Near twenty four hours passed since the child’s arrival to this jailhouse. In reality, her cell is an interrogation room with its furniture removed... makeshift, since she is small enough to effortlessly slip between the bars of the cells, and the officers did not have small enough cuffs to keep her in place. There is nothing in this room besides a thin mattress tossed onto the floor, a flat pillow and stained wool blanket. No windows besides the one looking out into the hallway on this room’s door--far too high up for her to see anything.
It’s a sorry setting for someone to find themselves, but she is accused of far worse than typical juvenile delinquency: premeditated murder. Not even that common crime committed by children in the slums, but a first for this town on the plate.
This accusation couldn’t be further from the truth. The orphanage had something of a bad wrap over an inability to control its wards, but this incident was more than innocent rowdiness. One older boy had been picking on the redhead restlessly over the last few weeks--shoving her into walls, prodding at her with whatever he’d find lying on the ground, taking a handful of her hair to rip it from her scalp. A lack of supervision allowed all these things to happen, and she even managed to get him to back away by brandishing a pair of scissors she had found. So, she kept the scissors with her--even on that night the boy roused her from sleep to drag her out of bed.
Her hands still twitched from fatigue... she stabbed at him, and continued to do so, even if he didn’t let go. She lost count after three. Her hands had even slipped over the blade and cut open. Soon, she couldn’t even withdraw the scissors, as she left those blades embedded in the boy’s neck. Only then could she slip free from the boy’s grip and run, leaving behind a trail of her own blood. With a lack of anything else to think about, this torment played over and over in her mind.
The jailers were intimidating, and she had weaved together a clumsy tale about the boy’s death... she insisted she had no involvement with stabbing him at all. Every interaction with strangers seemed like a final stand-off; while she had changed into a hospital exam outfit fine, she refused to let medical staff change her bandages. Her wavy hair is a terrible mess, as her jailers had plucked hairpins free. To her, this was an especially hostile action... met with scratches, bites, and even a lost tooth.
All those thoughts ceased as she heard footsteps on the other side of that door. A man’s, she assumed... heavy, and confident. Her eyes locked on the little space between the door and floor, waiting for the shadow to become visible. She sat up on the mattress, huddling her knees to her chest. She ducked her face behind folded arms, yet peeked between the gap... staring down the door from her corner of the room.
