The people have strange accents in this story - I am not being mean by saying she is in Britain. I like giving people accents, and I am British. No offence meant. Enjoy.
Oh, and Charlotte is based off of a porcelain doll, hence the whole porcelain thing.
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My name is Charlotte. My life is a locket. Some people think that it means that the locket means a lot to me, but I am being literal. My life is a locket.
I ran through the dark corridors. Where I was? Somewhere in Britain. Why I was there? Thieves. They always wanted my locket, thinking it held some sort of value, but they'd be shocked to find out that it costs no money at all. Not a single penny.
"Get back 'ere, ya' little brat!"
That was Rodger. He is their leader. He's big, gruff and mean. He's so big that he'd stomp on me like an elephant, if only he hadn't made a promise to himself that he'd never hurt a child. I'm lucky that I've been eight years old for the last forty years. I slammed my porcelain body into the wall in a desperate attempt to fake death. Oh, yes, and I forgot to say that I'm a living doll. Living and breathing, but that would end soon if I let him get me. I ran desperately into a janitor's closet, and forced myself into the darkness. I pulled a silver lantern out of my bag, lighting it and putting it on the ground next to me. I pulled out a pen and paper and wrote home:
'Dear Maman and Papa,
I learned french from the constant yelling of the thieves. Tell the lambs and the cattle that I will come home soon. I love you.
Cordialement,
Charlotte.'
I kissed the note, a pale pink smudge being left behind.
"There she is! Get 'er!"
The men charged at me. I backed against the wall. I mumbled one thing before letting out a painful scream:
'Dieu ait pitié de mon âme'.
