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It Started With a Promise

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It started with a promise.
You can’t remember the words or the person you made the promise with, only that both the person and the words hold a dear meaning to you.
You’re currently trying to think of them, of the nameless and faceless people you once held close. Anything to keep yourself sane in this place. You can’t remember how long you’ve been in this here because it’s impossible to tell by the times the give food (Not that you eat it of course, you don’t trust anything these people give you), it’s seems the food is given at different times for the sole purpose of driving people mad.

You hear it again. The other people they have locked down here. The ones who have already lost, their shouting, profanities falling from their tongues as they have nothing else to give. You pray that you don’t turn out like that, a beast that can only yell out against the word. You think of the promise and hope it fills you with. That those words will lead the people who spoke them to you, that they can take you away from this hell.

The yelling now gets louder. But this is saner than the rest you can hear the ferocity in its voice, demanding. To see them. You don’t know what that means and you could care less. But the voice is a nice change. It’s new, so it allows you to know for sure time has passed. New people don’t come here often. People now hide, away from the malicious government, which gets rid of anything that can fight them. That’s how you got here. It’s the only thing you can recall. You were helping save a village that was being purged. You were caught, they pumped full of chemicals to make you obedient. They make your arms itch. You stop trying to think back now, the hard effort making your head swim.
Voices are coming from outside. The sane man outside shouting. Yelling names. Names are useless here. The guards are getting annoyed. They tell the man to shut it, one making a threat to slam the man’s face into a wall. Threats here aren’t to be taken lightly. You hear another voice now. One that’s familiar and nice to hear. It’s the Kind Man who comes in place of the doctors. You don’t like the doctors their cruel and don’t stop poking you with needles even when you cry out for them to stop. The Kind Man doesn’t give you the needles. He pours the stuff that makes your arms itch into the dark corner, where the guards can’t see it.

When the door opens you see the Kind Man, and a head of blond spikes being pushed into the wall. You try not to look at that. The Kind Man walks in and closes the door behind him, shutting of the violence outside. You appreciate that. He sits next to you and greets you. He calls you Bluebird. When you had worked up the courage as to why he calls you that, he told you that’s because your hair’s a vibrant shade of blue. You doubt that. Your hair feels filthy and sticky. It hasn’t been washed since you came here. His hair is brown. A nice shade. He turns to you and shows you the bag he brought. He opens it slowly; a sign to show it’s not dangerous. He offers you the bag and when you look inside you see an assortment of coloured paper and crayons.

You can vaguely remember asking for some paper, but not the crayons. He must of thought of that. You hesitantly take the supplies out of the bag. Once they’re out the Kind Man takes the bag back and moves over to the dark corner to empty the vials of itchy medicine. You take the paper and start making flowers, you only use the blue paper though, the other colours don’t seem like they’ll fit what you want. The Kind Man comes back over and sits comfortably next to you. He’s warm. You like that. When he sees you using only the blue coloured paper he remakes about your hair saying that’s why. You shake your head. The only thing that comes to mind is ice. When you state that, his eyes turn thoughtful. He politely asks if he can use the other colours of paper, you don’t see why not and state that it’s his paper, he doesn’t need to ask. The Kind Man Just laughs. You both sit in silence for a while, the pile of blue flowers growing, you occasionally sneak a glance at what the Kind Man is doing, you know you don’t need to, but staring feels wrong. You see flowers of all different colours, and some stars are thrown in.

He suddenly looks over to you and ask if you remember anything. You find this strange and inquire as to why he wants to know. He just looks at you sadly. You don’t like his face sad so you tell him about the flowers, and how you remember them being ice, frozen so they don’t wilt. His face goes bright again. You ask why he doesn’t give you the itchy medicine, he state how he doesn’t like how it makes you act. Your arms have scars from the itching he remarks.
The yelling outside starts up again. Louder. More violent. You get scared and cower. The Kind Man goes to the door. Purposely leaving it open a bit when he steps to one side, something you find weird. The blond spikes push through and the door is slammed closed. The face of the blond is bloody and bruised. That makes you sad. But his face is brightens when he sees you. He turns to the Kind Man and they speak in hushed whispers. There’s banning at the door. They turn to you and say we’ll see the stars again. Tears fill your eyes.

It started with a promise.