(no subject)

She liked the crayons; they were so pretty. Pretty like the blood, the white of bone, and the yellow of fat beneath the surface. She didn't tell them that. They would take her crayons away if she did. She'd learned that on the first day. The first day she'd learned that she couldn't talk about a lot of stuff. But once she'd found the crayons, she'd known that she'd actually stick with their silly rules. She hadn't had crayons growing up--not in the encampment. They didn't have any luxuries like that. People would have eaten them...not silly babies putting stuff in their mouths that didn't belong, but grown-ups desperate for food. She was the first one to make it out in her age-range. She didn't know why they'd chosen her. She was nothing special: thirteen; skin and bones with chest-bumps that the boys had just starting paying attention to; not smarter than the rest, she didn't think; not more vicious, certainly. She was soft, hadn't been able to eat her baby sister when she came too early. Maybe that was why they'd chosen her. Because she was soft. She bent her head over the paper and scribbled blue shame with the crayons.