❝WILL THEY COME BACK AGAIN, MA'AM?❞
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"Perhaps." The Dame replied, brushing through the child's thick tresses. "That is the way with many creatures. They are beings of habit."
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The child watched the birds as they flitted around the window sill. They were bringing food to their nest for their young. Thin twigs, tufts of feathers and other curious materials littered the sill.
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“The baby birds are pretty.” She said.
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The Dame hummed disinterestedly in response.
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“Will I have babies, too?”
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“No, child. Don’t you remember? Your mother died having you. I wouldn’t want you to go through that. You will never have to birth children, I’ve made sure of it.”
The Dame finished her task, placing the girl’s hairbrush down with a tired sigh. "You must begin to do this yourself, Basilla, it is too much of a waste for me."
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"But, I like it when you do it." Basilla whined.
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"It does not matter whether you like it or not. I have better things to do than tend to your vanities, girl." Gothel hissed, rising from her seat and shoving Basilla out of her way.
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Basilla did not say any more. She knew not to now. There was no point in being argumentative.
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"I will be back late tonight. I have matters to attend to. Do not fall asleep before I return." The Dame quipped as she reached the door.
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"Yes, ma'am." Basilla replied quietly, her voice slightly drowned out by Gothel's loud heels against the floorboards.
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Basilla stood from her spot on the floor and walked over to the door, pressing her ear to it. She listened intently until the waning sound of footsteps completely disappeared. When she was sure the Dame was far enough away, she rushed over to her cot, peeling back her blanket.
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She carefully plucked the glass shard that lay under it and rearranged the sheets. She placed the glass carefully on the floor and wrapped her small, thin hands around the edge of the cot. Tugging gently, Basilla was sure to keep the noise minimal. She'd had accidental noises rat her out before.
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Finally, when the cot was moved off to her liking, Basilla picked up her shard again and stepped towards the newly opened space.
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The elaborate mural that decorated the floor seemed to blink up at her. It was her masterpiece, really. Carved into the wooden floorboards, were birds. All kinds, at least all the kinds she knew from her books and from outside her window. There weren't many she could see from it, but she caught the glimpses to sketch accurately enough. Her mural grew steadily since she had started it weeks ago.
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It was barely contained under her cot and she was running out of room for it. There was little space for any more birds, so Basilla had resorted to etching tiny flowers and whimsical shapes in the spaces between what she already had. It was her one bit of entertainment besides the legions of books she had read until the bindings frayed.
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At first, she considered showing the mural to Dame Gothel. As a sort of surprise. But the more she thought about it, the more she realized how bad of an idea it was. The Dame was an irritable woman. She angered easily. And the sight of her floors scuffed and scratched to oblivion would drive her up the wall.
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So, Basilla was careful about hiding it. The Dame wasn't interested enough in her or her room to go snooping around, but Basilla wouldn't risk any mistakes.
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As Basilla grew and her mural did not, there developed a sort of defiance in her. At first it started quietly. Ignoring the Dame's words, not bothering to brush her hair. Her favorite was staying awake all night, looking out her window. By morning, she'd barely be able to keep her eyes open and the Dame hated it.
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Gothel would scream at her and punish her and more often than not it would put Basilla back in her place. But, the defiance only grew.
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And with it, the Dame Gothel's anger. Her punishments would worsen. She'd make Basilla stand in her room for hours, her arms in the air, mimicking the movement of the clock next to her wall. The girl was made to sit with her knees on the cold, splintered floor while the Dame took heated needles to her skin or painted open wounds with a stinging liquid.
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Basilla sustained more as the years went by and the Dame grew more cold-hearted. Though sometimes, after Basilla was left crying on the floor, the Dame would cradle the girl in her lap and cry with her.
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But eventually, Basilla stopped crying.
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The peak of her defiance came when the Dame visited her room one night, and instead of enduring her punishments with tears and downcast eyes, she stared right at the Dame. She watched the Dame's cold remorseless eyes shift and flit away from her own gaze.
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With every strike and burn and scar, she stared deeper. It infuriated the Dame, but Basilla was unrelenting.
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Once and only once, did she laugh. She laughed in the Dame's face.
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Never had she done such a thing. Basilla's own gumption amazed her. But, there was more to marvel at. The Dame stopped. She stopped hitting and yelling and hissing. And she just stared.
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She watched the tiny grin on Basilla's lips and for a fraction of a second, Basilla saw on the Dame's face something she had never seen before.
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She couldn't describe the look. Not fear. Not remorse.
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Vulnerability, maybe.
But, the moment itself was fleeting. Gothel turned on her heels and left the room, slamming the door so hard behind her, it made the walls shake.
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Basilla stood on quaking legs, pain ridden but proud. She limped to her window and looked out. The moon beamed down at her in the sky and the stars danced.
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She reached up through the grate in her window and cupped her hands around the celestial body that had comforted her many a night. She cried then. For the first time in a while. But, this was different. It was nice.
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Happy.
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Slowly, she pulled her arm back and as she did, her sleeve caught the rusting edge of the grate. She tugged free, noticing the way the bars shifted as she did.
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Basilla settled her hand around the bar and pulled. She pulled and tugged and yanked until a piece of the grate broke free. The orange rust came off in her hand and the smell made her nauseous.
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Turning the bar in her hand, she noticed how jagged the end she had broken off was. The part of the bar that wasn't too rusted lay there.
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She walked over to her cot and kneeled cautiously, sliding the bar under and arranging it so that it wouldn't protrude from underneath.
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Her glass shard had long since worn out. Maybe it was time to start another mural. But, she was far too tired. She settled down in her cot and fell deeply asleep. She dreamed that night. She dreamed of birds and moonbeams. And she was happy. At least for a while.
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She was alone in that room for sometime. She didn't know for how long. Long enough to get hungry, at least. She stayed up as long as she wanted, watching the stars. Only once did she see Gothel, walking the garden path outside and lingering in the area. She didn’t want to look at the woman again, but could help but hear the witches voice travel up to her window. It wasn’t quite discernible or directed to her, so she didn’t bother listening.
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But here ears and heart perked up when she heard noises from outside her room. Shifting, footsteps, creaking. But after a while there was silence. And all she could do was sleep and carve out more of her new mural. She didn't bother hiding it anymore. She etched it out right on the wall.
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Her sleep was blessed with dreams. Good ones. But eventually, dreams come to an end. And we must wake up.
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When Basilla awoke, it was to the sound of chains rattling. Her eyes shot open and dread filled her heart at the sight before her.
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The Dame, locking Basilla's wrists in metal cuffs attached to chains.
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She immediately thrashed herself to break free.
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"Cease your struggling, vermin-child. You will be useless if you hurt yourself." Gothel hissed.
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"What are you doing?" Basilla cried, continuing to writhe.
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"I have no use for you. You are to be sold to a master in Syr. And he is not nearly as forgiving and kind as I."
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Absolute turmoil ravaged through Basilla's body.
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Years. Years. All spent in captivity and torture. To be allowed to leave, for the sake of servitude. Merely a transfer of ownership. There was to be no freedom. Never. Not for her.
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Something broke in her then. Like a crag shattering on the hills and cascading down to a flaming valley.
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Desperation was her drive as she ripped from Gothel's grasp. She dove back towards her cot, her hand searching under it until her fingers met cold metal. When she felt that cold boney grip on her neck, she swung the bar behind her.
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The grip loosened and left. The room was devoid of sound, besides a small gurgle and finally a heavy thud.
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Basilla lifted her hand to her face and inspected the orange rust that stained her palm. Although she couldn't help but notice the way her hand quivered, that wasn't her concern.
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She stayed there on the floor for a moment, until she felt something warm and wet on her bare foot. Her eyes on the window ahead of her, she stood up.
Something was different, though she didn't know what. She felt stronger. Fuller. The raised scars that used to decorate her arms looked thinner, barely there. She felt taller.
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Her eyes travelled downward, to her feet.
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There, splattered over her left foot, was blood. Not her own, since all her wounds were miraculously gone. Slowly, she turned, her gaze straight ahead. Her breath shook when she looked down at what she had done.
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There on her cold, splintered floor lay the Dame.
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Her black hair swam around her head in a puddle of the crimson liquid that seeped from her neck. The metal bar was embedded there.
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The shake in Basilla's hands intensified.
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Her legs failed her and she collapsed onto her knees. Slowly, she brought her hands to Gothel's head and turned it. Her eyes, so dull and distant, brought tears to Basilla's own.
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She wept long and loud.
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Her body rocked and swayed, barely able to keep herself up in her agony.
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She didn't know how long she stayed. Maybe hours, maybe days.
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The body of the woman who had brushed her hair and beaten her, grew discolored and stiff.
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All she could look at was the death in front of her and the door, slightly ajar, behind it. It took everything she had to stand and walk over to the door that she had twisted and pulled and thrown herself at so many times before. But, now, what could stop her?
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She imagined so many times what was behind that ever-locked door. Glorious valleys. Mountain views. A banquet of delicacies.
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And when she opened the door she found something better.
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Freedom.
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Freedom in the dark empty hallway with nothing and no one to stop her from walking it.
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And so she did.
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She turned left into the hall, walking and looking. Eventually, she came upon a flight of stairs. She walked down them and they creaked as she went. She knew exactly how many they were. She had listened to Gothel walk down them so many times. They sounded different from the other floorboards. Less hollow.
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She counted as she stepped. Eighteen, exactly.
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The room ahead of her was large and dim. Any furnishings were covered with white sheets. The fireplace to the right was sooty and dark. The only light came from the cracks in the boarded up windows.
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She held not an ounce of curiosity for the extent of her confines. She simply set her sights on the large oaken doors that she knew had to be her exit.
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Her hands laid flat against the varnished wood. And with all she had, she pushed.
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The light that splayed across her body was the best kind of blinding she had ever felt.
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Beyond was a flight of stone stairs, a dirt path and at the end if that, a gate. The path was lined with greenery. Trees, shrubs and grasses.
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Basilla stepped out into the warm spring air almost crying when the breeze wrapped it's cool arms around her. She walked, bloody and barefoot, out across the stairs and onto the dirt.
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She curled her toes in loose earth and ran. She ran straight towards the gate and pushed past it with a powerful, joyous force.
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There was nowhere for her to go, but she knew she needed to run.
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And so she did.
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