At the top of the hierarchy, highest in the pecking order, in the most extravagant of rooms, in a dress which was made from the expenses and fineries of the world, sat a lady. Hardly sixteen with no childhood to look back on.

Born and bred not for life but for the pleasure of those around her. To be looked at as if she was a painting, to be played with for pleasure at the expensive her own peace of mind and the degradation of her own sanity. Too beautiful to be left alone, too high class to be let out of sight.

She, nightly was tormented by the men in the castle. Even those nights no one snuck into her room sleeplessness took hold, and then if not that the dreams of the night were filled with violations and pain.

The pain of the past night had been unbearable. What had happened was not something she could live with. She already saw the future, as it came—enslavement as a giver of birth.

Chained to the man she could hardly remember the face of, who’d decided to come into her room that night. Who looked for pleasure, who had most likely done this to many other girls of the castle.

She had books though, and the tales she heard, she wrote. As the moon reached its peak, as dawn crept onto the edges of the opposing sky—the devil himself came perched on her windowsill.

Bewildered it was, when she’s asked it for the kiss of death. And baffled was she when when the devil asked if she wanted another way out.