LISA
When moonlight fades and the sun rises, I can see my cell with more clarity.
Rust clings to my wrists and ankles, the metal biting into my skin with every trembling movement. Chains rattle against stone, a sound that mocks my rising panic. No matter how I strain and yank, they hold fast, ignoring the blood that streams down my arms when my skin breaks under the pressure.
This cell, this prison, is a nightmare made manifest. Cold, damp air seeps into my bones, and the stench of decay fills my nostrils. No comfort of a bed greets me, only the unforgiving hardness of the floor beneath my body.
A single, rotting bucket sits in the far corner, a cruel taunt of basic needs denied.
