Playing with Words
Alice Hunter was reading Othello for perhaps the tenth time when she heard the sound of something fragile shatter. Were she not at the moment when Desdemona was to receive her punishment for sins uncommitted, she would have looked to see who broke what.
Reading tragedies were, if you asked her, sweeter than listening to the lies of happiness that plagued many a mind. The princess would be saved by a brave knight in shining armor and spend the rest of their lives happy, the tragic prince would regain his birthright and the crown, and those who struggle through life in their muddied boots would finally wear the silver slippers they craved. What many don't know is that life is not always so kind to the good or cruel to the truly wicked.
If you asked Alice, she would tell you that she suffocated on lies and sang with truth. But there is a chance she would never tell you. If she trusted you, maybe, but that in itself is a difficult task. However, she might arrange the words on a piece of paper she holds within the folds of her skirts, hidden in a secret pocket she stitched into every dress she had, and tell you that way.
Some would condemn her for being Wicked, a person with more than human blood in their veins, but she wouldn't care. She knew there are those who would hate her for that one trait, and that she was not alone in her abilities. In the Asylum for Wicked Children, the fortress where she resided, she is never alone.
Her book is knocked from her fingers, prompting her to raise her head in confusion. A mousy face with wrinkles on her skin and hatred in her eyes looked down on her. Alice knew the woman was close enough to see the lavender in the champagne of her hair and the violet hue mixed in the teal of her eyes, a reminder of her Wickedness.
"Pretending to be innocent, are we?"
"The vase in the hallway is broken. Did you really think I wouldn't find out who did it?"
"Enough with your excuses. I don't care why or how you did it, but you Wicked children need to lean to ignore your twisted impulses and be human. Now come along, maybe this time the Headmaster will use you as an example to convince you children not to break things."
Alice knew not to struggle or fight against her injustice. What good would it do? She learned that lesson the hard way many years ago. She simply picked up the book, held in her rage, and thought about the tragedy that would befell Desdemona as she silently followed the older woman to her punishment. She would need every distraction she had in order to avoid fainting at the smell of her own blood.