A girl in melancholy splashed grey.
You think about jumping. The tower is high and the thorns beneath are sharp. One step and you can be free. Free of this witch, this tower, this life not worth living.
But then clatter of iron chains wakes you from this silly dream, a fool's fantasy if there ever was. You smile lightly, touching each metal clamp, bracelets for the fettered. No, no, you will never escape. The witch needs virgin's hair.
And there she is now, calling sweetly for her Rapunzel. You answer complacently; hints of hidden misery lace your voice. She appears in the tower, a sparkle of her magic still lingering in the air, and calls once more that mocking epithet, reminding you of your parents' idiocy and sin.
She tilts your chin up and remarks how pretty you've become. "What a waste", she says, "you would have fetched quite a price had that father of yours not been so careless."
You look at her, not listening but wondering, wondering if she'll ever age, if she'll ever die. You wish almost selfishly that she would.
She sets down your meal and begins clipping a few locks of your hair. As she does, you ask why you must stay here in this tower. She pauses for a moment, smiling sadly, but makes no reply.
She leaves.
You eat the food, savoring the taste of sawdust and needles, and fall into sleepless slumber.
Months pass as the witch appears less and less. Your hair grows long without her, flowing out of the tower like honeyed hay, lovely and expendable, a mimicry of you.
You talk to yourself, speaking of the places you've been, the people you've met, the truths you've never told in this reality that never really existed.
…
You find shapes in the stone walls, a cat, a dog, a do you really know?
…
You do absolutely nothing at all.
…
Then one day, you hear a man's voice calling. You do not speak.
You feel a dull pain in your scalp, and you think about moving. Though it's is rather tedious, moving ...
You see him. He pulls himself up into the small tower and sees you as well.
Your mind flickers and tells you this is a human, like you.
He opens his mouth, speaking your mind supplies. You couldn't care less.
He comes closer now, hands on your face, your chest, your hips…then lower. He whispers words that are as meaningless to you as they are to him.
Is this appropriate? Your mind asks.
Does it really matter? A trade, an ingredient, a whore. Is there much difference? You were meant to be used.
You no longer think, watching with hollow eyes as he leaves.
More time passes.
The witch visits again, trimming your overgrown hair.
Again.
Again.
She appears once more, frustrated. Nothing is working.
A light sigh escapes her poppy colored lips, as she undoes the manacles, the rust spilling to skin. It can be nothing else. There is no need for you anymore.
She lets you go.
You lie in the field where she leaves you.
You are finally free.
And yet, you find yourself indifferent.
…
Do you even care?