Young Writers Society

Crystal Clear

Prologue

The tray landed on my desk with enough force to move the plates and bowls around and make a loud clattering sound that woke me. I jumped out of my seat, forcing the chair into the wall behind me and injuring the backs of my knees.

"Sleeping again, were we?" Chris said, grinning annoyingly at me.

I ignored him and stepped to the side so that I could pull the chair away from the wall and check that there were no marks left on the paintwork. "What's with the tray?" I asked.

"Food," he said slightly sarcastically. "It's for a new inmate. She has to be watched when she eats 'cause she has a tendency to not eat it."

I furrowed my brow. "Why? She's trying to weaken herself?" I said, confused.

"I think it's an escape attempt," he said, shrugging.

I sighed, picking up the tray and leaving the room. I made my way down the corridors, unlocking the doors, opening them, walking through and then closing and locking them again. I reached the cell and peered through the bars. The room was dark so all I could see was a small shape huddled in the corner. I sorted through my keys, selected one, shoved it in the lock and turned it until I heard that satisfying clunking sound I had grown accustomed to over the years. I slid the door open and stepped into the cell, sliding it closed again behind me. I placed the tray on the floor and looked up at the small heap of cloth in the corner as I sorted out the plates of food. There was something moving under the cloth, reacting to the noise I was making.

"Anyone under there?" I asked.

A piece of cloth moved to one side and a head rose from under it. A pair of deep, crimson eyes peered up at me, like illuminated precious gems, through the mass of dark, knotted strands that made up a bundle of chestnut brown hair; they were wide and panicked. I realised instantly that this was a young girl, still in her early teens.

"Hello," I said instinctively. "What's your name?"

"At the moment?" the young girl said in a perfect, clipped, English accent. "Chrissie."

She sat up straight and straightened out her legs so that I could see her clearly. Her clothes were ripped and burned and covered in the red stains of blood, some of which was probably hers, and her snow white skin was covered in small cuts and bruises. Her lips were cracked and dark circles framed her eyes. She had a slight build and looked quite short even from a sitting position.

"How old are you?" I asked, pushing the tray of food towards her.

"That depends," she grinned at me, "on whether you mean how old was I when I was made or how old am I including the years since then."

"How old were you?" I confirmed.

"15," she said quietly, dropping her head and pulling the tray towards her with her index finger. "I'm 316 years old today." She picked up the packet of blood on the tray and threw it at me.

"What's wrong?" I said. "Don't like the colour?"

"It's human."

"And?"

"I don't drink human blood."

"Oh," I sighed, leaning back against the wall and watching her shovel food into her mouth. "So you're one of them. You need to drink your blood though," I said teasingly. "You'll grow weak if you don't."

"It doesn't matter. I'll be dead soon anyway."

I stopped, shocked by her words. "Why?"

"Because I've been given the death penalty."

She polished off her meal and leant back against the bare brick wall behind her.

"What gets a young girl like you the death penalty?"

"The murder of one of our own kind."

"Who'd you kill?"

She grinned at me again. "That's a long story."

I grinned back at her. "All I have is time."