The Numbers on Her Wrist

25

I race through the hallways of the orphanage, the cut on my lower lip and the bruise on my upper thigh smarting as I navigate around the painted-over stains and furniture. I am surprised to find that many of the normally busy passages and areas are empty, an odd stillness resting over the entire building. As my eyelids feel heavy, I realize that I must have spent a lot longer than I estimated outside in the real world street fighting, and I can do nothing but hope that the extra cash will make up for my late arrival and absence at the money-counting meeting. When I can find no one- none of the monsters, that is- in any of the few offices or perfected sitting rooms, I decide to retire to the dormitory for tonight and make my excuses tomorrow morning. To be frank, I am shocked they are not waiting awake and in anger for me.

"564?"

I turn at the sudden voice, but it is barely above a whisper and this causes me to be unable to distinguish which child it is of the dozens whom live here. "Yes?" I reply quietly, "Who is that?" They step through the door and outside the shadows that reach into the hallway, inching inside the main room. Here, it is one of the only places where the paint it not crumbling and it appears as a decent orphanage; it is where the ruse is put at each inspection that we are all healthy, cared for, happy. I blink several times as their brown hair comes into view and their bright green eyes meet my blue ones, and I kneel so that I can face them more directly; I take their small hand into mine and give a warm smile. "Hey, 542. What is going on? Is everyone asleep? Have the men returned to their homes for the night?"

He nods- barely recognizable as an acknowledgement because he only dips his head an inch- and clings tightly to my fingers as a single tear begins to roll down his face. "Hey," I whisper, quickly catching the tear with a gentle finger. "What is it, 542?" He shakes his head this time, remaining silent and beginning to pull me towards the main dormitories, where the majority of the child spend each night and any free time they have from training and fight. All save for those in trouble, those in punishment, those who wait for judgement- they are taken someplace else in the orphanage; I have spent far too many evenings and dawns and afternoons in there.

"542?" I repeat, whispering, but he only tugs me further down the hall, dodging us through a few more stage rooms for the government to inspect. The furniture and the walls begin to suffer from time and lack of care as we delve deeper into the building. We finally arrive outside the collective bedroom, 542 dragging me withing the room, and the door slams behind us.

Several- no, not a few, but all- heads lift from their pillows and their eyes peek over the thin blankets that lie over their thin bodies.

I expect them to run to me and giggle and brag about today and their victories, or for them to come and show me a bruise or cut or contusion for me to kiss and make better. But tonight, all the children either lie on their beds and mattresses quietly, or on the ground where the concrete is cold and dusty from the boots that tramp through. I notice that some of my friends sob into their hands or knees. "What has happened?" I breathe, my lungs constricting painfully- the battered ribs and sides do not help my case. But no one speaks up immediately to answer my question, causing my heart to sink further into my chest and I can feel goosebumps rise on my forearms and on the back of my neck. I inspect my friends faces from afar carefully; blue, green, and brown eyes of all different shades are all reddened and raw from crying or rubbing; cheeks are of the same colour, with the tears scratched away to hide them from the monsters, from the demons, or from the youngest of us.

I walk forward and lift a boy, who stands in shock in the middle of the room, into my arms. His weeping has been silent from the time I entered, but the moment he places his chin on my shoulder to relax his head, he lets out a gun-wrenching sob. I can only attempt to shush him, sick curiosity filling deeper into my stomach and I feel a small amount of bile to rise at the bad feeling I have there; I swallow to keep it down.