The Numbers on Her Wrist

7

A/N Thanks for all the votes/views/comments! Love you all! Also, please take notice that in this chapter, there will be a memory from Amelia's childhood. It will be italicized and told in past tense. :) I'm also putting a little * at the beginning and end.

As the afternoon begins to take its final bow for today, the storm has turned violent, winds whipping my hair around my face and rain feeling like bullets as they race to the ground and building tops. I run my wet hands over the thighs of my jeans, but it does nothing to help, and I concede the fact that I am soaked to the bone.

I glance down at the bridge below, a stray piece of newspaper stuck to the column of the the wall, the inked words attempting to make their mark on the brick, but they are not strong enough and a gust of the storm tears the paper down the middle, causing it to float away.

I turn my back to the emptiness and face the rippling flag, a smile working its way onto my features; this is one of my favorite things to do on the bridge. I spin on my heel and kick off the cement below and push into the fastest sprint the small space will allow. As I throw myself forward, towards the fence of cables and wires, my body falls weightlessly and gravity scratches at my ankles. I whoop in exhilaration, my stomach dropping, and I throw my hands up to catch myself.

My shoulders protest as they are tugged with my weight, causing me to let out a short breath. I find my legs swinging to find a foothold, but when I cannot, I realize the cables are wet too. In that split second, death faces me, my grip slips and I cannot find something to grab as my

For a split second, death faces me, as my grip slips and I can't seem to find something to grab. I stop the scream on my lips and throw my arms out, rewarding with a jolt to my shoulders and my head spinning as I stop myself. I grunt and hook my elbows onto a particularly large cable, letting out a breath.

Need to work on that, 564, bit sloppy.

I shake my head a few times, rubbing my temples as I lean my chin on the wire. "Amelia," I whisper to myself. "It's Amelia Reyes, not 564."

I make my descent down the bridge without any more trouble, my arms and legs burning as I find solid ground. I hurry to the end of the bridge, leaving the cables and wires behind as I find my way back into my city.

I walk for a few minutes, until I find the side of town that is not dimly lit or run-down. Skyscrapers reach to the rain clouds, men in suits and women in dresses hurrying past in the twilight rush. Stores and restaurants are crammed, some bursting at the seams, as people finished with their work for the week. Many celebrate the Friday night with drinks and food; I watch in partial disgust as their new month's paycheck is quickly wasted on expensive clothing and impractical shoes.

I watch money traded for the best of food, the most spent on the smallest portions, and shake my head slowly. I have starved before; I have watched people die from the lack of food.

I press myself closer to the exteriors of the buildings, staying away from the direct line of sight of men and women. Laughter burns in my ears and the smell of meat and beer overpower my senses.

The aroma only brings back horrible memories.

*I tugged roughly on the end of my coat, the black leather sleeves keeping me warm and protected from the cold of the night; they could not afford to lose me; I was their greatest asset. I looked down at the rip in my black skinny jeans and the combat boots that are covered in a special sealant to eliminate noise.

My shin ached because of the knife that was hidden within my boot, the cover of the blade pressing deeper into my leg as I had made every step. My fingers drifted to the pistol in my belt as a man stepped closer, but he avoided my path, turning down another street.

I tightened the satchel around my shoulder and my waist, keeping it close at the dark hour.

I had just finished a night of fighting and it had payed off; over $1000 dollars was bundled into the bag.

I travelled deeper within the confines of the strange and unfamiliar part of the city, searching for the next street to lead me home... But I would not call it a home. It was far from that.

Cars and trucks began to multiply, the streets and walkways becoming less busier and less busier as I edged towards my destination. Most of the windows I passed are darkened, the doors locked and all the employees gone for the day.

I took a sharp turn around the corner of a novelty shop, someone heard shouting out to catch the ear of potential customers. I ignore the yells of him, though. I take no interest in the toys and gadgets made in sweat-shops.

Then, as I made my way around the avenue only half a mile from my orphanage, a shadow attacked me. I screamed, the large hands running over my sides and arms, his voice low. "A girl your age shouldn't be out alone like this."

He smelled of beer and grease, his hair trailing into his eyes, his jacket hood thrown over his head. I took a glance at his yellowed teeth and darkened eyes; he reminded me of some of the men at my orphanage.

As his smile grew wider and he attempts to throw me to the ground, my skills took over and I slammed my fist into his cheek, a grunt issued from his chest. "Stop fighting!" He ordered, but I wouldn't; he wouldn't take advantage of me; he wouldn't steal from me.

His fingers grasped at the satchel around my torso, but I only kicked and scratched in response, knowing that a worse fate would welcome me if I returned to Mr. Carter without my night's pay. He didn't care how we got it, but we had to get it.

"Leave me alone!"

The harder I hit, the harder he hit back.

I was weaker than the man three times my size and he soon succeeded in taking the satchel from my shoulder. "Give it back!" I tried to snatch the bag handle back, but to no avail. He darted off into the streets of New York, leaving me without a bag and without a dollar.

I would have to return empty handed.*

I take a breath, running a hand over my hair as I glance at the open shops one more time, trying to press away the memory of the stranger who caused more damage than taking money from me.

"Amelia?"

I turn around, Samuel Hicks jogs up to me, grinning happily. He shoves his hands into his pocket as he reaches me, his suit nicer than what a street fighter could afford. I raise an eyebrow, "What are you doing? How did you find me?"

He chuckles, walking with me as I start towards my apartment. "I was on my way home after dinner with some friends... You should join us sometime. And I wasn't looking for you; just happened to come this way."

I roll my eyes and flick my hair over my shoulder, "No umbrella? It's been raining." One side of his lips twitch upwards into a smirk, "Observant, aren't you?"

"I have to be when a strange man is following me." I tease him, but it only causes him to laugh deeply, his voice low. "Are you flirting with me, Ms. Reyes?" I can't hide the smile. "No." Samuel stares at me for a moment, causing me to clear my throat, "Anyways, I need to get home... You going to the next street fight? I haven't seen you at past ones."

"I just got into the game." He winks, "Yes, I'll be there." He glances over my shoulder, nodding, but when I turn to look, there is no one there. "See you then, Red."

I spin on my heel and continue to my apartment, chancing a look back.

He is staring and my cheeks heat up.