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

5

To say that living our lives was a burden would be a gross understatement.

We would spend hours upon hours learning from these men as they taught us how to defend ourselves and how to hurt past the point of tears, but still remain standing. We were indoctrinated into the belief that all of this was for our own betterment; it was to produce children unquestionably loyal to the orphanage. We understood very little behind their reasoning of what they were doing to us, but any word that seemed to doubt their logic or how they raised us was only rewarded with something we already had too much of.

Because of this, I would see changes in my friends as they matured and became more aware of what truly was happening to them and to their friends. They became quieter, withdrawn, and accepted punishments or orders without questions.

Far too many times, I would see the children willing the darkness to take them; begging for an eternal sleep to take away their pain and living nightmare.

And out of all the orphans, those who left the white halls for darkened alleys and crowed warehouses to earn their keep were the ones I saw suffer most. Not only did they spend their days training with the rest of us, but they also had to stay out during the night until they had earned the required amount.

For years, I watched from the outside as they barely survived and cried to each other over the things they had experienced- some of the older girls had it comparatively worse; they didn't earn their money from bruises or broken ribs; no, they sold their bodies in another way.

But, today I will see what it is like from inside the ring of child street fighters.

"564," Mr. Evans appears in the doorway of the dormitories. Without a knock to warn us, we barely had time to stumble to where our mattresses lay before I stuffed the book from view ineloquently. My back presses heavily against the hard cover of The Angel's Plight, in order to conceal it from view, and I can feel the rough edges digging into my scarred back.

The man runs his eyes over the children scattered across the floor as he chooses his words quickly, with his stare coming to rest on me. "I need you to come with me."

521 throws me an anxious glance, and immediately his hand moves to the small of my back- both for comfort and to take the book to a new hiding spot. I turn my head slightly towards him and give a single nod of acknowledgement, standing up slowly. With my friend's gift of fluid movements, he is able to maneuver the contraband behind his own back, while still staying out of Lyle's sight expertly. I swallow despite my dry throat and move forward, avoiding the children's forms.

A few of the orphans peek up to watch me leave the room, but none of them intercede; I wouldn't expect them to; they know better than that.

As I reach Lyle at the door, he promptly grabs my upper arm and hauls me outside the dormitory. I flinch as he slams the door and tightens his grip on me. An entourage of guards is gathered in the hallway, each of them wearing a sidearm and a grim frown. I raise an eyebrow, more than curious about the extra security, but I know better than to ask what they are here for.

I am led down the hallway in a stony silence as my rebel eyes dare to steal a glance in both the direction of which we are headed and towards the men who surround me. It surprises me to find that quite a few of their faces are unfamiliar-perhaps they are all new recruits, simply being broken in with the simple task of escorting a defenseless orphan girl. I chance a second look at one of the ones closest to me, taking note of his pale blue eyes and wild red hair- in many respects, he is like me when I first arrived here; innocent, oblivious, ignorant. He is still fresh and untouched by the horrors here.

He must feel my stare on him as he flicks his own gaze to mine, locking eyes with me for a mere moment and exchanging a look of both curiosity and sympathy. I bite down on the inside of my cheek to keep from crying out; I want to tell him to run; to run so far away that these shadows will never touch him again... But, in this instance, a terrible thought crosses my mind.