The Numbers on Her Wrist

1

Edited 28 September 2017. This explains why this is ten times better than the following chapters. :)

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They have taken my name.

They have taken my name.

They have taken everything.

Oh, God, they have taken everything.

For so long, I found the darkness comforting, because within it, I could hide from the monsters that surrounded me and I could forget everything they had stolen from me. I could see only the beauty it had to offer- never the evil that so many people often associate it with. But now, its all encompassing nature frightens me. I fear what is lurking in the shadows, and I fear the feeling of vulnerability that the darkness presents.
So, now, I am drowning; I am drowning, and the man who stands in an abandoned shop, puffing smoke into his lungs, does little to help me breathe.

I watch out of the corner of my eye as he throws the used cigarette onto the pavement, squashing the flame with his shoe, and immediately he pulls out another. The man cups his hand around his lighter, protecting the small fire from the wind, and as he leans his back against the building's exterior, he blows out the fresh smoke.

I cough quietly and pick up my pace, refocusing my stare on the ground and flicking a strand of my hair back into place. My hood covers the majority of my head because the red color tends to stand out, even in this darkness. Although, admittedly, this is not my natural hair color. The red I was born with was duller and browner.

Now, I have dyed it a blood red in defiance to the black hair I was forced to have during my childhood years. They could not let me stand out; the ones who stood out were caught easier.

Clear of the man's smoke, I take a deep breath, turning down the street and beginning to search for the warehouse that is designated for the fights tonight. I tuck my hands into my pockets as a cool gust of wind sweeps over my face, and I approach the docks silently.

A few security guards make their rounds across the large area, and a large iron fence is the only thing separating us. I drop into a crouch and move behind a wooden crate, waiting for them to pass by me. Even from my spot, I can see that one of them holds a flashlight to search for any prowlers, but they won't catch anyone tonight.

We are far too careful to ever be noticed- that is, at least until the fights reach their climax.

I decide to press my luck, peeking over the top of the box to observe the two men, and I immediately notice how old they appear. In all honesty, even if they did happen to encounter a troublemaker, I doubt there would be anything they could do to stop them. Once they have turned a corner, I slowly count to twenty, ensuring they are gone.

As I wait for the time to pass, I scratch at a stubborn itch on the bridge of my nose, catching sight of the tattoo on my right wrist. A bile churns in my stomach, and a wave of anxiety washes over me, but as soon as the fear appears, it vanishes. I left them over three years ago. But I can never be sure how close behind they are; I can never know if they are following me.

I finish my counting and press the thought out of my mind. Walking to the metal chain fence and curling my slender fingers through the holes above my head, I grunt softly as I pull my feet up and lodge them into the wire. It supports my weight with ease. I reach higher after steadying myself and am able to climb the fifteen-foot fence relatively easily- though, I notice the line of barbed wire at the top too late, pricking my finger and drawing blood. I curse under my breath, lifting myself more carefully the next time.