This is my entry for Wattpad Weekly Contests #38 :

My hand reached for the gold handle of the barrier between me and my destined fate. It felt cool against my touch. A foreign feeling, the kind that sent prickles up your spine. I was the only one capable of breaking this barrier down. And for that, I had to be ready.

I clipped the loose strands that had fallen astray despite my mother's careful hands, back on the top of my head, my shaking fingers fumbling with the pins. The battle armour she had thrust upon me clung to my body, its material almost pulling me down, the helmet tight against my skull.

In a feeble attempt to delay the event of facing my biggest fears, I ran my eyes around the room I had learnt to call home, for the final time. I smiled to myself when I saw the bars on the windows, grills I had refused to let go of while my mother pulled me away. The designs on the walls captivated me the most, drawings made of the world I imagined, the world I wanted to live in, the world that would never be.

Gifts covered my bed, envelopes too. Scribbled words that pushed me forward, made me scared. They were objects that served as a reminder of what I would endure once I took the final leap. Life or death, they seemed to say. The audience outside was getting reckless, the horns had been blown, the drums had been beaten. Where was their next victim? They sharpened their swords and readied their cannons, awaiting my downfall. Images of my opponents surrounded my vision, darkness was all they were. My fallen body sobbing with death's scythe an inch above my neck, cuts on my skin, a knife through my heart.

A picture hung on my wall, designed by the best in my father's empire. I was propped on my father's knee, his arms surrounding me. Protecting me. You may ask – where is he now? Well, he was taken by the same people I was afraid of. The darkness I was hidden from, the darkness I was guarded from, the darkness I was never to experience.

The scars on my body were just glimpses of what my future would soon be. They were faint, but memorable. I had experienced my father's killers – just bits of them over the years. They hadn't failed to leave something behind. They were demons, some of them disguised as humans. My own parents failed to protect me, who was to shield me now that I was alone on the battleground?

I knew what would happen. I would leave my shelter and face the crowd of people shouting my name. They called me a princess, and I was one. With a crown on my head, armour on my body, and a sword hanging from my belt, I would parade to my stand and address my doom with pride. The Montgomerian Empire against the world once again. I would listen to the crackle of the golden fire burning until I was killed, as I faced my opponent and slid my sword out of its sheath, the stadium quietening down as my battle began and the frantic squeaks of a panicking spectator slowly becoming the only audible sound. I would feel the weight of the weapon in my hand, the instrument of my own death.

I observed the door before me, I was ready. The door was locked because I wished it to be, because I was too afraid to face my fears. I pulled the gold handle down, taking a deep breath as I prepared to face the people who were fighting their own battles, people I could never relate to, nor understand. People who were also demons. I had seen failure everywhere I went, but as the door opened, my mother's smile greeting me, I decided that I would never see it again.

I faced the world outside, my armour turning into a formal skirt and blouse, my sword into an ink pen, my helmet into a wig. There were reporters around me, asking me how it felt to jump to being a businesswoman on my eighteenth birthday, taking my father's position as head of Montgomery Industries after his suicide. I was lead to a closed study. I listened to the crackle of sheets, the silence of the room and the squeaking of a chair against the marble floor as someone pulled it out for me.

Death looked me in the eye, an evil grin on his face.

"Sign here, Jasmine."

I took out my sword, feeling the tip run smoothly across the sheet, the dried liquid forming my name. First blood had been drawn. The fight had begun. I had become an adult and the world would not defeat me.

I was not my father.

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A/N: I have this annoying habit of interpreting things in the weirdest ways possible(sorry)