What if you had the ability to write? What if you couldn't control the story you created? And what if, the magic kingdom your hands are so keen on writing about turned out to be real?
Alessandra is used to the way things are. Life isn't great, but i...
It wasn't defending herself what got her almost killed so many times, but trying to attack. She would make a wrong move and while trying to punch the trainer that was assigned to her that hour, she would lose her balance and fall, or just get punched back to quickly to react. She was sore every night but woke up absolutely healed. Well, asides from the many scars. But even those would heal, eventually. Just to get new cuts and wounds and bruises in a few hours. She suspected it had something to do with the small thing they had placed in the back of her neck.
It was the same every day. Wake up, have breakfast, get punched and slapped and beaten, have lunch, get thrown through the room a few times, run and jog and jump a lot, then practice survival skills, take a shower, have dinner and awkward conversation with Nikolai, who would never answer her questions about how their system worked, sleep and wake up again. She fell in some kind of trance, where she didn't think, she just did what she was told to or yelled to do. Every. Single. Day.
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She lost track of time. She couldn't remember the last time she had thought about writing, or thought at all. She hadn't even looked at herself in the bathroom mirror, since the first week. She may have caught a glimpse or two now and then, but never really looked. Shocked by this, Alessandra stood up and walked towards the bathroom. She didn't wait for the door, she was already used to it opening when she needed it to. She looked at her reflection but couldn't recognize herself. She wasn't scrawny anymore; instead she looked stronger and healthier. Her hair was longer, and her eyes looked different, somehow.
"Look at how much you've changed", her reflection –the fierce Alessandra- told her proudly.
"How much they've changed me", Alessandra answered, angry.
"You are starting to look like your imaginary Queen", fierce Alessandra whispered, still proud, but put special emphasis in "imaginary".
It was strange, when she talked to herself. It was like she got divided in two different girls. And for some reason, Alessandra was angry.
"I am not".
"Yes, you are. And you are acting like her, too. Look at you. It's good to see you put aside your childish dreams and focus on what's in front of you".
Alessandra was confused for a few seconds. She didn't understand what she meant, and she didn't understand how it was that she thought something she couldn't understand. But she finally did.
I haven't even thought about writing, she realized, amazed.
And she suddenly needed to write. It wasn't the feeling she got before, like if she didn't write, her ideas would fly away forever out of reach. This was completely different. Alessandra missed the feeling of writing. Of the pen on her hand, ink in her fingers, her hand moving by itself, her ideas pouring into a piece of paper, the feeling of rebelling against Atticus. She missed her characters, and the kingdom of Antupainkia.
