Okay, she'd been arrested. There hadn't been much of a struggle. For once she'd gone quietly.
For once.
Cynthia was surprised they'd let her have her phone on her person for so long, she could have been organising her breakout or something?!
Admittedly though, she hadn't.
She'd been more preoccupied with their possible treatment of Marc. She'd dragged him into this. It was her fault.
Okay, so his hand wasn't - but the rest was!
She was getting restless. She was trapped in a windowless cell whose entrance was barred by a thick concrete door; the only light came from a single bulb that dangled from its wire from the ceiling.
And even that was despairing over their situation, it flickered in and out of life with every pulse of electricity.
She was defenceless.
Trapped.
Cornered.
Being tortured.
Yet, also being given room to breathe...
She could contemplate: her dilemma, Marc's situation, the e-mail, and the culprit of it all.
What had she done to piss off life this badly?
Apart from trying to post comments about life on her blog, of course.
The key in the door rattled and Cynthia scrabbled off from the floor - she wouldn't be made to look inferior by sitting beneath them. The man that entered had to hunch his back to fit - just - through the doorway.
He wore a suit.
He had a gun.
He had a needle.
And he didn't look too happy.
YOU ARE READING
Working Progress
ActionA story about a girl whose life doesn't seem to give her any answers, and where life itself wants to control her. Needless to say she tries to rebel against it's plan for her.
