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The walls shield a secret that can never be told.

Humiliation.
Insubordination.
Hands tied in submission.

Rage.

The light flickering overhead only emphasized the figure on the edge of the bed with hands clasped in meditation. Nevertheless, his hands could never be far apart, not even for a feet or two. The same went for the binding at his ankles.

He lifted his head. There were keys and the faint rusted push of the door. He might have heard it more clearly if his ears weren't boxed in the last time they visited. Just by thinking about it brought the pain back, an odd pulsing in his head. If he wanted to raise his hands to his forehead there might have been blood or a scar. There wasn't. If he were to do that, there wouldn't be a cut or a sensitive bump, there would be bandages and cloth. Cringing, his eyes met theirs but...it wasn't who he was expecting. So he relaxed.

It was just a boy, he didn't seem to mean any harm. Plus, the keys to all the cells were in his possession. The aura about him radiated kindness, rather than the malignant ones he had envisioned as his very doom. He really should've kept a clear head about this.

The boy neared with hesitant steps, his hands were visibly shaking as he picked through the keys quietly. He held out his chained hands. The boy seemed set to free him.

Idiotic? Maybe. How long has it been since he had been imprisoned... How long since they kept harassing their kind for answers that they didn't know? The aftermath; it built their rage. Our rage, he thought, is what makes us whole. Makes us who we are. And yet, there was this human boy who showed the only speck of kindness ever since that time. Hopefully, the others will have enough reason to not bare their fangs against those who never meant to harm us. The world would die quick if the innocent were to fall past their time.

There was a scream, a girl far in the same hall. The boy quickened in removing the heavy chains and bindings wrapped round the lower half of his face and his hands. Slowly, little by little, the weight would lessen and his strength would return.

"I don't know you," he whispered, "but I know you want to get out of here. First, please, you must save my sister."

A grateful smile came upon his lips, revealing the sharp white teeth that could render through flesh. And then, came the first words he had said in a long time. "Child, I thank you. But allow me to save my brethren as well." The boy quickly gave him the keys.

"Please, you have to hurry."

He stood, towering in height. The boy however, was fearless. He was going to do it anyway, save his sister. The man who had her was one of the first humans he had encountered and, through a misunderstanding, was the very same who imprisoned him. In a sense, it was he who sent his comrades in this pit of a human jail because then, hordes of armed humans pursued them when they meant no harm.

They suffered because of him, now he was going to let them out. The only problem was whether they were going to trust him again...

He turned his attention to the boy, wondering how the hell he knew about this prison, about them... Unless, there was something going on. Something big.

But that would have to wait.

The best example I could give at the moment (since I'm sleepy): "A story that centers around the events of a condemned town that calls upon those who've committed or felt guilty about what they've done. Upon arriving at this town, the environment turns to their personal hell that they have to fight their way through because that's the only way they can live normally again."

"a country boy, about fifteen years old... His hair was cut straight across his forehead...he looked sensible and shy."

"His mother was always dragging him around with her; she would cut out paper dolls for him, tell him stories; and involve herself in endless monologues full of melancholy humor and baby talk."

"In the loneliness of her life she lavished all her thwarted ambitions on this childish head. She dreamed of important positions, could already see him grown up, handsome, witty, a successful civil engineer or magistrate."

"So many of his repressed feeling expanded; he learned songs by heart and sang them to entertain the women present, developed a taste for Beranger (a french song writer), learned how to make punch, and finally how to make love."

"He needed a wife. She[Madame Bovary] found him one: the widow of a Dieppe bailiff, who was forty-five years old and had an income of twelve hundred pounds. Although she was ugly, thin as a rail, and had as many pimples as the springtime has buds, Madame Dubuc was not lacking in suitors."

"He assumed he would be freer to choose his own actions and spend his money as planned. But his wife was the ruler; he had to watch what he said and didn't say in public, eat fish on Friday, dress as she prescribed... She would open his letters, spy on his whereabouts, and listen behind the partition when there were women in the consulting room..."