “Let’s get moving shall we.”

Wilson hurried his feet and matched step with Greg as he and the other kids in trouble followed behind the priest. The seven kids in their group ranged in age. Each knew the process and did not complain. There was no chatting or whispered conversations as they left the orphanage building. They passed the afternoon construction workers who gave them all a glance before returning to their work. Wilson almost hoped that they would be put in with the construction crew to help assemble some of the expanding buildings. Priest Damon just scoffed as he passed the workers and marched passed quickly. He didn’t even check the children behind him. They knew not to leave the line.

They crossed the street and turned down the road. The streets were less busy at this hour. Most everyone had work to do or places to be. Wilson’s mind spun as he tried to guess where they were being led. Some punishment sessions brought them to the same places. Others felt more random. He tried getting a read on the adult in front of him but didn’t want to stand out with his focus. Wilson mentally checked off various places they had passed or were too distant from that wouldn’t make sense to walk to.

“Unless he is intentionally walking us around in circles,” Wilson thought.

It didn’t take much longer for the group to arrive at their destination. Wilson cursed himself for not remembering this destination earlier. The park was obviously going to be one of the destinations for punishment. A place of fun and enjoyment during free time twisted into a chore and physical work. This park varied from the smaller one set up near the orphanage. The small playground was set up for fewer kids and different games. For larger groups and the older kids, the choice of playground became the forest just beyond the walls.

The park on the other hand was for adults, events, and in its current state, nothing. This patch of land had been carved out in front of the city administration buildings but had fallen into disregard. The grass was a bit out of control. The trees and bushes could use some trimming. All things Priest Damon expected them to do. It didn’t matter if the park would return to its previous state in a week or two. The tools were laid out and work had to be done.

“Everyone grab a tool,” said Priest Damon. “There should be one for each of you. Get started. You know my expectations. Now go exceed them.”

As the instructions rang out, they were quickly followed. There was a rush to grab a tool. Greg, Wilson, and the others easily recognized which tools were which. The tools that would make the next hours easier or harder on themselves. It was unlikely that there would be a switching of tools or jobs halfway through. What they got was up to luck. Even if some might fail as a result.

Greg and Wilson rushed to grab a tool. They didn’t have much time to scan the pile. There were seven tools for seven people. Greg grabbed a scythe to cut the grass. Wilson took a smaller trimmer for the bushes and trees before backing away as quickly as he could.

“Everyone get started. Don’t forget to bag the trash, trimmings, and whatnot. There is no need to make a bigger mess of things. Only interrupt me if there is an emergency,” said Priest Damon. He slid into a chair already set up to survey the park. He opened up a book and started quietly reading.

Greg hurried over to the path circling the park. Grass and weeds had overgrown the edges and spread wildly. He looked back toward the priest with annoyance on his face before starting on the work. Priest Damon was in a world of his own. The orphans followed their orders. There was brief fighting over the last of the tools, but it ended quickly with a look from the priest. Soon they were all at work even if they weren’t enthusiastic about it.

Greg and Wilson set to work. Their faces were grim with the knowledge that this was their punishment for some perceived failure. The sun beat down on their backs as they toiled, the scythe and trimmer in their hands feeling like lead weights. The other children were scattered around the park, each focused on their own task, but the shared resentment towards Priest Damon was palpable in the air.

As Greg swung the scythe, the long grass fell in clumps at his feet. He paused for a moment, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. His eyes darted towards Priest Damon, who sat in his chair, engrossed in his book, seemingly oblivious to the children's suffering. Greg's jaw clenched, and he gripped the scythe tighter, imagining for a brief moment what it would be like to turn the tool on the priest instead. He cut a line in the grass digging the scythe into the dirt below.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

Wilson, meanwhile, was wrestling with a particularly stubborn bush. The trimmer seemed dull, and he had to put all his strength into each cut. His arms ached, and his hands were blistered, but he knew better than to complain. Complaining only led to more punishment, and more work. He glanced over at Greg, catching his eye for a moment. They shared a look of understanding, a silent acknowledgment of their shared hatred for the man who had brought them here.

He knew the man before them didn’t care how the park turned out. As long as they did something at all did it matter? The mayor of the city would maybe step into the park once a month. Only for bigger events would it be trimmed and done so by a professional. Wilson brought his shears closer to the roots of the current bush he was working on. He pulled the two parts together as tight as he could. The branches twisted and bent out of place. He was surprised that the shears were still holding up. With a snap, the branch fell from the rest of the bush. Wilson hurriedly pulled it out from the bush and threw it toward the buckets of trash pieces. He smiled at the work he had done. It was a small piece of imperfection marring the rotting park.

As the hours dragged on, the park slowly began to take shape. The grass was trimmed, the bushes were neat, and the trash was bagged and ready for disposal. But the children took no pride in their work. It was just another task, another way for Priest Damon to exert his control over them.

Finally, as the sun began to dip toward the horizon, Priest Damon closed his book and stood up. He surveyed the park with a critical eye, his lips pursed in disapproval. "It'll do," he said, his voice dripping with disdain. "But next time, I expect better. Now, gather up the tools, and let's head back."

The children scrambled to obey, their bodies aching and their spirits low.

As they trudged back towards the orphanage, Wilson fell into step beside Greg. "I hate him," he muttered under his breath, his voice barely audible over the sound of their footsteps.

Greg nodded; his eyes fixed on the ground. "Me too," he whispered back. "One day, we'll be free of him. One day, we'll make him pay for what he's done to us."

But for now, they had no choice but to endure. They had to keep their heads down, do as they were told, and hope that someday, somehow, they would find a way out of this hell. As they approached the orphanage, they could see the other children milling about, their faces etched with the same weariness and despair that Greg and Wilson felt in their hearts. Greg felt the soreness in his back. With each swing of the scythe, he had hunched at least a little. His hands felt raw and so did Wilson’s.

Though they had accomplished their task at the park there was still work left to be done. The scattered clippings and buckets of leaves, branches, and more needed to be gone. It wouldn’t do to have them left behind and they needed to learn how to clean up after their mess after all. This was their punishment.

The buckets were slowly dragged away from the park. Each weighing more than any of the children. There were no wheels on the old buckets. Wilson knew the path and so did the others. They dragged the buckets closer and closer to the walls where they could then be dumped in the forest. Priest Damon led the way walking slower so that he could enjoy his book and the sounds of the groaning kids. There were two kids to a bucket. For an unlucky child, they carried the bucket by themselves. Carrying it with a partner barely helped the weight. They had filled the buckets to the brim. They stuffed them as tightly as they could. There would be no second trip back to the park to load more scraps.

Priest Damon had often used the buckets as a metaphor in his teaching. They were the weights of evil on their souls. The continued pain they would go through if evil continued while under the watch of the orphanage and church. Repentance was for those who wished to change and actively did so.

Wilson and Greg trudged along with the other children, their muscles straining under the weight of the heavy buckets. The rough handles dug into their palms, leaving angry red marks on their skin. They could hear the labored breathing of their companions, punctuated by the occasional grunt of pain or frustration.

As they neared the forest, Priest Damon slowed his pace even further, seemingly lost in thought. He closed his book and tucked it under his arm, his eyes fixed on some distant point ahead. The children exchanged wary glances, unsure of what to expect from the unpredictable priest.

"You know," Priest Damon said, his voice cutting through the silence like a knife, "this is all for your own good. The pain, the suffering, the hard work - it's all meant to purify your souls, to cleanse you of the evil that lurks within."

He turned to face the children, his eyes glinting with a strange light. "The world is a harsh place, full of temptation and sin. It's my job to prepare you for it, to make you strong enough to resist the devil's snares."

Wilson felt a shiver run down his spine at the priest's words. Something was unsettling about the way he spoke as if he took pleasure in their pain and hardship. He glanced over at Greg, who met his gaze with a look of grim determination. As they reached the edge of the forest, Priest Damon gestured for the children to dump the contents of their buckets. They obeyed, their arms trembling with exhaustion as they tipped the heavy loads onto the ground.

The priest watched them with a critical eye, his lips curled into a slight sneer. "Remember," he said, his voice low and menacing, "this is just a taste of what awaits you if you stray from the path of righteousness. The fires of hell are far worse than any punishment I could devise."

With that, he turned and began to walk back towards the orphanage, leaving the children to follow in his wake. Wilson and Greg fell into step beside each other once more, their hearts heavy with the weight of Priest Damon's words.

"He's wrong," Greg whispered, his voice barely audible over the sound of their footsteps. "What he's doing to us isn't right. It's not about making us stronger or purer - it's about control. He wants to break us, to make us into his obedient little puppets."

Wilson nodded; his jaw clenched tight. "I know," he murmured back. "Keep quiet. He might be listening. We will talk later. He holds all the power here.”

They filed inside, returning the tools to their proper place and heading towards the dining hall for dinner. The smell of the food turned their stomachs, but they knew they had to eat. They needed their strength for whatever tomorrow might bring.

As they sat down at the long tables, Greg leaned in close to Wilson. "We have to stick together," he said, his voice low and urgent. "We can't let him break us. We have to be strong for each other."

Wilson nodded, his eyes meeting Greg's with a fierce determination. "We will be," he said, his voice steady despite the fear that gnawed at his gut. "We'll survive this, no matter what it takes."