Letters to Describe

Chapter 6

Another day. She finds her hidden spoon and scratches another mark into the wall. Exactly four months she's been eating brown slop and sleeping on a hard, lumpy mattress. In reality she has short, red hair that reaches her ears and freckles powdering her nose.

Most people think she's a boy. Girls at this time aren't respected like they should. Everyone thinks we should be wearing dresses and curling our hair. So, she cut her hair and lost the skirt. Sometimes people become suspicious though, because of her voice and her habits.

She has not yet forgotten her name, not that she ever will. She is reminded of her name by the guards. They may not say her rightful name, but it counts. Every morning they come up to her bars and make faces at her, chanting "Rich Bitch, Rich Bitch!" and laughing at her.

Xzil Zaccaria is her real name. At least, it's as real as she thinks it is. She never knew the name her parents gave her. They never really called her anything, just called her "Sweetie" and "Cutie Pie". She heard the name at a booth at first. The merchant called her with that title and she stuck with it, letting it follow her all around the world.

It's even followed her all the way to this prison cell of hers.

She notices the guards that have been banging on the bars. "Hey!", one yells, "I'm talking to you!"

She looks over at them and growls, and they back away, one guard writing something in a brown notebook. She smirks, loving her effect on them, and stands up. She walks over to them and waits for them to raise the bars. As they put her in handcuffs she looks down the halls no one there, for now. She has to take her chance now, because there might not be any more. She has a plan.

She knees the first guard in the groin and elbows the second in the gut. She bursts down the hall and makes a right, heading to the cellar where they keep all the possessions they collect from prisoners. She passes a few cells on the way, prisoners waving their hands at her through the thick bars.

She runs past them, feeling guilty when she reaches the cellar. She looks through the peephole, checking to see if anybody is occupying the room. Everything looks small through the opposite side of the hole so she strains to see. She comes to a conclusion that nobody is there and slowly creaks open the door. Inside are hundreds of cupboards and closets that are almost impossible to sort through. Well, impossible for anybody but her.

But, when she tries to slip through she walks over a wet towel falling on the cold stone floor and feeling nothing.