I feel the clash of my skull and the unforgiving, rigid concrete.
I see the darkening around the edges of my vision, and pain grasps me with a firm hand.
I am falling, falling further than I had ever concieved. A bold figure, a letter or number, floats above...an eleven.
YOU ARE READING
Arms of Iron
Historia CortaHow fast can the arms that gently held you turn to an iron, fatal grip?