The Numbers on Her Wrist

18

A/N Not really my style of chapter, but I hope you enjoy anyways! Thank you all for #5 in Action and over 20 THOUSAND views!

I look to Mr. Lawson, speaking carefully, "The very first memory of the orphanage, of anyone the Association chose, was the exact same. It was a sort of rite of passage- a trial to induct the new children into the orphanage. It happened almost the moment that we arrived. But for me- and for a few select children- it was when we turned five, when the long-term memory is usually developed properly and when anything can be drilled into a child's mind."

I breathe shakily, "They ensured that this, if nothing else, is what would be remembered from our childhood."

"Although the Association wished it was always at this age, it did not happen like that usually. The orphans they received were normally around ten, when the people who made the rules and the laws of our lives decided we could handle the rigorous testing and training. It was rare that a child so young was given this test, and soon after I received my numbers, they changed to allow the test only when they were ten or older."

I continue as Sam and the others stare, "Now, the test was not painful, it did not cause any physical harm- unless you failed. Instead, it instilled terror into us. It broke us and it beat us down. If you messed up, you would be humiliated and you would not leave that room until you had completed what they wanted or given up."

I meet the Agent's eyes, "I have never seen anyone, for years after that induction, ever stand up to the men of the orphanage."

This is how my first memory went (this is being explained to Sam and Agents Lawson and Trevor, but told to y'all as though it were happening) :

I keep my fists curled around the end of my blue shirt, wearing the same clothing that I received when I turned three and at the old orphanage. It is short on me, but the shoulders are still loose and the neck hangs low on my body. Underneath, I wear a white thin-strapped shirt, the hem-line coming to just above my belly button. My shorts barely reach mid-thigh, the color a dull grey.

My stomach grumbles in protest, the lack of food from the past few days causing my stomach to shrink more than it has in a while. I can feel my ribs stick to my skin; I can count my bones.

I breathe shallowly, afraid that if I make too sudden of movements, afraid that tonight if I make one wrong turn, it will be my turn to go through the room- I have seen children go in, but they never come out the same.

There is a squeak that echoes through the small, narrow hallway that is made of tile and drywall. I watch with lowered eyes as a boy, not much older than myself, is marched outside the room with his shoulder held tightly in the grip of a man much larger than him. Hi frame is slouched and he allows a few tears to run down his face unchecked, his eyes sunken and his lips bloody- he must have bitten them in an attempt to stop the fear that threatened to overcome him.

I notice the small black mark on the end on his wrist.

I know that they are the numbers that name him, claim him.

He is 523.

All of the children who have gone through this have the tattoo, all of the children in the orphanage sport these numbers... And I might receive mine today.

A man with dark hair and stubble steps through the door, his bright eyes running over the seven children that remain in the dark hallway, in the uncomfortable plastic chairs- only one more will go today.