Nostradamus

She makes a promise at the wishing well.

And she'll come back every day, throw away her money, whatever it takes, because she always keeps her promises and this is one wish that has never come true.

Her earliest memory is from when she had met him. Eight years old and shaking, with snow melting in her hair. The boy in dirty shoes squatted down in front of her, and it must have been two in the morning.

"Who are you?" he asked. She shook harder.

"I don't know. I can't remember anything." Like her name, like her family, where she lived. His head tilted.

"Erza," he decided and picked her up, "You should stay with me."

They stole food. They stole clothes. They took turns singing on the corner, while the other one ran through the crowd and stole the audience's money. It was a bad part of town.

Sometimes the social workers would come and walk around, yelling out things, looking for little lost girls. Jeral always found the best hiding places.

"Don't trust them," he said, "I've been in a foster home. It's better out here."

She didn't ask, but the way he gripped her arm made her believe.

They got older. The social workers didn't come as much. Sometimes, when they weren't so dirty, it would occur to her that he was a boy, he was a boy and it didn't seem to matter how tall she got, his hands were always bigger.

One day a guy gets her in the alley and pushed her up against the wall and she didn't know what was happening, was too young, but was smart enough to start screaming and biting, kicking, thrashing, until Jeral came running around the corner, his face colder than she had ever seen it, and stuck a knife in the guy's back.

He hadn't had time to do anything. She spent the rest of the day mute, fingering her hair, the same color as that man's blood.

The next day he hands her a knife.

"Come on," he says, "You should learn."

She only hesitates for a second before she remembers the feeling of oppression, of nauseating fear and violation, before she reaches out and takes it.

She could never quite beat Jeral.

When she was twelve she woke up with her thighs bloody. She swallowed, and tried not to shake. She took some money out of his pocket while he slept and ran to the nearest brothel, banging on the door until a girl only a few years older than her answered the door. "What?" she snapped, eyes crusty with sleep.

"My—" Erza stuttered, "I can't go to a doctor. Please, I'll pay you. My legs are bleeding. Do you have any medicine?"

The girl just looked at her for a moment, at dirty face and Jeral's old clothes, and sighed, "Jesus Christ," she said, and dragged Erza inside.

When she got back, Jeral was wide-awake and staring intently. She squirmed, dug into her pockets and held out the money. "I'm sorry. It was an emergency. I didn't need to use it."

He didn't take the money, just frowned. "Why didn't you wake me up? I would have helped you."

Erza shook her head frantically, "No, um. Girl stuff."

He looked at her like she was stupid, "Like I care. You're my friend."

She scratched a tiny stick-figure Erza into the wall she slept against, marking out her spot. Jeral squinted at it when she finished.

"It doesn't look like you." He said bluntly. Erza scowled.

"It's harder than it looks."

He took the knife from her and scratched a tiny stick-figure Jeral in, next to her own doodle. His spot.

Sometime over the next week, the drawing's cracked arms reached out for one another and clasped hands.