My hair falls in choppy waves around my shoulders now- I'm not allowed hairpins, I might stab myself and put them out of their misery. I look like a whore- I suppose we aren't too different. Whores sell their bodies and I sold my soul and we both end up in the gutter.
I miss the sun. I always took it for granted before, back when I could strike my enemies down with fire and lightning and watch them writhe. I can't tell where the light comes from here, but it's never day and never night- just rounds of washing and feeding, as though I'm a helpless infant, with pinpricks that make my mind go numb on the side. They all fear me.
Oh, of course, they'll never admit it, keep on pretending that there's pity or disdain in their gazes. But their movements are skittery, almost coltish when they have to get close to me- they'd prefer to observe from a distance, watch their curious test case. So much like Mother.
They've taken my bending. Not in the permanent, soul-raping way the boy avatar took my father's (you'd be surprised what the guards let slip around the poor little mad girl). I'm chained, padded restraints for my padded cell (behold my kingdom), in a cold mockery of a dungeon. My bathwater is tepid, too. I used to fight them when they bathed me, flail and rage and claw, try to make them feel a fraction of my hatred- I've long since stopped. What do I care if they see me in my shift or without it? Nobody's hands linger on my emaciated frame. They don't want to touch me more than they have to.
Mother speaks to me but no one else will. She hovers around mournfully despite my screams. I want to see fear in her eyes. Perhaps she is the only person in the world who does not fear me.
Today she is playing with my adultress's hair- she is not afraid to touch me. She croons and calls it beautiful with a liar's tongue, because it's filthy and lank and will stay that way no matter how many times it's washed. I try to shove her aside when she moves to sweep it up; I am no princess and I do not want my curtain lifted; she does not halt until there is a topknot formed on my head. She enjoys taunting me, I think. There is nowhere less royal than an asylum- she has prettied a husk, her blazing, terrifying daughter's shriveled corpse.
Some nondescript orderly tiptoes in- she doesn't want to set me off with sudden movements. They see me as a rabid animal. Mother vanishes- they don't ever see her- and the orderly rolls up my loose sleeve, jabs sedatives into my vein.
I once controlled who lived and who died, felling those in the latter category without hesitation. I don't control whether I live or die anymore. I wish for death, all-encompassing blankness. My shackles removed.
I feel dizzy, the whitewashed walls spinning in my field of vision. My hair is covering my face again. We're all equals here. It's just that some of us are more equal than others.