Prison Cell

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.