she was right handed...i could tell.

she was right handed...i could tell.
seven black red scars formed perfect lines from her wrist up on her left arm.

when first i saw her i was baffled as to why one so young should take upon her the mundane sweaty work of papa johns pizza. as i watched her still, i gathered that by her maturity and familiarity with the labor, she had to be older than the twelve i imagined her to be.
then i saw the scars.
my mind went a'reeling as my eyes immediately diverted to the floor.
gradually, out of curiosity, they lifted again.
why?! what happened to this child?
she was not exactly ugly. rather, she was somewhat beautiful. she had a mass of spiral curls held flat under her papa john's visor. she wore cutoff shorts to the knee and crocs with white socks. her eyes were brown. no. they were not brown. they were azure and sea foam. they were happiness stomped out. they were love hidden. they were dull and crumbling and decomposing in a casket.
"may i help you?"
i wanted to say that she could. she could come in my car and we could drive to a park and swing on the swings and talk. she could tell me why, the whole story, why she went through hell. she could cry, sob into my shirt. she could slap me for my ignorance of hurting people. she could scream until her throat bled. she could show me the razors or knifes or pieces of glass she used, and where she kept them so no one would see. she could show me everything she'd written in her blood.
but that didn't happen.
i said i was picking up an order for hannah smith and she gave it to me and told me to have a nice night.
i wanted to tell her jesus loves her. i wanted to tell her i love her. i wanted to tell her how beautiful she is. i wanted to tell her i was praying for her. i wanted to tell her i would never forget her.
but that didn't happen either.
i smiled kindly and told her thanks, you too.