Maleficent [Semper]

Faint early morning light peeks through cracks in the doors, specks showing through board that covered the window. There was no breeze, it was a simple, freezing cold January morning. Phoebe rolls over, waking from her few hours of sleep, sighing as she remembers the events of a few days ago. The Reaping had come again, and, like usual, she had failed to complete her father's wish and die. Curling her leg up against her body, she makes the decision she could move once again. Every breath was sharp, every movement slow, but eventually she is off the floor, leaning against a chair for support. Through all of it she could be silent, but only so as not to wake her father. If she did, most certainly trouble would ensue. There was never a moment she could escape him, except the rare moments she found a way outside. Glancing towards the door, she gives up at the simple image of the missing key. He had it in wherever he hid it, and she would not leave today. A breeze seems to float around her as she recalls the beauty of the outdoors only a few days before.

She moves towards her father, and picks up the half downed bottle lying next to him and sets it on the table. Then she walks around, picking up the others that lay scattered. She hadn't been able to pick anything up for days, and the house was a much worse mess than usual. It didn't help he hit her for not being able to get up. It didn't help one of his friends reminded her of Riker. Not that she cared about the boy. No. He was cruel and he was abusive, almost reminding her of her father. She didn't like him. His death did not bother her.

She groans as her headache returns, and can not help but glance in the direction of the kitchen table, where a chair was missing a leg. After half an hour, she finally completes tidying up the house, wary of her snoring father every time she passes him. Grabbing a knife off the counter, she quickly goes to the door and wedges it in the side crack. If she couldn't get the key, she would use her own methods. After a few minutes she gives up, cursing her strength as she throws the knife to the floor, where it lands next to a shiny little key shape. That, is when she runs.

Mere seconds later she is in the outdoors, not even worrying she was without sleeves and her pants were holed and bloody in one place. She didn't care if she got hypothermia - just that she was outdoors again. It was a record - twice in one week. There were usually months of a gap between visiting that other world. She walks on the pavement, smiling at the fresh white snow and letting her bright red hair cover her pale, bruised face. Without the blue and black she might have been rather pretty. Her lips slowly change color as her excitement dies away and the first few early morning lurkers come out.

After a few minutes people begin to open stores, and Phoebe is content with the small rush. She enjoyed crowds, it made her feel less lonely. Lonely was something she had learned to befriend, though it often tried to become her enemy. Her eyes swim with ideas of meeting a friend. Wouldn't that be lovely? Then, maybe, they would become best friend. Then, maybe, they would beat her father up and send him far away. Then, maybe, she'd meet someone special. Then, maybe, she would get married and have children and live happily ever... okay that was pushing it. She knew she would always be her father's slave.

She had no money, but examining the goods was one thing she was fond of. Slowly she makes her way to the square, heavy footsteps making hard prints in the snow as she struggles to get past the rougher citizens. She regrets not grabbing a thicker shirt, or taking her father's shoes, but there was nothing to be done now. Sitting down on a bench, not bothering to glance at the other person on it, she wraps her arms around herself and breaths out a cloud of cold air. She then shifts in the bench and taps the person's shoulder, becoming the happy friendly Phoebe she liked to pretend she was.