Hey! Thank you for reading this story! I'm really excited to write this as I love the idea. If the words are badly punctuated/a bit erratic, they're meant to be like that to show the madness in Marinette's mind. After all, she's been in that cell for quite some time haha!

Anyways, comment if there are any suggestions you'd make or if you're enjoying the story:) Happy Reading!

I'm not going crazy.

I know that.

They told me that I was when they chucked me in here, saying I was a freak, that I shouldn't be allowed in Paris, that I truly belonged in this cell, all alone.

But I think they're lying.

I'm not sure how long I've been here for now. I used to count the days, but after two long years I've stopped. Every day is the same: waiting, waiting, waiting. Hoping that someday I'll get out. But the chances of that are slim.

At the back of my cell, there's a window. A small single pane of glass that I can press my outstretched hand against. It's the smallest of windows, but it gives me the biggest of hope. I often look out at Paris, admiring its beauty wistfully, letting my mind wander about the world out there.

But I'm not crazy.

I'll get out one day.

For now, until I manage to think of a plan to escape, I'm going to have to stay here, crouched in the corner of my empty prison cell, thinking.

I stay there, leaning against my four walls of 'home' for long periods of time. Sometimes, hours, sometimes days, without sleeping. The only thing that brings me even the slightest bit of comfort is my magic. By magic, that's what I think it is, though I'm not really sure. I've heard whispers in the middle of the night that I'm some sort of mutant, but I don't believe them.

I stare at the palm of my hand and close my eyes, focusing on the beautiful sight that I've seen so many times. I find the feeling of wonder and hope from inside myself and feel the warmth it brings to me, sensing it as it travels from my chest down my arm and into my hand. I open my eyes to see pure white light spiralling and curling upwards from the centre of my hand. As the light swirls in breath-taking wisps from my fingertips, small ladybirds burst from the light and flutter away from my hands, some landing on the floor next to me before fading slowly, some flying in circles before gradually becoming dimmer and dimmer. I smile sadly at them as they fly and crawl, knowing that I brought them to life but I'm so weak with tiredness and hunger I can't get them to stay. In a way I understand. They're just enjoying their lives, but only getting a taste of it as it's so cruelly taken from them. My thoughts drift back to my memories, like a broken record player, on constant repeat. I can't help a silent tear that trickles down my cheek and lands with a small splash on the floor.

"Food, 367. Get it now or go without. Get over here!"

My eyes instantly widen in fear as I scuttle over to the door, which has been opened just enough for a small food tray to be shoved through with force. It skids across the floor and collides with my kneecaps. A sharp pain sears through my bones; however, the guards ignore my protests, my pleas, my cries of agony. Then again, to them, I'm just a number. Not Marinette. That's my name, at least it was a while ago. It's been so long since somebody has used my name. I suppose it's also been a while since I've spoken to a real human, someone with real feelings, not like the guards who wait on the other side of the door.

Many times, I've thought about the possibility of escaping when they open the door for food. I even tried it once. Nothing prepared me for the armed soldiers on the other side, guns ready, poised to shoot the freaks like me who spend their time cowering inside our metal chambers of isolation. So, I gathered that leaving wasn't an option.

Instead, I sit.

I wait.

I think.

Sometimes cry.

Sometimes just stare at the uniform cream bricks of the walls that leer over me, daring me to try and break out.

I curl up into a ball and hug my knees. Loneliness is the only other thing that lives in the cell with me. It's always there, the only thing I see, hear, talk to. I talk so I remember I have a voice. That no matter what anyone says, I still have a say. No matter how many numbers they put to my name, I'm not going crazy.

I'm me, Marinette, and I will escape.

Somehow.

(Time jump to the next morning)

"367 UP! NOW!"

A startling voice and a hammering on the iron door of my cell jolts me from my sleep and I sit up from my position on the cold floor. Of course we weren't given beds. That would make us human.

I shake off the stiff pains in my neck and run to the door, which is flung open, letting two soldiers walk in. Both are tall and muscled, one with olive skin and dull grey eyes that glare at me, the other with a wider frame and black hair except from a blond tuft above his forehead.

"Gloves, Ivan," the thinner one reminds his companion, who quickly slips gloves over his hands and eyes me warily.

I'm not stupid. I can see them tighten their grip on their guns, the distrust in their eyes. Of course they don't want to come near me. For what they think I can do. They immediately look me up and down in disgust before throwing a pair of filthy black gloves at me.

"Put them on. We don't want to be affected by your little tricks," one of them spits at me.

Now, I'd love to protest. I'd love to scream at them, tell them they're wrong, that I'm not that bad. I'd love to scream so loud cars could crash and windows could shatter and oceans would roar and the walls of my cells would crumble.

But that wouldn't do anything.

People are too small minded. They have fear as an instinct that floods their systems when they don't understand, rather than accepting people like me. They're scared. I was too when I found what I could do. But one day, they'll see I don't mean to hurt anyone.

Next thing I know, I am being dragged down cold corridors that twist and turn this way and that. I have no idea where they're taking me. Maybe, after all this time, they're finally going to kill me. Whatever it is, it can't be any worse that keeping me from speaking to other people in a cell all by myself. When we eventually reach the doors, the bright daylight is too much. I have to squint as I'm thrown onto the concrete path. I quickly stumble to my feet and shudder as the icy wind whips around my feet. The basic cotton dress they gave me is not very warm, believe it or not. I look around me in wonder.

And then I realise.

I'm free. I'm outside.

I want to absorb this moment, unscrew my head and take out my brain to absorb the fresh smell of the air, the noise the wind makes as it whistles by me, the sounds of the birds chorusing to each other as they soar through the white clouds. I want to relish this moment as if it's all I have.

And it is.

Before I have a chance to run or leave or escape, strong arms seize me by my waist and carry me to a purple van with the symbol of a purple butterfly I've seen before emblazoned on it, not flinching when I struggle. I'm thrown in the back and I hit my head of the floor as I land. A sharp pain steals into my head and I'm sprawled in the back, sobbing as the world around me bleeds in and out of focus. Just as I think I can pull back and focus, the darkness wins, and my whole world turns to black.