Pricked

23

Peter

Sparing is easy for me, I was born to be a guard, I was born to be- the door swings open and I stand straight getting my thoughts to silence. She approaches me with such assertiveness that I worry she knows I am not a real guard. As though she sees through the worn down armor, tattered shoes, beaten hands. I let out a breath and hold my head higher slowing my walk to show my confidence. As she approaches I stop where I stand, I don't know why she would know nor care if I was a real guard or not, but still I act the part. She's a low born by the looks of it, her worn down dress, with handmade patches covering the worn holes. Her hair is deep black, short, and choppy. If she is like me or who I used to be, she shouldn't question my superiority. My mind rambles on as she approaches and gives a small bow and hands out a letter.

To give to Aurora?! I nod furiously and grab the letter leaving the lady to show herself out. Aurora will notice me and I will forever be the person to deliver the beautiful message from her friend. She will see that I am to be a guard and my life will start to get better. I smile so largely that when I reach Aurora's door I can't find the energy to put on a straight face. I give myself a slap on the cheek, "come on be professional." I demand silently to myself. I knock and just seeing her get ready for tonight, for her birthday makes my heart ache for her power and respect. It takes all I have not to smile and run to her, but she takes it, thanks me, and shoes me out. Not as grand as I wanted, but she saw me. Her eyes gave a soft smile and her finger grazed mine when she grabbed the letter. She saw me and when the time comes to train new guards she will already know my face. Her smell lingers after I leave, her room always smells of fresh rose petals and beauty. I don't know how else to describe her, but pure beauty.

I look to my hand then steal a glance back at the door. I have to tell Arren. Where is he today? At Edith's perhaps, the old lady that smells of cookies or Bart, who smells of cancerous cigar smoke?

Harriet

Aurora went into her slumber as I did and she is just as much a mess. I try to talk to her, but she spends her first 2 days cursed crying at the side of her bed. Begging and pleading to her body to wake up. She is unsuccessful of course.

"Aurora, please, I've been like this for a long time and if anything..." I try and gain her attention, but she remains fixated on herself. "If anything, they are closer to finding a cure." They aren't, but I think lying might calm her down, make her see reason to all this madness.

"We were going to die in this place!" She whines.

"We are not going to die Aurora, we are just sleeping..." She stares at me, her eyes blank and her face free of expression. "Look," I point at her body, "sleeping." I emphasize and put my hands to my cheek as if I was sleeping on an imaginary pillow. I open my eyes but she stands unamused. I need to try a new approach.

"Sleeping," she mutters angrily.

"I've been just like you," I start and she scoffs out a laugh, oh how I want to punch this little brat.

"I don't want to talk to you." She says bitterly averting her eyes from me and back to her sleeping body.

Why can't I give her any advice? Think of something, anything that might get through to her. I'm breaking inside, so I should have the best advice. I try and think of something to say, but my mind goes blank. We are most vulnerable when we are least nourished, she glares up at me. She thinks this stare of hers is making me scared, but I only feel pity. As time passes her walls will fall down and she will be weak enough to get past her ego and let me in.

"Why don't you want to talk to me?" I ask curiously, it is such a simple question, but she acts as though it is ridiculous. She is no longer the sad crying girl. She is the princess of sass and all things royal pain.