Smother ━━ Killian Jones [Discontinued]

nineteen; three hundred and sixty five

Warning: Very brief and non-explicit mentions of suicide. Nothing serious and nothing detailed. 

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CHAPTER NINETEEN; THREE HUNDRED AND SIXTY-FIVE

     Sage finally stopped counting.

     Three hundred and sixty-five days it had been since Thomas had been tragically murdered in front of her. Three hundred and sixty-five days of rotting in a cell in the tallest tower in the Queen of Hearts' kingdom. One meal per day, no sunshine, nowhere to sleep besides a hard floor, no clean clothing. There were rare days that would happen once or twice in a month where the queen herself would graciously (in other words mockingly) visit Sage in her cell to see if Sage had starved or gave in and hanged herself. Neither one of those things were ever going to happen. She had decided that a long time ago; she would not give the Queen of Hearts satisfaction by dying. No way in hell was that happening.

     The cell itself was tiny with three stone walls and a barred one. There was nothing in the cell besides a thin layer of straw spread across the freezing floor and an oval mirror with a rusty handle. The cell and the dungeon itself stunk of stale brandy and fresh cigar smoke, because the guard, who went by the name Bluebeard, didn't really "guard", more like sat in the corner a few feet from Sage's cell and drank and smoked. But the cell and the dungeon looked like heaven compared to Sage.

     Her baby blue corset didn't even fit her anymore since she had become so skinny, the short puffy sleeves were close to cutting off, and her black flimsy skirt was torn and viciously ripped. But her clothes wasn't her main concern. Sage's skin was deathly pale, along with the dark shadows that hung under her eyes and chipped nails that irritated her hands. Her feet were covered in cuts and bruises, which matched her arms and legs too.

     Sage was miserable, not even herself could deny that. The afternoon was rising, as far as Sage could tell. Bluebeard was in his usual attire; his clothes were ruffled, he was rocking a five o'clock shadow, and his breath smelt of musty liquor. Sage sat in the corner of her cell, his knees pulled to her chest with only a long, ratty dress keeping her warm. Her bony fingers lightly traced the white lines that were scratched onto the neighboring. Three hundred and sixty-five lines imprinted on the walls, each one marking a day in this hellhole.

     "You know ―" Bluebeard abruptly said, taking a moment to drink from his flask. He sounded disheveled, like he hasn't been sleeping for the past few days. "I remember when I first met you. You were seventeen and just met that con artist, um, what was his name again? Jackson?"

     "Jefferson." answered Sage, whose voice sounded weak, raw, and unsettled. She hasn't spoken in months. "Why are you bringing this up?"

     He ignored her question, "You were just a kid, a teenager. He was teaching you the ways of being a thief, a freakin' con artist just like him. Fuckin' irresponsible asshole, teaching a kid how to become a criminal."

     Sage narrowed her eyes, distastefully, "He was teaching me how to survive. Why the hell are you bringing this up?"

     "Criminal...crime, crime, crime." Bluebeard repeatedly mumbled the word under his breath, sliding further down the wall as he drowned the rest of the whiskey bottle.