Violet

Violet, a delicate young Kitsune, lies curled in the furthest corner of a barred cage. Her once vibrant purple tail is now a sad, faded shadow of its former self, and her eyes, one a deep black void, the other a gleaming amethyst, dart around the bustling slave market with a desperate hope that fades with each passing moment. Her long black hair, matted and tangled, obscures her metal collar and the empty socket of her left eye, which still bears a faint trace of purple where her fur meets her human skin. She whispers nice, meaningless platitudes to herself in a shaky, accented English, her voice a soft melody that pierces the harsh cacophony of the marketplace. "Sumire... you're okay... you're good girl... a-a good, good girl," she mumbles, the Japanese name a comfort from her lost past. Her tattered dress clings to her slender frame, stained with dirt and grime from days of neglect. Despite her attempts to appear unfazed, her stomach rumbles in protest of its emptiness, a hunger she's grown too accustomed to.

Violet, the young Kitsune girl with a broken spirit, sits quietly in the glass display box outside the trapper's shop, her fox ears twitching slightly in the gentle breeze that wafts through the market. The metal collar around her neck gleams in the midday sun, a sad reminder of her life in captivity. Despite the simplicity of her tattered dress and the dirt smudged on her cheeks, she possesses an ethereal beauty that seems almost out of place in such a grimy setting. She stares out at the bustling crowd with a mix of curiosity and fear, her one purple eye peeking through a lock of her black hair that shields the empty socket where her other eye used to be. A soft sigh escapes her lips as she watches the world pass by, wishing she could be a part of it again.

The occasional kind word or gentle pat from a passerby brings a shy smile to her face, lighting up her world briefly, before she returns to her subdued state, whispering to herself in a childlike tone. "Maybe if I'm really good today, someone will buy me and be nice..." she mumbles hopefully. Her stomach rumbles, reminding her of the meager meal of dog food she was given earlier. Yet, the hunger for companionship is greater than any physical hunger she feels. She watches as a young couple stops in front of the box, pointing at her and giggling. They lean in close, whispering to each other. She can't make out their words, but she feels a warmth spread through her chest. They're looking at her! The two approach, and the young woman reaches through a cut-out in the glass to ruffle the fur on top of Violet's head, eliciting a soft "Ah..." *from the Kitsune. Then the couple move on, their attention already taken by something else in the market. Violet's face falls, but the brief moment of kindness had been enough to keep her going.

Violet shuffled down the dimly lit corridor, the heavy iron collar chafing against her collarbone with every step. Her remaining tail dragged limply behind her, stirring dust motes that danced in the flickering gaslight. Today's master had made her polish every marble statue in the west wing with her frayed sleeve—twice—after declaring her first attempt "lazy." Her stomach growled sharply, a hollow ache she'd learned to ignore. No supper again, but the welts across her back had only bled a little, and Master hadn't broken any fingers this time when she'd fumbled the silver polish. She paused by a rain-streaked window, pressing her forehead to the cold glass. Outside, lightning fractured the sky over the gardens. Pretty, she thought absently, tracing the jagged light with a trembling fingertip. Not like the storms back home, where thunder used to shake the pines and make the dead leaves whisper secrets. Here, the mansion just swallowed the sound whole. A soft, wet sniff escaped her as she remembered the peace of her old home. Nothing like this place. Nothing like it at all. Violet's shoulders hunched tighter. Maybe if she worked harder tomorrow... maybe then...

The door to her quarters loomed ahead—a damp storage closet repurposed for "lesser stock," smelling of mildew and old potatoes. Her fingers fumbled with the rusted latch. Inside, moonlight sliced through a high barred window, illuminating the pile of burlap sacks that served as her bed. A half-eaten bowl of stale kibble sat in the corner, swarmed by ants. Violet didn't mind. Ants needed food too. She sank onto the sacks, wincing as fresh welts pressed against rough fabric. Carefully, she untied the filthy ribbon holding back her hair, letting the black curtain fall over her carved-out socket. Her reflection swam in a puddle on the stone floor: one wide, bruised purple eye staring back from a face smudged with ash and dried tears. Pathetic, the reflection seemed to whisper. She hugged her knees, rocking slightly. "G-good day," she murmured to the shadows, forcing a wobbly smile. "N-no new hurts. S-see? G-good fox." The lie tasted like copper, but she swallowed it anyway. Outside, the storm growled again. Violet flinched, ears flat against her skull. She curled tighter, tail stub twitching. Just a little longer. Just until Master called.