Trapped
There she was, pacing the far end of her cell, her cage, her home that she loathed. She had only been there a few days, no, maybe it was a few hours, but even so, the anxiety of being locked up had settled in her stomach, making her feel squeamish and nervous and all sorts of antsy. She wanted to get out. Several times a slaver walked by and told her to cut it out as she tried to wiggle the lock free on her cell, and try to dismantle the bed to use it as a weapon to free herself. After the first or second time, she had lost everything inside her cell, save for the thin, matted blanket that the slavers left her. She was angry. Stubborn and angry and mad were all sorts of things thrown into one, and she paced more. Her footfalls seemed to resonate through the cells. She was, apparently, lost in one of the darker parts of the pens, a lesser traveled path that seemed to only have one meal instead of the standard three like others. They were dirtier here, a little more sullen. A little more broken. Florence wouldn't let herself be broken. She was far too pretty and far too head strong to be broken by a set of metal bars around her, keeping her locked up like an animal. Even when a set of masters came, almost interested in her, her attention seemed far and few between, and she dismissed any order they gave, and she chose to act like the stubborn girl who grew up by herself, instead of the subservient girl who grew up in a pen, being slowly trained to be bred for her own service into producing the next generation of slaves. Her fingers tightened in her hands, the nails biting into flesh as she stood there, watching the eyes of the person staring back before they finally gave up and walked away. No way was she going to let any of these people own her. Her fighting spirit was strong, and her willingness of needing to be free seemed to grow stronger with every heartbeat that pounded hard inside her rib cage. She was tired of this already. She was tired of the looks people gave her, of the way hands reached into her cage to touch her -- she was ready to bite. She was ready to run. It was written on her vital stat's screen to open with only two slavers, as she was known to try and bolt. The cage was tight, constricting, and she wanted out. Eventually, she got tired of the pacing, of the staring, and she found herself on the ground, curled up in a ball and underneath the thin blanket that outlined her form. She wasn't the tallest or the most athletic, but she knew that, should someone from the home pen she was from came and saw her, she'd find herself back inside one of those cages, being prepped to grow children for any Master that wanted one. She didn't want that. For now, she just wanted to watch the world burn, and to get out of the cage. She would ignore the world, and ignore the voices outside her cage. Until a set of slavers came in to get her to pay attention, she'd do her own thing. It was just the bout the stupid stubbornness that she owned and cradled with an ounce of salt.