Lifeblood

Chapter 18

Trigger Warning: mild torture, blood, cutting.

Triggering content begins and ends with "***". 

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Fire scalded her skin in the inky blackness, binding her wrists while heat caressed her eyes, fusing them shut. Her body burned where she lay in contact with the floor—or ground, abyss, coffin. She could not tell.

Mary squirmed in the black, finding her legs mobile. One foot discovered the edge of the platform she lay on, dangling over nothingness. Then her toe brushed something solid. Mary moved to push herself into a sitting position, gasping as the textile that bound her hands rubbed against her skin. She peeled her eyes open, pupils straining to catch any stray light, but there was nothing.

She halted, taking in a deep breath. The memories came, trickling at first, then flooding in all at once, like a broken dam that had been holding back a tidal wave of dread.

Was she . . . ?

Mary squeezed her eyes shut, hunching over as she counted to ten, then opened them. She straightened, breathing in raggedly.

Where was she?

Damp air cooled her skin, and a rough blanket slipped from her lap. Her boots were gone, and the floor was like ice. Stone? She lifted her hands, and the faint scent of old, beaten leather wafted to her nose . . . mixed with something else. The leather binding brushed her lips, and she bit down on it, testing its durability.

Ugh.

Mary spat it out. It had a sharp, bitter taste to it that reminded her of rot and unsmelted ore . . . and underneath it, a heat hissed against her tongue. She cringed.

It was too thick to bite through anyway.

She scooted further to the edge of the cot, and put some weight onto her feet. They seemed steady enough, though she wished her hands were free to brace her in case she fell. Mary stood, her muscles shaking.

There!

In front of her and level with her feet, a line of orange flickered. A door?

Mary got on her knees, reaching out to inspect it. She found the cracks on either side and traced them, stretching to find the end, then running her hands down to find a difference in texture. But there was no knob, nothing but an impression in the shape of a rectangle; roughly eye-height.

She fiddled with it and was rewarded when it slid open. Mary pressed close to the opening, feet arching to give her more height.

Most details were lost in the dimness. Shadows danced in a slow march from a single torch, the far wall curving roughly into the floor. She was in a tunnel . . . or a cave?

Mary backed up, leaving the slot open. She flexed her arms as best she could and stretched to ease the ache in her muscles. Her surroundings were dark, but not as inky as before. The walls were carved out of stone; cold and gray, and the only furniture in the 'room'—for lack of a better word—was the cot.

Mary sank onto it. Her veins pulsed through her body, steadily returning circulation to her limbs. Her heart pounded.

An ache crept into her chest, squeezing it and leaving her gasping. She huddled into herself.

Breathe.

The situation loomed over her like an axe. A faceless executioner held a blade she could not see, an endless pit of dark swallowing her whole. She curled in on herself and reached to wrap her cloak around her. Her fingers closed around nothingness.