The Numbers on Her Wrist

14

A/N Y'all doubled the views/votes over this weekend! And it got up to #74 in Action!!!!! Thank you so so so much!

This entire chapter is a flashback for Amelia. Don't worry, the next chapter will resume with the normal flow of the plot line, but I thought a chapter with some of her past would be good to give a little more insight on what life was like.

I tap my foot and scratch at the tattoo on my right wrist nervously, the ink buried into my skin, marking me permanently with the horrors of my life; of the events that will soon become my past.

Some of the orphans, some of my friends, have tried again and again to scrub the tattoos from their arms.

It has all been useless; every one of them were punished each time they tried.

Then, some began to try to cut the black marks out of their arms, but nothing will rid them of the dark numbers that name and claim them.

But I am nothing like that; I am not like them. I am not ashamed of the 564 that stains the pale skin on the underside of my wrist. Instead, I will keep it as a reminder of what this orphanage is capable of; I will keep it as a reminder of the friends I lost because they were not strong enough- because they were weak.

My chest aches for them...

It is late in the evening, past eleven P.M., and I know that it is in a hope to tire me before the meeting even begins.

I stand in black skinny jeans and a dark leather coat that is thrown over my thin shoulders. I shift my weight in the boots of the same color that are tight around my ankles and lower half of my shins. Chewing on the inside of my cheek, I am conscious of the fact that there are wounds that cover my body and there is pain that races from the contusions that are patched over my skin.

For now, I feel none of it.

I am numbed by fear; I am thankful for it.

The building where I live, the orphanage, is full of whispers the majority of the time, but tonight, the entire orphanage seems to hold its breath with me. It can taste my guilt; it can smell the fear that collects on me; it can hear the money that was exchanged to stop the pain of the children.

We are in the back room where my "care"-givers, my owners, my judges, sir before me in stark silence. I can feel them stare at the bruise on my left cheekbone, where a small red scab has begun forming over the fresh cut that sits on top of the darkening skin.

It hurts to swallow, but the spit in my mouth tastes like bile, so I force myself to rid myself of the liquid that sticks to my tongue; my throat screams at me, but it is nothing compared to the punishment that I am to receive for my failures.

"How old are you now, 564?"

I look up uncertainly as Mr. Edward Carter speaks firmly to me, the rest of the men beside him repositioning silently in their seats- they rarely talk- as they eye me and my movements. I shouldn't feel uncomfortable, I've been taught not to, but their lustful glances and stares cause me to zip my jacket up further. I fidget where I stand and make sure my coat covers as much as the fabric allows; some of the men smirk.

I clear my throat gently, fire still burning there as I address Mr. Carter's question. "Sixteen," I reply quietly.

He raises what seems to be an intrigued eyebrow, turning halfway to Mr. Lyle Evans, and exchanging a look. Edward could be a handsome man- if he had not chosen this life. He has dark, brown eyes that catch every detail, and a hooked nose to match his sharp features. Stubble constantly covers the lower half of his face and conceals the area where a deep scar runs from the side of his cheekbone, down his jawline, and ends diagonal to his lips.