I wrote this story a few years ago for an English class. It’s alright I guess, but it could probably be a lot better. I’m posting it anyways because why not?
She curls herself into a ball upon the bed, the fresh bruises painful. They mix with the more colorful ones, the older ones that have turned brown and purple and yellow. The puncture marks where they had stuck the needles were barely visible. Tears streamed down her face. She hated it here, within her glass cage. It wasn’t really glass she knew. She didn’t know what it was made of truthfully, but it didn’t really matter to her. All she knew, all she needed to know, was that those clear walls stood between her and the outside world. She also knew, deep within herself, that she could easily escape. Destroying the glass cell would be merely a trifle, something so easily within her power that by all rights she should have done so within her sleep. But she didn’t. For as much as she hated the glass cell, she hated what lay outside its walls more.
Number of the Blagh 