"How come you're still smiling?"
One prisoner glanced in half-disgust, half-amazement at the other nearby her, who was the next in line to perform--the next in line to dance--the next in line to put on a "good show" for their captors. A sick game, truly, but, they had no voice with which to defend themselves against it. Such rights had been stripped away, as their chain-laden wrists reminded.
Still, the sunshine of her smile did not dim it's rays. Instead, it grew brighter, stronger as she straightened her back. Eagerness to respond illuminated her eyes in the dark. "It's--"
"--come on, you."
Rough hands grabbed her arms with bruising force, pulling her forward. Her bare feet scuffed across the floor as she turned her head back, braided hair whipping around, desperate as she shouted her answer--her last words to be remembered for.
"It's not for them I dance."