Clove tossed and turned in the small cell all night, after giving up trying to pick the lock with her nails, she had cut the ends of her fingers open on the metal. She lay on her side on the small creaky bed, trying to remember the last time she had actually slept at night without a nightmare. She tried to close her eyes, but every time she did she felt the familiar sting of the smoke in her eyes. Who had set that fire? Were they trying to set her up? The next time she opened her eyes, she saw a hallucination of someone standing outside of her cell. Every time she blinked, the person changed.
First it was her mother, staring back at her with kind eyes. Clove stood up in awe, reaching forward through the cell. Her mother reached her hand back and touched their fingers together slightly, and she smiled at her again. She looked the exact same that she had the day she died. Her sleeves were rolled up above her elbows; she would constantly fight with the sleeves of her shirt when she was mixing herbs for her clients in the Healing Centre. Her hair was tied back with her green bandana, her black hair still as curly and frizzled as it had always been. She looked at her mother’s eyes, such an unnatural and beautiful shade of blue and saw a reflection of herself. A scared, lonely, and traumatized little girl locked behind bars.
The next time she blinked, she was touching her fingers with her father. Even though she knew she was dreaming, she could smell the alcohol on his breath as if he was standing right there. He smelled of paint thinner like usual, his razor stubble not as prominent now that he had gained some weight. His beer gut was still folded over his pants, and in his hands he clutched his favourite thing in the world. A full bottle of beer. Smiling his usual toothy smirk, he raised the bottle as if to salute her and took a long swig of alcohol. She backed up so quickly that she hit the wall, and as soon as her head made contact with the wall she shot up off of the small bed in the cellar, panting and sweating. “Clove?” Someone whispered her name so softly, she wasn’t entirely sure she heard it. It wasn’t until the person banged on the metal bars of the cell that Clove leapt up from the bed with a startled cry of “What?!”
Cato Mars stood there, looking at her with…concern? Clove rubbed her bleary eyes with her fists, but when she looked back at him he was still there.
“How are you holding up?” He asked her, leaning up against the bars and tucking his hand in his pocket casually. Oh, what she wouldn’t give to be able to reach through the bars of the cell, grab his hair and smash his head on the metal for being so arrogant.
“I’m peachy, thank you. Impending on triple attempted murder…” Cato nodded, yawning and smirking at her. “Are you going to tell me what the hell you’re doing here, or is this just a social call?”
“I’m here to help you get out”
