My English Writing Assignments

The Key

I stare at my fingers. Heavy, pulsing, and brimming with blood. I curl my hand into a fist and hit the window repeatedly. My mind is exploding.
Help me.
Help me.
That is all my mouth, mind, and soul seem to repeat. My voice; distorted, hoarse, small. Layered with grief.

My hand spreads against the window, my yellowed hollow cheeks pressed against it.
I have lost count of how long I have been here. My desperate eyes shove my face almost through the window.
For the first time in a long, long time, I catch an image, a glimmering of light.Could that be a part of the palace?

 
All I can see now is hope. My eyes see the sky ̶ blended in a mix of pink, purple, orange, and blue pastels; the air melodic due to the singing of the bees and birds; the wind tastes of apples, I presume. I imagine breathing the sun, feeling the grass, tasting the water so fresh and cold against my dry, chapped lips.

 
Silent, salty, disgusting, dirty tears flow from my eyes, from my nose and into my mouth.
I scream, falling to the ground with a slam. I find something thick, small, and dark under my thin and barren bed. Scrambling towards it with speed and fervor, I snatched to the ground, snagging my skin on an uptick of wood on the floor, taking the smallest piece of wood onto my skin.
Another superficial reminder of the pain within my body and mind. I stare at the dirty thin hand clasped around the golden rusted key. I ran over to the door, almost flying.

 
Logic clearly left my mind because this horribly oversized key is humongous compared to the tiny slit of a keyhole.

 
I shimmy away back to the ground, wishing to blend away into it. Hopeless again... No. I refuse to give up, not again.

I looked at the rusted key between my fingers and I am not sure if this is how they meant the key to be used but I was not stopping now. Having a firm grip on the key, I hit its head onto the window's corners over, and over again, praying to any god out there for the glass to break.

 
Slowly but surely, some cracks begin to form. Aiming for the cracks I made one last strike.
The glass shattered, allowing my fist to pass through. I gently pulled my hand back through, small cuts began to welt and bleed. As carefully as I could, I removed the rest of the glass from my arm.
The smell of pollen and apples flooded the room and was like heaven compared to the stale odor of my prison.

I let out a sigh and hung my hands from the window. The pain from the cuts disappeared as I focused on the fresh air. I leaned out past the windowsill as far as I dared, below I saw a ledge, about 10 feet down or so. Looking closer at the ledge, my heart skipped a beat. 

There was a keyhole.