july 17th a letter by a prisoner
There is a chip on my shoulder that is taking root, spiraling down my spine and it wont be soon until it grows into the sky. There is bad blood in this haunted house, the corridors dark, dreary and almost soulless if not for the children sleeping in the other room. Foul stench and awful noises waft from the first floor kitchen, the sounds of a witch screaming for attention, her assistant complying and though I could not see directly I knew somehow that he was. Imprisoned in the top corner of the second floor I sometimes find a way to escape to the outside. If it were not for the fear of a hex being cast upon me, I would not return. The freedom I would have would simply be in jest, but that is not to say that the moments I sneak away are not always so. My sentence here is hopefully not eternal. I reckon my release would be when the Witch decides she is amused no further by my presence — that is assuming I will not be made a meal of. I would not mind being eaten if it meant my misery would be digested along with my bones. For now I have nothing to live for anyway, despite what I have seen from my adventures outside. Though one day, when this tree sprouting from my own skin and muscles breaks through the roof of this prison I will probably climb out and never return. I will take attack the trunk with a rotary blade, and leave the stump here so the witch can count the rings. Surely by any curse set upon my by then would be better than to stay in a jail where nothing matters.
