(Published January 3, 2017, but moved to a new book)
sky_winters
Aria huffs as she is pushed into the cold, dank room. She collapses on the floor in a heap, breathing heavily. She lies there for a moment on the concrete surface, wondering if she could drift to sleep.
Reluctantly and slowly, she sits up, taking in her new surroundings. Drab, grey walls encompassed her, complementing the similarly styled floor and ceiling. Basic supplies were scattered around the room. There was a stove, oven, treadmill, punching bag, bed, and a desk filled with books and papers. Feeling confident we had enough to survive for now, she goes exploring.
She goes over to desk and examines its contents. She finds a book titled, "The Basic Art of Surviving." Gladly, she takes it into her hand and walks over to the bed. She sits down on the cushions, and begins to read.
{An hour later}
After an hour of reading, she has finished the book. She has learned a lot about how to begin to survive in here.
She sets down the book on the cotton blanket and struts over to the treadmill. She takes off her shoes, setting them on the floor.
After taking a few deep breaths, she places one foot after another onto the black tread. She steadies herself, then sets the tracker to run one mile, starting slow then increasing in sped.
She runs along with the machine, feeling connected by an unbreakable bond. She ran, and kept running. She would need this skill, she just knew it. She would try her absolute best to improve it.
As the tread got faster, the mile almost done, she felt confident, resilient, and vigilant.
She was near the end when all that faded away. She didn't realize she was so far back on the tread until she took a step with her right leg and landed on the ground. She hears and an ear-splitting crunch as her whole leg made contact with the floor.
The tracker stops, sensing the missing weight. It seemed to be taunting her, 'Come on, that was nothing! You can handle more right?'
She screams in agony, her ankle writhing with pain. She stays there on the floor, not able to move. She knew no one would come and help her, so she crawls over to her bed. She had an idea, but only prayed that it worked.
One arm in front of the other. In and out, heavy, deep breaths. Her useless leg dragged behind her, dead weight.
She reaches her bed after much complications, and grabs the leg post of the bed. She tries pulling on it, hoping for her required result.
To her surprise it cracked at her gentle touch. Despite her pain, she managed a smile as she pulled harder, tearing the post and collapsing the bed, which she decided she would deal with later.
She does this to the three other pegs, and gathers them in a pile.
Two of them combined would splint her leg, so she got to work. She crawls over to the desk, and riffles through the desk drawers. Her fingers fly over paper after paper. There was nothing there.
She was about to give up when she noticed something. If she was careful enough, she could smelt the weak metal together.
She crawls over to the stove, and turns it on. Not to high, not to low. Good thing the stover was made for people who like lying on the ground while they cook, so she could reach it. She takes the two posts and holds them on one end of the stove, there broken ends held together.
It seemed to take forever, but after a while of painstaking labor, my arms collapse at my side, still holding the post in the air. Looking at my creation, I knew it was all worth it.
I turn off the stove, and set the post back up there to let it cool.
Until then, I hit the floor, ignoring all my aches and worries, and pass out cold.
{Word Count~ 673 }
