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Bitter

        I try my best not to be bitter about my situation. Although everyone gets bitter at some point. They have to, it's part of life. The boots were just more of them. I was hoping that we would be free, but the things that we hope for most are the things that will destroy us in the end.
        I sigh and start counting.
        1... 2... 3... 4... 5...
        More footsteps. I should be used to it. I've never gotten higher than ten. I closed my eyes. Another tear slipped from my eye and down my face. No, you can't do this to yourself. You just hurt yourself worse. I realize that the most problematic person in our lives is ourself. We keep ourselves from being what, or who, we want. We convince ourselves we aren't worth the fight. That we are better off alone.
        6... 7... 8... 9... 10...
        My face, the image, a terrified girl. It's in my mind. My sunken in face. My yellowed skin. I am too skinny. I look ninety-three. Not thirteen.
        11... 12... 13... 14... 15...
        I sat on the ratty blanket and played with my gnarled boney fingers. The door swung open. I shrank under their gazes. They carried a machine, it can't be that time already. I've heard stories. I didn't think I was old enough. I was pulled toward them. A sob rose in the back of my throat. They looked at me with disgust. As if I was an animal. They branded me with my number. 516-B. The pain was unbearable.
        16... 17... 18... 19... 20...
        Even if I'm freed and the memories fade they will all come flooding back when I look at the tattoo. They leave slamming the door behind them. I start crying. No sobbing. So much that nose ran. I cry all the tears that I haven't cried. All of those times I bit my lip and shut up came pouring from the deepest crevices of my soul. My sobs are barley audible from lack of my voice being used. So the fear of being heard was little to none. I'm sitting hiccuping in the corner.
        21... 22... 23... 24... 25...
        I'm asleep I sleep until role call. This is the fist time I've slept in days, weeks even. The door swung open and I'm dragged to role call.

        With each year I become more desirable, but all good things come to an end. I will, eventually, get to old, and loose them. They will either let me go or kill me. I'm hoping for the latter, so I won't have to live with the things that have happened to me. No one will have to look in to my eyes and see terror. No one will have to put up with my fears.
        26... 27... 28... 29... 30...
        I suppose most people wouldn't wish themselves dead, but I- no you sound bitter. And that my dear friend is the one thing you are not.
        31... 32... 33... 34... 35...
        I will, eventually, run out of blocks to count, but I'll find something else. Or start over. The door is kicked so hard in clatters to concrete floor. I'm taken outside. I'm shoved in a car. It's scary at first. I'm usually not put in a car. I look at my dirty and bare feet.
        I'm pushed to the floor. I put on a show.

        I'm back into my cell. Nothing has changed the door is replaced and the bucket emptied. Although, I hear something, or someone, in the room with me.
        It's a baby. No more than six months old. She's wearing nothing but an over-sized t-shirt. Her eyes are wide and curious. I can't help but smile. She reaches up and touches my face. I pick her up and walk around the room with her in my arms. You won't be just a number. You'll have a name. I think I'll call you...