First Few Paragraphs of Story

First few paragraphs of a story I'm writing, again. Feel free to post comments, complaints, compliments, questions, arguments, etc.

Have you ever wondered what the purpose in your life was? Why you were born, why some high being decided that you were fit to make it to an old age, why you deserve to be alive and healthy? Trust me, this has gone through my head plenty of times. I’ve often pondered what fate had in store for me. What great new experiences, or even possibly adventures, awaited me in this great bumpy road called life. The sad thing is, you only know for sure when it actually happens, and then it might be too late to say to your former self, There you go Rilie. This is what you get.

This is exactly what happened to me. Except way back when I was still a lowly orphan, I had no idea something so huge as what would eventually happen would come, because I was raised to believe that lives are too simple and quiet to have adventure in them.

Why? Well, maybe part of the reason was because I grew up in an orphanage, where you can basically guarantee that the most exciting thing that would happen to you is saving enough money to buy an ice cream cone or a fizzy drink. Then there was the fact that I grew up in a very small, secure town where probably the most ‘naughty’ thing someone had ever done was steal a coid or two off a wealthy folk’s coin purse. Everybody knew everyone. Hell, even the town’s orphanage kept its front door unlocked, even at night. I was a child with ignorance as high as the tallest mountain. Robbing a house? What kind of foolish talk was that! Murdering someone? Oh yeah, I’ve heard of that. In a book.

None of this ever crossed the small minds of townsfolk. Yes, there was always the possibility. But did we ever sit down and really think about that small possibility? Of course not. We’ve always been humble, always simple-minded, worrying only about the present, never pondering over the what-if’s, or the why’s. Women nursed their children, cooking and cleaning and standing at attention by their husband’s side, dressed with care and usually holding a baby or two in their fragile arms. Men strolled about the town, making themselves look important, their tailcoats gliding behind them, hats leaving their heads every few seconds to greet passersby. The blood that ran through the family’s veins. Nothing less.