The Numbers on Her Wrist

6

A/N We got to #404 in Action one day!!! Can't believe it still!! Reads/votes/comments/shares are all appreciated! I love you all! You'll make your humble little writer here very pleased. :P

Also, in this chapter, I couldn't find the exact height of the wall, so I made it up. (It will make sense when you read this part  :P)

There is a weird feeling that everyone gets in the pit of their stomach, in the back of their throat, and in the middle of their chest. It appears in the face of danger, in the face of fear, and in the face of excitement.

In all honesty, I believe that there is only one word in the English language, or any language in fact, to describe this feeling: fire.

The warmth. The burning. The freedom.

The feeling and the fire are the same in all ways but one; one is felt and seen, while the other is invisible; I live for the feeling that makes my chest burn and my heart race. My street fighting allows for my fill every other night, but while I wait for the next meeting in a dark warehouse or abandoned building, I need to find my own way to make the flames spark.

Today, I find that heights have the most smoke.

There are always many people that visit the Brooklyn Bridge everyday, whether they be tourists or natives to this city, whether they are site-seeing or just taking a jog, I can barely find a spot to be alone.

But there are days, when rarely anyone shows to walk across the old bridge, and today is one of them.

The bright morning has darkened to ashen gray, long shadows cast from buildings, and storm clouds are releasing their fury onto the people and umbrellas below.

I can only smile as rain splatters against my cheeks, my hood unable to protect my face from the sideways rain, and the wind whips stray pieces of my hair that has fallen from my braid. Thunder rolls against the sky, lightning flashing in a dull yellow illuminates the concrete and wires that surround me, and a small street lamp buzzes it's light in an attempt to remain alive as it's power runs low.

I glance around; there is no one here but me and an old man who hides under a small ledge, hoping not to get wet. His eyes are turned from me, though, and I set my hands against the first edge of the bridge's structure, on the middle column.

I grunt softly, catching onto a handhold with my right fingers and lifting my legs up higher. It would be almost impossible for anyone, no matter what their strength and dexterity, to I will not be able to climb the entire way like this, but thankfully the bridge has a few features that allow me to make it to the top. Two fences made of wires and cables separates the three pathways of the bridge, which then come closer together- narrower- at around 25 feet about the main area. The fence is just straight wires in the middle, but at the edges, it is crisscrossed by horizontal lines too; this will help me scale the brick wall that houses an American flag on top.

I flick my hair from my eyes, my boots slipping slightly as I place them on a loose stone, which promptly crumples to the ground. I smile, looking down at my six feet of progress, and then up to the 117 left. My biceps burn and my breathing begins to become heavier as I pull myself higher, the few feet turning to around two dozen as I reach the first part of the metal fence that is attached to the wall. The metal woven ropes stretch from one edge of the bridge to the other, and it is the perfect perch for anyone with a favour of heights, but my eyes are set on the top of the brick wall, where the flag billows in the air.

Keeping my weight on my feet and my left hand holding me steady, I curl my fingers around the two inch steel wires, testing my weight as I do every time. It holds firmly, only swaying in the wind. I smile to myself and release the brick wall, my body swinging to the metal. I grunt slightly as I hit it hard, the cable hitting my cut cheek and bruised sides.

As I hold my weight with one hand, I feel sweat begin to collect on my back, and I reach my other hand to grasp a hold. I look down and position my feet onto the metal quickly, allowing myself a moment of repose.

The city's lights are bright as the morning turns to afternoon, the clouds darkening the sky further. Wind sweeps rain into the water below the Brooklyn Bridge and make the cables I hold to slippery. Then, I begin my ascent again.

I am careful with each step, knowing that with one wrong move, I will be sent flying to the ground below and to my death... But it makes the fire burn brighter, even in the storm.

A few times, the cables are placed too far apart and I am forced to jump to the next wire, but each movement I make brings me closer to the top of the wall and the flag. The wind presses against me, the entire line of cable swaying in the wind, causing me to hold tighter, but by the time the rain has progressed to a thunderstorm, I am only three feet from the wall's top.

I take a breath, looking up and letting the raindrops splatter onto my face, blinding me until I blink to clear the water from my eyes. I lift myself onto the final cable, knowing this is the most dangerous spot of my entire climb; I will have to jump from the wires to the edge of the wall; and today, it is slippery.

I take a deep breath, lifting myself up so that the top of the cable fence is at my hips, my back bent so I can hold onto it with my hands. Countdown from three, I say to myself. Then jump.

Three.

Two.

One!

I shout in exhilaration as I throw myself towards the wall. My fingers catch on the roughly sanded brick, the tips of my hands burning as they cut on the edges. My upper arms shake in exertion as I strive to find a foothold somewhere in the wall; I have climbed this bridge before, but many of the cracks and holes have been covered. I finally catch my boot in a small ledge near the scaffolding, and I grunt, glancing down at the dizzying drop below, but it does not frighten me; it makes me feel more alive.

I know I should be scared, any person would be at this height... But the fire only burns and my heart races the wind.

I peer down once more before heaving the remainder of my body over the ledge, rolling to stop at the flag's pole. I let out a breath and laugh to myself, rain splattering onto my sky-turned face, and my legs shake for the moment as I recover from the strain.

I look to my side at the city to my right, smiling as I sit up slowly, and zip up my jacket to prevent water from soaking me any further; but with the way this storm is going, I doubt even an umbrella would help.

I wrap my fingers around the metal pole, the rope swinging and brushing my nails, and lift myself to my feet to see my city better.

Cars and trucks trundle past on the bridge across the water, the one below me absent of both vehicles and people. Buildings twinkle in the shadowy afternoon, but the darkened sky is not unusual for here; New York City is used to the dark and cold winter days- it is the rain instead of snow that is surprising.

I shake the water from the tip of my nose, thunder rumbling in the distance as lightning flashes against the bay, illuminating the spot where a piano used to be- near the old shoreline.

This makes me smile even more.

I was up here the same night that the old man and his son unloaded it here. I was the one who helped to unload the small chair off the truck; I had hurried to climb down from my bridge when my curiosity spiked.

Theories and speculations erupted in both the news and internet the next days, but I had swore my secrecy to the pair. Their reasons for bringing such an expensive piece will stay hidden for years... But perhaps one day someone will remember the girl's whose name was inscribed on the bottom of the instrument. Maybe someone will remember the child's whose only comfort was a grand piano.

I smile as I remember the two stranger who had warm faces and sentimental hearts. They had not questioned the tattoo on my wrist, despite seeing it; they had given me something to think about and someone to remember.

All of this had happened only a year after I had left my orphanage.

But for the hours that I am up here, I do not have to think about the cruelty of my childhood, nor the thought of them following, nor the strange words given by Mr. Ellis this morning.

Up here... I can only think and breathe the fire in my chest.