The Numbers on Her Wrist

35

Lyle Evans scoffs in disbelief quietly- but I cannot know whether he does this because it is just the sight of me in the orphanage or because it is my threat against his life. Without moving my eyes from the man, I stuff the black beanie back into my satchel before I return my hand to the side of the gun. I watch Lyle closely as my fingers clasp tightly around the weapon; I am trying to not let my hands shake.

I wait a moment, concealing my nervousness, and then I breathe so that my words are barely audible. "Hands on your head."

For the moment, Mr. Evans seems to be at a lost for words; the girl whom he was beating in public only yesterday now stands pointing a silver pistol at his head- I realize that the thought of this might be just a little unsettling. His life is in my hands. He stays with his arms at his sides, staring at me as I take a small pace forward, and he is obviously trying to determine a way to escape or turn the tables on me.

"Hands on your head," I repeat, firmer this time, and I motion with my weapon for him to follow my orders.

He complies after another second's hesitation.

I open my mouth partly, but stop myself short of saying anything, aware of the fact that my lips are trembling slightly and my voice would come out as nothing more than a incoherent whisper should I try and speak.

Mr. Evans is silent with shock; I should be silent with fear; but the feeling in the pit of my stomach is far different from that. I am no longer afraid of the man who beat me, of the man who abused and killed my friends- no, I am afraid of myself; of turning into something akin to him were I to pull the trigger. I am afraid of morphing into monster.

I chew on the inside of my cheek with the back of my teeth, forcing myself out of my thoughts, forcing myself to remember that the children are my priority tonight- and I must keep in mind that I have promised to do whatever it takes to save their lives and get them out of here. I glance over his shoulder at a door on the right side of the empty hallway- the one that he came out of a mere minute ago- and gesture towards it with my gun. "Is there anyone else waiting in there?" I ask him softly, completely ignoring the glare he shoots me from the corner of his eyes as I pace around him to position myself in front of the entrance. Before he can answer me, I add, "Lie, and I will kill you so slowly you will beg me to shoot you."

He laughs slightly, shifting his weight to the opposite leg, "You ain't got the balls, kid. I could kill an orphan in front of you an-" His jaw makes a horrifying crack when my pistol slams against it, forestalling any further insults to me and causing him to screech in agony. "Is there anyone in there?" I say again, raising my voice partly in anger at his statement and partly from the desperation that is growing in my stomach as I realize that someone might have heard him cry out.

He spits to the side, dark blood seeping into the cracks in the flooring, and tilts his head sideways as he responds. "No... I was in there making a phone call to Mr. Carter. He is-"

"I wouldn't recommend talking with that broken jaw," I quip. "And I don't need a full monologue on your reasons." I take a few careful steps forward- avoiding his reach actively- to twist the handle and pull the door aside. I watch him glance towards the small splatter of mixed blood and spittle he left behind as I point towards the opened room. "Go inside." He stalls for only a moment, before casting a wary glance my direction and gasping slightly in unadulterated pain when I push him forward with the end of the gun's barrel. He finally raises his hands slightly in response, moving through the door frame with surprising speed and reaching his fingers out to flick on the light switch so we are able to see clearly.

I blink several times at the drastic change in the brightness, a sharp buzzing noise echoing around the room as the florescent bulbs work to provide us with adequate light, and I shove Lyle into the middle of the relatively empty room. There is barely anything in here to help decorate or cover the paleness of the walls and floors and ceilings. A small, rickety table that appears to be older than me is falling apart completely, the screws rusted beyond use and the dull black paint cracked in a dozen different places. There are two chairs that are tucked beneath and look to be in the same state of decay, causing me to wonder exactly when they were used last and what this room used to be used for; I cannot seem to place it from my time here. My eyes are attracted to the particularly nasty blood stain on the furthest wall, a splatter similar to what a gunshot wound would cause providing the only warm color in this abandoned place.