The frantic slapping of bare feet echoed in short bursts throughout the polished stone halls. Behind each pillar she stopped, waited, listened and looked to ensure absolute safety before the next sprint. A few times along her practiced route, she ducked into an alcove or behind a curtain. Counting the seconds as guards passed, sometimes inches from her tightly held breath, she willed her sweat to slow. Even in her cleanest rags, the smell of a servant could give her away.
The treasure hugged close to her chest had been cold the moment it first touched her skin. Though warmed by her heat, the bare, etched metal felt "other" and forbidden. Night air hit her face. Covered by shadows, she half crept, half leapt her way home. A glance over her shoulder saw one window light, then another, in the palace's east wing. The breach of the vault was surely discovered, but she left no clues that could give her away. By the time anyone thought to interrogate her, she would be far away, living another life.
In the privacy of a dusty bedroom, she examined her prize by moonlight. She had done it. She had stolen back her name.
About the Creator
Rebekah Conard
31, She/Her, a big bi nerd
How do I write a bio that doesn't look like a dating profile? Anyway, my cat is my daughter, I crochet and cross stitch, and I can't ride a bike. Come take a peek in my brain-space, please and thanks.
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Comments (2)
I don't know if it was your intention, but I interpreted an underlying theme of reclaiming agency. I love writing like this because it allows for some interpretation, and themes are often unconscious bleed from the collective memory. Well done.
Ooh. that ending and last line, was brilliant. This was a great entry, Rebekah! Well done!