The Numbers on Her Wrist

17

When I wake the next morning, my shirt is drenched with cold sweat, my hair is sticky and clings to my neck and temples as I sit up and gasp for air. I feel my hands shake- the nightmare has ended, but I run my hand over my face in an attempt to clean away the memory of it. Even though I have left the orphanage, the bad dreams have never stopped; they might never stop.

Despite this, despite all my many efforts to make them cease since my escape three years ago, I know that the nightmares will stay with me for a long time.

Because we all know that memories never fully disappear; they only fade.

I breathe shakily again, letting my feet hang off the bed as I turn away from my pillow and swallow. I push the sheets and blankets to the side to move them out of my way and out from under me, allowing myself some space to cool off. I close my eyes and shake my head as I purse my lips; a flash of the nightmare darts through my mind and I quickly open them again.

"Just a dream," I whisper to myself, knowing that I need to be ready for when the FBI agents arrive to bring me in for the questioning.

I glance to my clock, surprised as I see it shine the red numbers 9:57 brightly, and curse myself; I realize I have overslept. I hurry onto my feet and into my closet, my eyes racing over the few articles of clothing before I choose a simple outfit of plain teal shirt, a pair of black capris, and a set of black sneakers As I walk from the closet, kicking the door shut, I stop at my small dresser to grab underclothes and socks. I set the shoes and socks onto my bed before stepping into my bathroom and closing the door.

I shrug off my clothing, careful not to bump the bruises that have formed over my body, and toss them onto the ground where a stack of other dirty laundry is piled. I step into the shower, turning the water to the coldest setting and shivering as it hits my skin. I let it rinse away the grime and dirt from my body, the water washing the night away. I breathe out slowly and the nightmare finally ebbs away.

I then begin to scrub the stubborn stains from my arms and torso, the marks on my palms taking a little longer than usual to clean off. I flinch visibly when my fingers touch the cut at the bottom of my ribs, the gash red and the blood turning pink as it mixes with the clear water. I ignore the smarting pain and continue to wash off quickly.

After shutting off the water, I begin to dry my body off, and slip into the clean clothes. I glance into the mirror, running my thumb over my chin and my cheeks, and frowning at the scrapes and contusions there. I sigh and drop my gaze, running my hands through my hair and pulling it into a loose bun to stay out of my way.

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

I look up at the sound of my door, peeking towards my clock as I run my hands down my torso, stray water from my hair soaking into my clothes.

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

I breathe and notice the time again. 10:09. They're early, I think, and snatch my coat, shoes, and socks from my bed, heading outside my room. They pound on my door again, causing me to lengthen my strides, "Coming," I breathe and twist the handle.

I can say I am a little more than surprised when Samuel Hicks pushes past me with a bright grin on his face, his hand curled around the strap of a small satchel over his shoulder. He walks into my living room, his head spinning as he glances around my apartment.

I recover from the shock quickly, "Well, hello to you too," I say sarcastically. He smiles widely as he turns towards me, gesturing around us. "Are they not here yet?" I scoff and cross my arms, shifting my weight to my left leg as I bump the door shut with my hip. "No, they aren't here yet. They shouldn't be here for at least another two hours."