Young Writers Society

Anything would be better than this. Anything. Anything would be better than the wild jeers of the judging masses of gray and black. Anything would be better than the pebbles. Waking me up with pain when the once beautiful, now dreaded golden globe rises in the sky. Anything would be better than the flakes of stale bread thrown at me by shorter bodies, keeping me alive until the keepers come and throw a scoop of muddy mush at me. Anything would be better than the taunts and cruel laughs that haunt me every second of every minute of every hour of every day of every month of every year. Anything would be better than this.

I cannot remember the last time I stood out in the sun without vertical shadows cast upon me at every angle. I cannot remember the last time I walked more than three feet in a line before being forced to turn and pace around again and again. I cannot remember the feeling of grass. Only the steel floor of my prison. I can look out and see the brilliant greens and deep browns of the earth. But only in the deepest, most guarded corner of my mind, I remember running through grass, it brushing against my ankles. I never noticed how green it was. I wish I could just run my hands through it at dawn, when the dew drips off the branches of green emerging from the ground. I wish I saw. I wish I saw the beauty of the world, how it all grew and lived together. I wish I noticed the colors. But I didn’t and there’s nothing I can do about it now. Nothing I can do other than live with it. Live with the fact that I will always be trapped here, on the inside staring out. Never being. Never belonging. I hate myself for it.

I hate how I cant help but look through the bars while the sin rises below the trees, giving some light to see the world I use to belong to. Hate how I still winder if I could get out. It I could escape. If I could be free. I hate how they come earlier and earlier each morning , disrupting the peace. The quiet. The time that I use to be happy. I don’t remember how that feels, happy. I don’t know how anything feels. Only pain. I only feel the agony of my bare body from burns of hot oil thrown at me. Fro pebbles launched harder and harder each minute, lodging into my skin. I only know pain. I only know hate.

At first, I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know how to save myself. I just dealt with it. The first couple weeks weren’t even that bad, at least when I think back to them. It wasn’t as bad as now. I never thought it would become this awful. I thought it would end. I thought I would be able to run through the green fields again. I thought I would be able to get out I thought it was temporary that was years ago. I was just a kid back then. An innocent naive child. The third week was when I noticed how the colors became more vibrant the farther away from my prison it got the fifth week I tried to escape. They hurt me with fire, branding my skin with words and numbers that will never go away. That’s when I started planning

It had to be the perfect time. No earlier and no later. I knew it would take a while to get what I needed. I knew, I knew I would get there. Eventually. I wanted to get out, but I couldn’t. I still cant. I'm broken. They broke me. The problem for them is I don’t break like others. I don’t crack. I shatter. And I shattered. Tomorrow, the families will bring their children to the center of the city where I am held. Instead of pointing and laughing at my oh so funny fate,they will gawk and cover their child's eyes. They will see blood dripping down, staining the sidewalks. They will be afraid. They will see my corpse, lying limp on the cold steel floor of my cage. Dew will be collecting on the bars, dripping down and mixing with the red of blood that stains all. I will be free. As free as I was before I was taken and caged up like an animal. As free as a child.

So I sat. I sat and I ignored the curses and screams of the hoard of people, throwing rocks and pebbles and sticks and fire. I sat and I waited. I waited for the crowds to clear, a guard shooing them away. I thought about how it would feel to finally be free. For the crowds to never bother me again. Maybe I would be able to run my fingers through the wet, fertile soil. Maybe I would be able to feel the grass give under my feet. I couldn't wait for my blood to drip from my pierced skin. I knew how I was gonna do it. I was going to slice my neck, it will be fast, so I won't suffer, but I don’t really care if I suffer. The amount of pain doesn’t matter. I've faced more pain than I will ever have to again. I want to be flashy. I want people to be scared, to be shocked I don’t care if it hurts nothing could hurt more than I do right now. I want people to be close enough to touch my blood, to feel it slip off their finders. To smell its iron taste. For it to be burnt into their memory like the burns on my skin. For them to never forget what they’ve done.

I stare at the knife I had stolen so many years ago. I took it only a year after I was taken. I considered making my own knife, but they would have found it. They would have seen me sharpening it on the rusty bars. They would have taken it. They wouldn’t have let me be free. So I stole one. The second one of the guards turned around I grabbed the knife out of their back pocket. They didn't even feel it go. They never even suspected me. I was far to young to be suspected. I never needed to sharpen it, only keep it hidden until the crowd of cruel, cruel people gradually grew large enough large enough to contain most of the town. Large enough for them all to remember. Large enough for them all to see. I would wait longer, but I cant stand it anymore. Its been too long. I need to be free.

When the crowds are all gone and the lazy guards have fallen asleep, in the latest hours of the knife, I grab the knife. I've planned for years, and years,and years for what I'm about to do. I smile as I gently touch the blade to the skin on my fingers. It is pierced and drip of my crimson blood rolls onto my palm as I lift my arm parallel to the bars. Good. Its still sharp. I stare at the solid bars for a moment, then bring the knife up. I slice from the top to the bottom of my body. The warm bubbling pain feels nice. I smile. I cut up and down again and again until the surface of my bare skin resembles the bars that have trapped me here. I already feel numb and cold, yet still warm. I look down, my freedom, my blood drips from my fingers and pools around my feet, dripping off my prison. I grin again. The first drops have stained the perfect sidewalk.

I look up to the moon, a huge smile on my fave. I already feel like I'm fluttering above the ground, but I'm not flying away yet I hear echoing footsteps I don’t have long. I bring the knife as far away from my body as I can like its poison, but its the exact opposite its my way out. The footsteps get louder. I hear yelling as hard as I can, I fling the knife into my neck. A hollow sound rings through my head, singing my lullaby of freedom, as it hits bone. I don’t need to breath anymore. I fall, but I never hit the the ground. I fly! I rise from the ground! I laugh but no one hears because I'm miles from the ground! I'm free! the guards cant catch me here! I'm free! free! the words feel great on my tongue even though no sound escapes. I fly up so high I touch the edge of the sky with my fingertips. Everything goes black. As the sun rises, and the first of the crowds arrive to gawk at my escape through the sky, I die with a smile.