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FITTY Fitty wasn’t born Fitty. The name came the day she fit herself into places she was never meant to survive. Locker at school. Backseat of a cop car. The space between friend and thief. She learned to fold small, breathe quiet. 1:40pm courtrooms taught her that. Between friends or thieves, they told her, there’s never honour. She tested it. Stole lunch money to feed her brother. Stole a bible to look holy at sentencing. Stole back her own name when the foster file called her “unplaceable.” Fitty fits everywhere and belongs nowhere. She’s the bubble before the pop — iridescent, trembling, holding a whole sky for three seconds. She’s the hand in the leather glove: could swear the oath, could cross the fingers. Could choose. They say no honour amongst thieves like it’s a warning. Fitty wears it like a tattoo. . no honour amongst thieves. Period first, like an afterthought. Like she already knew. She doesn’t eat human. She mirrors them. You come warm, she shows you heat. You come with a knife, she’s already holding the whetstone. Fitty’s not looking for justice. Justice never fit her. She’s looking for the one pocket that doesn’t fly open when you’re sleeping. She hasn’t found it yet.
