Deny
Lar

There's very little in the prison that she looks upon with anything more than disdain. The guards who glower and tap their weighted blackjacks against khaki covered thighs; it's all she can do to not sneer at them, toss her hair and tell them to take their best shot. Knows she could snap their necks and be out the door before their muscle-bound corpses hit the floor. The solitary space of her cell; she's paced it out a hundred thousand times, full of restlessness and the need to burn off the ache, the anger. The bars that keep her here; she's put her hands around them a few times and always with a slack grip. Something in her tells her not to try and find out how easily they might bend. Better to keep them in her head as unbreakable, deny the temptation.

She is only grateful for the dark when it's lights out, and she can shove the pillow over her head, fall asleep in the stifling heat. Hopes for dreams of before, when there was no title, no label. When there were no bars to keep her anywhere, and she was only a lost little girl named Faith.

Faith. Grateful. Pillow.