Royal Havoc

8. Happy Pancake

eight

Happy Pancake

Tulip: 2008 Age: 11

F ootsteps echo, bouncing off the concrete walls along with the tinkling of keys. I know it's the witch by the sound of her steps as I sit waiting on the edge of the dirty mattress.

As soon as she sees me waiting, she sneers through the crusty bars. “You know the routine. Come get your breakfast,” she orders, squinting her beady eyes at me.

Crossing my arms tightly, refusing to move an inch. “What is it?” I ask, ignoring the rumbling in my tummy.

“Food,” she grits, showing me her teeth.

I’m not sure why she hates me, but that’s okay because I hate her, too. No one’s ever made me feel so mad inside. This place makes you forget how to smile.

I roll my eyes. “What kind of food?” Just saying the word makes my tummy rumble even more.

“Does it matter? You’re lucky you get anything. So, get your ass over here, or I’m throwing it away,” she warns.

I stand up, raising my voice, “The doctor said I could have pancakes. That doesn’t smell like pancakes,” I challenge.

She leans close to the bars, showing me her teeth again. “I’m not playing your stupid game. You’re a filthy little girl stuck in a cell where you belong. Not a princess. Now move, or I’m leaving,” she warns louder this time.

“Doctor Bolton said I could be a princess. And I want pancakes,” I argue, stomping my foot.

She smiles in a scary way. “Now you get to be a starving princess,” she spits, turning and charging down the hall.

I crawl to the middle of the squeaky bed, sitting crisscross, tears bubbling in my eyes. She’s right. I am dirty because she won’t let me shower. She said only good girls deserve to be clean.

I’ve done everything Bolton has told me to do. I don’t know what he wants. Hazel tells him I do awful things. It’s all lies. But she told me if I told the truth, he would throw me out with the trash.

I just wish I could call Mommy.

“Why do you act like a brat?”

“Shut up, B. I already told you,” I grumble.

“I don’t think you’re playing the game right.”

“I didn’t ask you,” I pout, mad because I know he’s right.

“Here,” he says, and I notice he’s holding something by the edge of the wall separating us.

I stomp towards the bars, bare feet slapping on the concrete. “What?” I huff, sticking out my hand.

He hands me his piece of toast. “Eat it,” he orders before I hear him slide down the wall.

I do the same. “I hate her, B.”

“Me too, but starving yourself isn’t going to help.”

Nibbling on the stale bread. “I’m going to get us out of here. And I’m going to make that witch bleed—”

“Shut up, Tulip. If someone hears you, they’re going to put you in the chair,” he growls quietly. “You have to be nice.”

The sound of him moving echoes off the walls, and I know he’s going back to his bed. So I do the same before the rats come and try to steal the toast.

He won’t tell me why he’s here. When I asked if his parents gave him away, he laughed. He showed up after Bolton told me to play make-believe. I know he’s thirteen, making him two years older than me. Well, today, he’s two years older because it's my birthday. I’m eleven today.

“Happy Birthday, Tulip,” I hear B mumble before I climb on the bed.