Categories > Original > Fantasy > Dom's Story
My name is Dominique Bigler. But my friends call me Dom, and you can too if you like. I was born to a woman of whose name I do not even know, but not to a father, in the year 1806. I was instantly put into a orphan home in France a week after I was born, so I was told. I have no clue what ever happened to my genetic mother, nor my father. I have reason to believe my father either died, or abandoned my mother, while she carried me in her womb.
Not only was I born in France, but I grew up there too. From the day of my birth, to the day I write this, I stayed a true French fellow. Whole heartedly keeping to my French ways and rights, I speak French whenever I need not speak other words for those around me to understand, I dine on French foods, though pourly made by the lack of my cooking skills, I read and write French whenever other languages are not needed, and I dress to my French ways as Frenchmen of the early 1900s would.
While growing up in the orphanage I was put in, I nearly made more than 3 friends. A girl of whose name I do not even remember, a boy whose name was Delroy, and probably the most important friend I've ever made, Francis. The girl was taken by an elderly woman when I was about two, which is why I don't remember her that well. Delroy was adopted by a kind woman and man, also when I was around two. The reason I remember him so well I do not know.
But Francis stayed. No one ever wanted him, and I never knew why. He was one of the most beautiful boys ever to exist; at least I thought so. His hair was as shiney and long as a girl's may be. It's colour was a deep black, with the shine of brownish purple in it. His skin was a creamy pale, almost white. His face was softly detailed, a fine, pointed nose, a soft, rounded jaw line, low eyebrows, and the most beautiful lips I've ever come to see on a boy; gently smooth and heart shaped, and almost never smiling. But the most pecular thing on this boy was his eyes. Shy and secret keeping, the colour a mix of reds, blues, and purples.
While I was also a fine looking boy, I was not ever as beautiful as Francis. My hair was just a dark, shiney, ink black, always pulled back into a loose ponytail when it was long enough to be done so. My skin was a light tan, nothing special or spectacular. My face, finely detailed as it was, was never as godly as Francis' was. I had a young, round nose, which was often called "cute" by the female caretakers. My jaw line was sharp, my eyebrows always raised high in a happy way. I had the youngest, biggest eyes in the home, the colour a bright, blueish gray; even though they were always sheilded with glasses, from the day I could see straight, my eyes were still fondly loved by some of the others. And my mouth, with it's small, chapped lips, was always pulled up into a grin. Despite my life, I was a very happy child.
Not only was I born in France, but I grew up there too. From the day of my birth, to the day I write this, I stayed a true French fellow. Whole heartedly keeping to my French ways and rights, I speak French whenever I need not speak other words for those around me to understand, I dine on French foods, though pourly made by the lack of my cooking skills, I read and write French whenever other languages are not needed, and I dress to my French ways as Frenchmen of the early 1900s would.
While growing up in the orphanage I was put in, I nearly made more than 3 friends. A girl of whose name I do not even remember, a boy whose name was Delroy, and probably the most important friend I've ever made, Francis. The girl was taken by an elderly woman when I was about two, which is why I don't remember her that well. Delroy was adopted by a kind woman and man, also when I was around two. The reason I remember him so well I do not know.
But Francis stayed. No one ever wanted him, and I never knew why. He was one of the most beautiful boys ever to exist; at least I thought so. His hair was as shiney and long as a girl's may be. It's colour was a deep black, with the shine of brownish purple in it. His skin was a creamy pale, almost white. His face was softly detailed, a fine, pointed nose, a soft, rounded jaw line, low eyebrows, and the most beautiful lips I've ever come to see on a boy; gently smooth and heart shaped, and almost never smiling. But the most pecular thing on this boy was his eyes. Shy and secret keeping, the colour a mix of reds, blues, and purples.
While I was also a fine looking boy, I was not ever as beautiful as Francis. My hair was just a dark, shiney, ink black, always pulled back into a loose ponytail when it was long enough to be done so. My skin was a light tan, nothing special or spectacular. My face, finely detailed as it was, was never as godly as Francis' was. I had a young, round nose, which was often called "cute" by the female caretakers. My jaw line was sharp, my eyebrows always raised high in a happy way. I had the youngest, biggest eyes in the home, the colour a bright, blueish gray; even though they were always sheilded with glasses, from the day I could see straight, my eyes were still fondly loved by some of the others. And my mouth, with it's small, chapped lips, was always pulled up into a grin. Despite my life, I was a very happy child.
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