1 – Stasi
“Hello there.”
The rat scuttles backwards at my murmured greeting, taken aback by the presence of another in this godforsaken place. I watch as it rises up on its back feet, sniffing the air.
I pull my legs back, just in case it’s as hungry as I am. But the movement startles it, and it disappears into one of the hundreds of nooks and crevices lining the four dirty stone walls that surround me.
Gone in a moment.
And with it, the only piece of entertainment I’ve had for days.
Sighing, I lean my head back against the slimy wall. I don’t even grimace anymore. My hair is matted and wild, full of filth from the dungeon around me. Why even worry?
My stomach growls audibly, and I close my eyes.
I count to a thousand in my head.
Again.
Then I move to ten thousand.
I lose track around halfway, and start again.
I’m on the verge of trying for a hundred thousand when the sound reaches me. The soft tread of footsteps, the deferential murmurs from the guards. The sweep of soft material across the ground.
I can almost smell the adoration. It’s hard not to retch.
When the key rattles in the lock on the massive, old wooden door, I don’t move. I stay exactly where I am, eyes closed, leaning against this filthy wall on my filthy cot as though I have nowhere else better to be.
Sorelle really isn’t the forward-thinking country we like to pretend we are. Our justice system is well and truly stuck in the Middle Ages.
Or maybe I’m just a special case.
My visitor sweeps inside. Pretty and perfect, the faintest traces of an undoubtedly extortionate perfume filling my cell. Another murmur, and the guard backs out slowly, although I can sense his reluctance.
He pulls the door closed behind him, and I wait.
“Hello, sister.”
The soft words almost drip with saccharine sweetness, full of sadness and regret.
Slowly, I let my eyes open. Let them focus on her, stood in the middle of my filthy cell with her perfect, silk pink dress. I take in the elegant tiara nestled in her blonde hair; the understated diamond nestled in the hollow of her throat. Wide blue eyes regard me sorrowfully.
“Ella,” I acknowledge finally. “Although I hear that they’re calling you something different these days.”
She dips her head, but I see the traces of a smile on her face. “The people do have quite the imagination, don’t you think?”
The people. As though they’re a different entity, and we have no connection to them at all. As though we weren’t part of that group for our entire lives, much to Ella’s disgust. At least until afew weeks ago, that is. When she got exactly what she’s always wanted.
And here we are, I suppose.
“How is life as our exalted Crown Princess?” Stretching, I cross my arms in front of me. Ella turns to look around. Her lips twist in disgust as she notices the grime coating the hem of her elaborate gown.
We make quite the pair. The princess, and the prisoner.
“Wonderful,” she coos. “Crispin is the perfect gentleman. It’s a true fairytale ending.”
My scoff rises in my throat.Crispin. He evensoundslike a drip. Although what a perfect, golden couple they make. It’s no wonder the entire country has fallen in love with them, I suppose. And with my sister,particularly. With her beauty, her kindness, hercourage.
