The Numbers on Her Wrist

13

It takes only three weeks after the nightmare before I trust Sam with my life.

It is, without a doubt, the shortest amount of time it has ever taken for me to become accustomed to spending time with someone. He does not ask for my past unless I offer a piece of it, which makes him different from anyone in this world; it makes him interesting.

We have gone to street fights together. We have had those perfect silent conversations that only a few people in the world understand how to have. We have eaten together. We have talked of our victories and our losses.

He has comforted me.

If we did not know any better, we would believe that we have known each other for our entire lives.

I walk with him towards the bench at the edge of the park, the trees billowing in the wind as leaves are hurtled across the grass and cement, a few loose pieces of my hair slapping against my cheeks and forehead.

This has become our favorite place to not only walk, but to sit and relax- especially after street fights.

He smiles at me and wraps an arm around my shoulders, glancing towards the sky. "So, Amelia, tell me..." I look up at him as he pauses and his hand slips lower, to my waist, and he returns the glance. "Have you ever thought of doing anything other than street fighting?"

I lift my shoulder carefully, not wanting to shrug him off, and rub a hand over my leg, wiping away sweat that builds there.

"No. It's how I was raised, it's how I was taught to survive. I doubt that if I could even ever find something that I could do other than this, that I would accept doing that..." I trail off, not quite knowing how to finish my sentence. Then, I pause, knowing there is a question on his lips, but I finish my thoughts first. "I believe that even if people are raised as monsters, as people who are outcasts and defy nature, that they all seem to finally fall into place after a while."

"But not you?"

I smile and glance at my hands as we reach the bench, both of us taking a seat. "Not me. I can't help it, Sam, every time I step into that circle, I feel as though I am on fire; I couldn't bare a life without it..." I look at his hair to avoid his eyes and his oncoming question, "Not yet, anyways."

He takes a breath and crosses one leg over the other, his arms resting on the back of the wooden bench. Samuel is going to ask; but only because I said something about it. "What do you mean it was how you were raised? How you survived? I thought you grew up in an orphanage."

I nod once and swallow. "I did, Sam. I did. I am an orphan."

"Then what do you mean?"

I take a shaky breath.

Should I tell him?

Can I trust him?

Yes.

I can; I should.

I run a hand through my hair and allow my arm to rest against his shoulder and side, his warmth shared with me. "When I was a child, at the orphanage," I breathe shakily and look to him, his dark eyes meeting mine. My voice wavers a few times, "I have only told one person about this. Ever..."

Sam watches me for a moment, a frown on his lips, and then turns his eyes to the bench and my hand; he takes my fingers and interlocks his with mine. "You don't have to share with me, you know?"

I smile at the ground and shake my head- just once. "No, Samuel. You are the only person who sees me for who I am. Zoe, my only other friend, she thinks the best of me. She doesn't like to believe that in street fighting I hurt people, she doesn't like to believe that I have sinned; to her I am just an innocent." I feel his thumb run over my knuckles and it makes it hard to keep any space between us. "But I'm not; I am not innocent. I have chosen this life, I've never tried to break from it."