Prompt: She could never get used to the cage.

She could never get used to the cage. It sat in the corner; it never moved. It made no sound, but she swore, sometimes, when she was alone with no one around for miles, she heard tapping. Or breathing. Sometimes even both.

Many times had her father told her that no matter, what she must never lift the sheet that draped around it, sheltering what ever it hid form sight. But she was always a curious girl.

It was a Thursday night when she did the unthinkable. February, the second to be exact.

Silently waiting for her mother to retire to sleep, and thankful her father was on a business trip, she remembered something she heard once, Curiosity killed the  cat, but satisfaction brought it back. It was rather fitting for the situation the girl found herself in.

So, she waited. She waited in bated silence and the heavy darkness, until the late hours when she knew her mother would be soundly asleep. Then she left. Down the stairs, through the halls, out the door, across the yard, into the shed, through the trap down in the floor, down the steps that bordered the line between a ladder and stairs, weaving her way around the catacombs, and halted.

Staring at it, that cage, an insane, inhuman smile slipped onto her face. She reached forward, fingers beginning to lift the sheet. Eyes, human eyes, appeared before her, the rest of the body following. Then she slid her fingers in between the bars and grasped a lock of rough, matted hair, dark and tangled. She yanked on the strands and whispered softly, "Ready to play again, my little pet?"