She hated there, if possible, more than her aunt and uncle’s.

The girls there were never given a chance to be friends, they were always doing things.

It wasn’t quite so bad as a real orphanage. It was privately funded, so it didn’t need to sell of it’s children to test things.

But it was still pretty bad.

Florence hated the colors the most of all. It was grey. Only grey.

The itchy wool uniforms were grey, the old (and often stained sheets) were grey, the walls, the floor tiles, the furniture, the people. She wanted to scream.

Her parent’s had been artists, color had been her life. Now it was gone.

After about a month she started calling them different things.

Light Black. Dark White. Storm Cloud. Fog.

She decided that she was going crazy and had to leave.

So one day she did.

Every Sunday the girl’s got the mail for the week. Florence had always found it funny that the mail came on Sundays, but not this week.

She was going to use Letter Sunday to get out, to color.