Claustrophobia

Her hands are cuffed. Her mouth is gagged.

She can feel thick liquid slip down the back of her neck, burning at the fresh scar close to her shoulder blades. She can smell the blood.

Her chin-length hair is stiff with sweat and the skin on her face is salty and caked with dirt. They hit her head too hard. Small splinters from the wood are wedged into her throbbing scalp.

She tries to scream as they shove her into the room, but all her efforts die at the cloth tied around her mouth.

The room is dark and really small. Her horrified eyes grow wider when she sees them shut the door. She attacks the door with her shoulder but rebounds back into the wall. She realizes the walls are padded in square cells and they’re too close to her.

She’s perspiring even more. The gag is drenched in saliva, but her mouth feels parched. She tries screaming again, she tries to punch the door. Her fists are feeble against the surface. The handcuffs cut into her wrists.

She can’t sit. There’s only enough space for her to stand. It’s dark. The adrenaline kick dies and she’s breathing in short gasps. The cell is too small. Her breaths are even more shallow.

Her chest is heavy, as if her lungs are filled with lead. Her head, resting against the wall behind her is raging with pain, bleeding away under the wrath of the wooden splinters.

Tears slide down her cheeks, marking their path amongst the mud on her face.

Time runs on rapidly into oblivion.

You can’t hear her breathe anymore.

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