Page 6 of Glass

“Paging the fashion police,” I mutter. The black dress is more of a sack, shapeless and baggy as I drag it on over my dirty underwear and let it fall past my knees. The thin material brushes against my ankles, and I slip my bare feet into the black slippers that came with it.

I raise a hand to my hair and immediately drop it. I’m not sure which is dirtier at this stage.

The door swings open, confirming my suspicion that someone was watching me through the door. “Can I have some water to wash, please?”

They ignore me, naturally.

With a guard holding each arm, my hands and ankles are chained together as though I’m some sort of high-risk psychopathic serial killer. I almost laugh at the sheer fucking insanity of it all as I’m escorted out of my cell. Moving towards fresh air for the first time in weeks, with at least half a dozen guards in front of and behind me.

When I stumble, they drag me to my feet without pausing, and I get the message.

Keep up or get dragged.

Wonderful.

I’m so focused on keeping my balance that I barely have chance to look around. We climb the narrow staircase, winding around and around until a sheer bright light pierces my eyes painfully, forcing them closed. A breeze dances across my filthy skin, and I suck the fresh, cool air into my lungs like it’s the water I’ve been craving.

The sunlighthurts.Burns the back of my eyes, leaving vivid orange circles behind as tears slip out of my closed eyelids.

How long have I been in that fucking cell?

My chest feels tight as I’m forced to keep my eyes closed.

This could be the last bit of daylight you ever see, Stasi. Open your damn eyes.

The thought is sobering, and I crack my lids open the barest amount to try and look. A van is waiting up ahead, white with blacked-out windows. The guards lift me into the back, shoving me down onto a bench as they take up seats around me.

My eyes open fully in the muted light, and I lean my head back, listening to the mutters of the guards as an engine rumbles to life beneath us.

They speak as though I’m not sat right here, listening to them gloat over the possibility of my death.

Deep breath.

In, out.

It helps a little, helps to dampen the fear filling my lungs, threatening to choke the air from my throat.

If today is the last day I have, I refuse to give them the satisfaction of watching me break. Not when I’ve held myself together in carefully crafted pieces for so long.

Courage, Anastasia.

We drive for a while before the van slows. I keep my breathing steady as something bangs heavily into the side, and the guards stiffen.

Another bang, and another.

The van slows to a crawl, and a voice calls through. “We have a crowd.”

A crowd. A baying mass of faceless people, all gathered to watch me fall, to gloat in the downfall of theugly stepsister.

It shouldn’t sting, not when there are much bigger problems for me to focus on. It’s not the first time I’ve been called that, after all.

As ugly on the inside as you are on the outside.

I wonder whattheywould say, if they could see me now. If they’ve spoken about me, gloated at the downfall of the girl they once knew, watched the twisted, misshapen saga of my life being played out across every newspaper in the country.

I wonder if they ever even think of me at all. When I’ve barely gone a day without thinking of them.

Stop it, Stasi. Breathe.