Fear | K.th [Editing]

Neverending Prisoner [70°]

She sits in a chair in the middle of the dimly lit room; the crescent moon shining just above and into the large window displayed beside her figure. She pays no mind to the moons beauty, eyes not necessarily focused on anything particular, head not in the right mindset to be marveling at something so ethereal. Her arms lay blanketed over her thighs, thumb scratching the sides of her fingers. There was no noise. No loud whispers inside her head. No wails of agony. Nothing. It wasn't normal for her circumstance, however, it left her lost and unsure--the voices in her head usually being the one to take control so she won't fall behind.

She's broken, mentally and physically. One minute it's there, suddenly it's not. It's taking over her life and that's not healthy. She should've listened and not pushed everyone away from her; it was eating her up inside, chewing her, and spitting her back out. Over and over and over again. A Seemingly never ending cycle of mental capacity and how much she can take and how much it'll be merciful on her.

She sits in the leather arm chair, completely still, save for the twitching of her fingers; no emotion written on her young face. Hands in lap, legs closed together; scraped up as if she's been thrown to the ground multiple times. It was hard to formulate what exactly was going on within her; leaving her numb and clueless herself. It's as if every core moment was wiped away from her memory, but wasn't. Because, she still remembers everything up until how she got to where she resides now.

She doesn't pay mind to a door opening behind her, or to the stuttered footsteps that continue to near her, not expecting someone to be in the room. She doesn't pay mind to the man who looks to be around the age of 30 that now stands a few feet away, dressed in a white dress shirt and black slacks. She keeps her blank gaze forward, having yet to move a muscle.

He leans over, trying to catch her attention. She doesn't look up at him; she doesn't acknowledge that he's there. A small smile adorns his face anyway as he clears his throat and walks over to his desk.

"Something very scary must have happened to you." His throaty voice resounds into the empty atmosphere; neither unwelcoming or less, observing the way she doesn't react to anything any normal person would be doing; but for her, all she can think about is that those were the first eight words someone has uttered to her in three months.

He smooths down his tie as he takes a seat, studying her further. "Why'd you come to me, kid?" He stares ahead at the female sitting on the leather chair in front of his desk; face scraped and bruised with faint remains of purples and reds; fading to brown and yellow. There's no judgement or concern that someone as beat up as her had stumbled into his office at around eight o'clock at night on a Thursday; right forearm wrapped up in bandages; simply asking her a question about her journey and where she intends to go.

She answers physically first; pensively shrugging her shoulders in response before sighing as she looks ahead at nothing in particular; short fingernails digging into the leather of the chair, producing a noise in response. She reaches into her pocket to pull out a single cigarette; as if she found it laying somewhere else and stashed away for later use. She proceeds to politely ask if she could smoke in his office. The male shakes his head and tells her to go right ahead.

She then pulls out a lighter before flicking the cigarette alive; hands shakily fumbling around; besides the fact that her hands were shaky; the female didn't come off as nervous, or scared to be here; her face mute and her body language passive.

Before she lifts the cigarette up to her mouth she halts her movements and lowers the cigarette back down. Her thumb scratches the nail bed of her middle finger, remnants of dried blood and pink skin resulting in overuse. He watches on quietly, waiting for her to answer his question when she wants to.