There are times when my emotions feel bruised, and the same way as with a physical bruise, they take time to come up and really show themselves.
The room where I had been locked in had no handles, one way in of metal bars where Marvel's people peered through. The bed was a mattress on the cold built-in concrete with a single blanket for warmth, for most of the time it was useless.
Not a single thing had never been disturbing about this concrete box I was in. It had been engineered with absolute precision. The corners were sharp and straight, the only door was a perfect square with evenly spaced bars, and there was no window.
Someone who created this underground prison, sat in a clean office among the glows of the sunlight and used their talents to create something so ruthless as to constitute additional punishment. And they didn't just build a room, they poured hatred into the design.
