Witching Hour

She awoke. It was dark. The clock bells were just chiming twelve. Witching Hour.
She slowly sat up, and looked out the curtain-less, glass-less, hole in the wall that acted as a window. She heard an owl hoot. She gazed wistfully after it as it glided past on silent silver wings. She wished she could be out there in the jet-black dark. Out there in the shining light of the full moon, with the wind in her hair, the wind on her back, the wind-
Her thin, ragged cloth of a blanket fell off. The small, under-nourished child in the bed next to her grabbed it off the floor greedily, and put it on top of his, if anything, smaller and even thinner bed-spread.
She didn't care. She was past caring.
She rolled over, risking a venomous glance from Them. They patrolled the corridors outside, and one move, one breath; They were on you like a hawk.
She could see Them, pacing up and down like wolves.
She took another glance at the window. She so desperately wanted to be out there. How could she get out there?
She vaguely remembered some fairy-tales read to her in her youth. There was one about a girl with golden hair so extremely long that it would reach the ground from her high tower window. Her raven-black hair was not exactly golden, but it was long. She peered down, out of her window. Maybe not long enough to reach all the way down from an 18-storey window.
She could make a rope out of the blankets. She immediately ruled this idea out, because no-one would give her enough blankets to make a rope, and her own had been stolen by the boy in the next bed.
There was only one alternative.
No, she wouldn't think about it. Surely there was another way. There had to be. Or maybe there wasn't.
She forced herself to stop thinking in that way. That would get her nowhere. Nowhere. The word echoed in her head like a death-sentence. Nowhere.
Should she, or should she not? Should she, or should she not? She was at war with herself, and that only made her panic worse.
She sat up, and got out of bed. Standing up helped her think more clearly.
She began pacing up and down the rows of beds. Should she, or should she not? Why not? She thought carelessly. No-one would care. Who was there to care?
She watched as one of Them stopped, still as a statue, outside the door. Still as a cold, stone-hearted statue.
They stood motionless, but she could feel the hatred and violence radiating off Them.
More of Them gathered outside the door.
She could sense Them closing in on her. She could feel their icy, petrifying breath on her neck. A wrinkled, bony hand reached out to grab her shoulder, but it was too late. She had decided. She darted out of Their reach, and leaped out the window.