What Happens Within

I see a little girl, darkness around her and white lights glaring at her. She sits on a circle of faded white, looking down at her hands, feeling weak. She’s got something wet on her hands, and it glimmers as it falls on her white dress. Drip. Drop. Drip. Drop. White turns to red. She wants to scream, to shout and run away, but a bunch of aristocrats had her lips sewn together and her feet bound in place. Tall people gather around her, watching her, mocking her, but not daring to come close to her. I’m the only small one in that crowd, the only one who isn’t laughing. And as I watch that little girl, wanting to turn away but not wanting to leave, I can’t help but feel a little bit of sympathy for her. She’ll always find herself in that same situation, no matter what she does. She’ll find a way of escaping as she always had, but she’ll return once again to those cold, inviting shackles, to be laughed at and shouted at until she decides to escape again. Wherever she goes, there will always be an urge of checking her feet for those shackles, for even if temporal freedom has been attained, she still feels enslaved. She feels like she’s running in circles, experiencing the same things, witnessing the same sights…

Maybe if she punctured a hole on those walls with her killer hands and saw the real, warm light spill from that hole, she’d realize she’s being observed and experimented on. But she’s too scared. And unless that fear is banished, there will always be that feeling of enslavement. And white will always be red.

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