The Scars on Her Back (Prequel to The Numbers on Her Wrist)

1

They have taken my name from me. They have taken my name from me.

I did not scream in fear when I arrived in a bumpy van a month ago. I did not scream when they beat me into submission and silence when I begged for the mother I do not have any longer. I did not scream when they locked me in a darkened room with the other new children as they sobbed and wept and clung to one another.

I did not cry when they fired a gun at my head to make me become obedient and afraid of them. I did not cry when my arm turned into lead after I had held it in the air for so long with the small, red butterfly resting on my wrist. I did not cry when they told me how I was worthless, unwanted, pathetic; a monster.

I did not scream; I did not cry.

I did not scream or cry, but that changed when they decided that I was to be numbered, nameless.

They then dragged me into a confining room where a metal table was filled with strange instruments that were foreign to me; behind it, sat a faceless man. They wrestled my hand away from me when I flat-out refused them and I trembled at they began their work. The monsters, I coined them, injected the black ink under my pale skin and a thousand needle pricks burned into my skin- but it is not the pain that makes me cry.

It is the shouting and the cursing, the two simple statements that they drilled into my head.

"You are 564; your name is 564."

They repeated it over and over and over and over; I repeated it over and over and over and over.

They forced me to forget what my real name was; they forced me to forget what my true heritage was. I am from nowhere; I am nothing. I could no longer cling onto the innocence that I know children are supposed to have.

And I screamed that I didn't want to go, that I didn't want to forget myself. I cried to deafened ears that I didn't want to lose my last shred of humanity.

But it was done.

And I was gone.

They are now leading me away from the small room and scarring machine, with one man in front of me and another positioned behind me, both guards are easily quadruple my size so I dare not speak against them. As I follow them down the corridors, I catch a glimpse of a young woman as she passes us. She stands tall and steady against three heavily armed men, all of them glaring angrily at her and I can only watch them prod her and mutter obscenities in a hope to keep her in check.

I notice that she seems very different when compared to the several people whom I have already seen in this orphanage. While everyone else is cowardly and desolate and fearful and abusive, she is strong, rebellious, independent. They must hate that; that is what they must be destroying now.

As the small group turns down an adjacent hallway, I immediately lose sight of them, but the image of her sticks with me. I promise she will not be forgotten- not by me, not by me.

We reach dormitories, where the strong acrid smell of drying blood and lingering sweat fills my nose; I gag slightly as I detect something akin to spoiled milk or rotting fruit hidden within the space. The sight is so much worse than the smell though.

Orphans, that I can only assume are people who have been here much longer than I, are scattered copiously across the tiled ground that is covered in a thin layer of dust, a heavy air of depression and hopelessness hanging above their resting heads like clouds. I glance backwards, jumping slightly as the door is slammed shut behind me, with the clear sound of a deadbolt lock clicking into place- an obvious attempt to show us we cannot escape the room now. Silence looms over the room, only disputed by an occasional heavy breath or light snore from one of the younger children, and I almost scoff at the illusion of peace.