come in and close the door; morgana.

Warning: Post contains very strong language, sex references, references to substance abuse and references to underage pregnancy/marriage.


You’re a fuckin’ moron, Sapphy had told her sister when the latter had gotten pregnant at fifteen. If you’d just waited a year, you coulda got house off the government.

Shut up, Sapphy! Carla had shouted back with her usual class. Just because you’re a virgin. Fuckin’ like to see you do better.

Three years later, Sapphy leant against the gates to the castle grounds, rolling a cigarette she wasn’t allowed between her fingers and contemplating the floor. Fifteen and pregnant, just like her stupid sister.

Sapphire Jones had always expected to end up pregnant young, but not like this. Not fifteen years old, living on another planet and married to the one night stand who had knocked her up. Sixteen or seventeen, she’d always felt, was about the right time to have a baby. It didn’t really matter much who the father was, although someone who’d support her was obviously preferable. Sapphy had grown up in a fatherless house, had watched her sister’s baby daddy drop her like a hot potato early into the pregnancy, and had adamantly determined that she didn’t need no man. She’d ditch school at the earliest opportunity, have a kid, get a council house off the government and live off the benefits. It was what her mother had done, and her grandmother, and everyone else she knew in her tiny bubble of a world. Sapphy knew how to work the welfare system as well as she knew that no one in her family had ever graduated secondary school with any qualifications nor ever got a legal job. Why should she be any different?

Exhaling air and wishing it was smoke, Saph slipped the unused cigarette back into the pocket of her jeans and started across the lawn, wedging her hands into her pockets. Fortunately she hadn’t started to show yet, so she was still able to don her usual wardrobe. The jeans were ripped artistically, exposing more knee than they covered, and a slim black crop top exposed her pierced naval. Her black leather jacket smelt faintly of weed.

A guard pointed her in the right direction: the training grounds. Archery practice, Sapphy supposed. Sure enough, when she reached it she found her social worker, Morgana, firing tiny arrows at tiny bullseyes buried what seemed like miles away. Sapphy leant against the fence which cordoned the training grounds off from the lawn, resting her lower arms across the wooden slats and leaning over. She lifted one booted foot onto the top rung, watching the princess fire off another arrow at her target. The boots had actually been bought for her by Morgana, and visibly represented the highest quality item on her person.

“Nice shootin’.” She called across. While Morgana finished up, Sapphy clenched and unclenched her fist, missing the feel of the cigarette in it. After a moment, her social worker came over to the fence. “What’s up, man?” She held her hand out in what appeared to be a gesture for a handshake, but Morgana should know from experience to slap rather than shake it. “Listen mate, I know I ain’t seen you in ages or nothin’ but I need a favour and you gotta be cool about it.”

photo by Erik1994 at unsplash.com


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