The lantern swung indolently from its fixture, casting skulking shadows around the stone cell. The only sound was the steady drip, drip of water between the stonework, falling gently onto the figure strewn out on the cold lockup floor. The woman bore marks of extensive torture; crimson lines streaked painfully across her arms and back, while the joints in her fingers resembled gnarled tree-roots swollen with moisture. Her lower body was not visible, as she retained what dignity remained with a pair of soggy trousers, patched with blood and other unidentifiable fluids.
Outside the sounds of war barely penetrated her prison, deep within the Earth. Apart from the odd tremor, which sent the lantern back on its erratic course, it was as if she existed in another dimension; away from the conflict, yet in her own personal hell.
No prequels yet. Why not write one?
Comments (3 so far!)
Average reader rating 5.00/5
Excellent! I concur with ethelthefrog.
- #805 Posted 8 years ago
- 5 out of 5
Probably a good place to weather the storm, provided that blood isn't hers and there isn't too much leaking out. It seems that war isn't hers to fight.
- #822 Posted 8 years ago
- Published 8 years ago and featured 8 years ago.
- Story viewed 17 times and rated 1 times.
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Sounds like my last job. Beautiful description of a scene that is anything but.