It had been around three hours give or take since she had been shoved in here, as soon as she'd arrived she decided to try and make herself comfortable, when that didn't work she tried starting to get a grasp on time while her thoughts wondered. She was sat on a cold, thin mattress that seemed to be even colder than the stone walls surrounding her. She sat there in the cell unable to move from the room, wrapped up in her own thoughts, she wondered through her memories as her mind showed these images of her life to her. She was aware that people were watching her. She could see them behind the window staring at her and she felt like she was back in the one cell that had held most of her life. She came to a stop on the memory of herself making a speech, now. She looked confident and strong, around the age of eighteen. She was in England, making a speech to the people around her. They had told her to make it real, make peoplebelieve it so she was and as she sat in the cell she spoke those words stirring everyones hearts around her.

"When I was eight years old I was taken from my mum and dad, there was nothing we could do. I stopped and stared as they faded away, have you ever lost anybody? Have you ever lost your name and everything and anything you ever were? That was me, I thought that I could trust someone,I couldn't they told everyone and that's how I got my first nickname X. Everyday of my life after that was hell in itself. I had no one not a single person to turn to. That was my life before I came to the other side, I was given a home and a life, I felt like I had a purpose, a reason to be, not to be used by others because of who I was.

I not the only kid that grew up this way, abused and surrounded by people who used to say that rhyme,about sticks and stones, as if brocken bones hurt more than the names we got called,and we got called them all. So we grew up believing that no one would ever fall in love with us, that we'd be lonely forever, that we'd never meet someone to make us feel like the sun was something they'd built in their tool shed. So, brocken heartstrings bled the blues as we tried to empty ourselves so we would feel nothing, don't tell me that hurts lessthan a brocken bone. An ingrown life was something surgeons can cut away, that there was no way for it to metastisize, it does.

She,"She pointed to a picture ofa small girl around the age of eight, curled up in a small ball with her head in her hands silently crying," was eight years old, our first day of year three, when she got called ugly, we were moved to the back of class so we could stop being bombarded by spitballs and paper areoplanes, or balls of paper that were filled with insults. But the school halls were battlegrounds, we found ourselves outnumbered day after wretched day, we used to stay inside for break, because outside was worse. Outside we'd have to re hearse running away, and learning to stay still like statues, giving no clues that we were there. And year five they taped a sign to her place that read 'beware of dog'. To this day, despite a loving husband, she doesn't think she's beautiful, because of a birth mark that covers alittle less than half her face. Kids used to say she looked like a wrong answer, that someone tried to erase but couldn't quite get the job done. And they'll never understand that she's raising two kids who's definition of the word beauty begins with the word mum, because they see her heart, before her skin and only all she's ever been is amazing.

He," She pointed to another picture but this time of a smallboy tears pricking his eyes," was a brocken branch grafted onto a different family tree, adopted, not because his parents opted for a different destiny, he was three when he became a mixed drink: one part left alone, two parts tradgedy. He started therapy in year eight, a personality made up of test and pills. Lived like the uphills were mountains and the downhill were cliffs for fifth sucidal, a tidal wave of anti-deppressants. With an adolescence of being called popper, one part because of the pills ninety-nine parts because of the cruelty. He tried to kill himself in year ten, the kid who could stil go home to mum and dad, have the audacity to tell them 'get over it'.

As if depressioncan be remidied by anything in the contents found in a first aid kit, and to this day he is a stick of TNT lit from both ends. He can describe to you the way the sky bends before the moment it's about to fall and despite an army of friends, who all call him an inspiration, he remains a conversation for those who can't understand sometimes being drug free is less to do with addiction and more to do with sanity.

We weren't the only kids who grew up this way, to this day kids are still being called names. But life is bad if you can't make the most of it. It seems like every language has an arsenal of names being updated every year. And if a kid breaks, and no one around choses to hear do they make a sound? Are they just background noise from a soundtrack stuck on repeat and people say things like people can be cruel? Everywhere is a big top circus tent, and the pecking order went from acrobats to lion tamers and from clownes to crownies, all of these miles ahead of who we were. We were freaks. Lobster claw boys and bearded ladies, oddities juggling loneliness and depression. Playing spin the bottle to try and kiss the wounded parts of ourselves in heal. But at nights while others slept we kept walking the tight rope, as practice. Yes, some of us fell, but I wanna tell them that all of this is just a breath, leftover from when we finally decided to smash all the things we thought we used to be. And if you can't see anything beautiful about yourself, get a better mirror, look a little closer, stare a little longer because there's something inside you that kept you going despite everyone who told you to quit. You built a cast around your brocken heart and you signed it yourself, you signed it They were WRONG! Cuz maybe you didn't belong to a group or a clique, maybe you got picked last for basketball or for everything, maybe you used to bring bruises and brocken teeth to show and tell but never told, because how can you hold you're ground if everyone around you wants to bury you beneath it? Youhave to believe that they were wrong! They have to be wrong, why else would we stil be here? We grew up learning to cheer on the underdog because we see ourselves in them,we stem from the root planted in the belief that we are not what we were called.

We are not screw-ups, we are graduates fromthe class of we made its. Not the faded echoes of voices crying out 'words will never hurt me', of course they did, but our lives will only ever continue to be a balancing act, with less about the negatives and more to do with the positives." With that she bowed her head, not wanting to see the images filling her head and the space around her. Closing off every thought that could have possibly entered her the door opened she looked up expecting to see two cleavers at the door shackles at the ready, ready take her to the interview room, but no there stood a sanctuary mage who she'd seen before but couldn't put a name to a face. He motoined for her to come and she stood up and made her way over to the mage away from the cold mattress that would have served as her bed, away from the cold stone room that made her cell, she looked back as they walked on wondering how long it was until she was allowed free again.

Sorry the chapter is really depressing, went to the dentist this morning, and one of my little sisters who just turned seven got told that she is to need a MASSIVE MASSIVE operations on her gums and teeth because of a accident she had when she was younger, been in a depressing mood all day!