Every breath she took seemed to cling to the insides of her throat—dry, parched, and somewhat sticky. The air was thick with rotten wood, rust, and mold, striving in a cold, musty chamber.
Dianne had long lost track of how many days had passed since she had been brought to this place—dragged down the spiraling stone staircase and into this underground prison.
There were no windows, no clocks, or any foreign sounds. Only the muffled cries or occasional outbursts of wailing and asking for help from the others around her. Those sounds became familiar. They were all the same. Young, frightened, dressed in thin white gowns sticking to their bodies with sweat drying up multiple times, and the grime from the cells they were in.
She sat huddled in a corner, knees drawn up to her chest, her body trembling on the cold concrete, eyes staring across the empty wall—distant, empty.
