Tower Prisons are for Wussies

I only remember waking up. I knew who I was, but not where I was, nor how I got there. The cold stone floor was slick with morning dew, the sun was barely over the horizon outside the tiny window. The room was round, with a cot of some sort and a pot that already reeked of urine.

When I stood I felt something heavy pulling me down from behind. I thought I was just tired, but soon I found it was my hair, long, and golden, the braid was fraying at places. I frowned; this wasn’t my real hair!

The door clicked open and an old witch entered, grinning a gap-toothed smile and carrying a tray. “Breakfast, lunch, and dinner, my sweet! Make it last!” She cackled.
I walked over to her, grabbed her by the unsuspecting arm, and threw her frail body across the room, then ran down the winding steps as fast I could.
The witch chased me, her magic tangible here in fairy-tale land, blowing chips off the stones above me.
I fumbled with the door to freedom, startling a prince. As soon as I felt his arms around me, I woke up.

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