Comfortable Cages – Inspiration Monday

Great prompts this week on Inspiration Monday! I’m out sick right now so I jumped at the break from my boredom. Anyway, here you guys go, I’d love thoughts/criticism/comments, whatever. (:

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Comfortable Cages

My life is simple. Perfect actually. I’ve never been hungry, never been hurt, and never seen the other side of these bars.

Sometimes, it’s a boring life – perfection has a way of doing that to you – but it’s comfortable. They tell me I’m crazy for wanting to leave. Who would want to experience pain and hunger when you have all this? They say. Under my breath I always whisper, Me. That’s who.

Am I ungrateful like they say? Does my discontent just show that I don’t deserve the life I’ve been handed? I promise I don’t mean to be this way. I’ve tried to stop questioning the things that are supposed to be gifts. My curiosity may always be my curse, but I do try to fight it.

They can call me strange, they’re right, anyone can see that. I do feel bad, but this place is wrong. Humans are not meant for this. Perfection leaves us without a reason. Here, I have no reason to get up every morning. Here, I have no reason to live. Comfortable cages leave us all with no purpose. I can’t live this way.

A New, Nameless Piece

This piece is kind of unfinished, but as of right now I have no idea how long it will be so I thought it might be fun to post.

_ _ _ _ _

The pristine green uniform and cold lifeless eyes of the man before me are so terrifying I swear that every time he looks at me my blood curdles more. Not one single pleat or fold of him is out of place. The other girls around me tremble under his gaze. I meet it head on with a mocking challenge in my eyes. You don’t scare me.

I wish I could tell him so aloud. Make him realize that he will never break me so it would be pointless to try. I want to tell him that he doesn’t own me. That he never will.

His eyes fall on me, I stare harder. Some people say I have a piercing gaze. A few tell me that I make people uncomfortable because they can’t hide from me. Maybe he’ll be uncomfortable under my stare too. I hope so. He deserves it.

The flicker of recognition crosses his eyes. I am defying him. He knows it, he will not let my act go unpunished. But now is not the time. He has orders to follow and a schedule to keep. I’m just an annoying fly that can be killed off in his spare time. I suspect that he is the type who captures a fly and rips its wings off just for fun.

He snaps his fingers, orders his men to take us onward. They herd us into a room and we all undress. Others around me cover their bare breast in a silly attempt to hide behind modesty. Do they really think these soldiers deem us worthy of covetous stares? They thing we aren’t worth the ground they tread on. We are here to rot in living hell.

They make us file through a cold looking metal door. Overhead I can see sprinklers of some sort. We are about to have a luxury. Cold water pours over us and we rush to let it soak us. There is no telling when we can shower again.

The water turns off much too soon, leaving only a hollow drip to fall on the floor. Girls rush off to find their clothes and pick up any extras they can find.

My things are stashed away in the corner so I can ignore them. I don’t bother running since I’m not going to end up with anything extra. I’m glad now, that Mrs. Forestier made me wear all my warmest clothes. I’ve lost some, but with my regular shirt underneath Pierce’s winter shirt and both my pairs of leggins, there’s no danger I’ll freeze.

Dressed, I find my boots–Pierce’s from when he was younger, but much thicker than anyone else’s–and pull them on. Really they’re a little big for me, but I stuffed them with cloth so they fit alright.

The girls who have finished dressing are lining up for registration. The man askes name, age and type of offense then hands each girl a paper. A guard pats us down and one by one we go into our new life through another metal door. This one is a lot more frightening. It seems to whisper to me, You will never come out.

When I step through into the dim room I have to blink to see where I am. Before I can really get an idea what the place is like, a soldier grabs my arm. I think about protesting but they’re all protesting. I won’t be lowered to that level. So I allow him to take me aside and tattoo the numbers on my arm. The numbers on my forgotten paper. The numbers that mean I’ve rebelled against the empire.

Every single spot the needle pricks stings as it embeds in my arm. By the time he finishes my arm is blotched red. I glare at him. How dare he make me only a number to them? How dare he add me to their list of prisoners, waiting to die and with no name?

I am not who he says. My name is not just a number. I will never be 114283.