by Sam P. L.
Stuck in an Asylum and wishing can find a way out. (Graphic maybe)
Her eyes dart side to side: a pale, two toned gaze of mint and cocoa sliding back and forth. Faint freckles dotting the corners of her eyes and around dark circles that cling to porcelain skin.
Left corner ceiling.
Right corner ceiling.
Left corner floor.
Right corner floor.
Back and forth and back and forth and-
Her eyes lock on the door. A cold, metal slab between walls of stone that stand 8 feet tall and 4 feet wide. Taunting. Mocking.
She slowly crinkles her eyes, narrowing and scanning the edges: flat except for steel bolts that screw in tightly, painted over to poorly blend into the stone it is attached to. Pathetic.
A creak in the floor as she shifts her weight to the left and eyes slowly brush down to her knees: bandaged in a wrap with specs of dry blood and dirt staining the edges.
A creak in the floor as she shifts her weight to the right and eyes brush up to her thighs: jagged lines stitched poorly, like cat claws scratching raw meat.
"Hmph..." A breathy sound escapes her dry, pale pink lips and eyes dart back up to the door, studying it closely. She opens her mouth to say something, anything. "....." Nothing. She closes her mouth and sinks her weightless bones and flesh against the cold stone. Her eyes flutter closed.
A creak on the floorboards startle the porcelain skin human from her dreamless slumber and the sound of scratching like toenails dragging against concrete. A low groan rumbles in her throat as she uses her palms to push herself up into sitting with eyes half open and drift to the door.
Her small nose twitches, staring groggily around the bolts...watching a small latch pull open and a plastic tray push through. "Your lunch." A simple, feminine voice calls through.
The girl faintly rubs her face and pushes herself with a subtle wobble, moving to the door and takes the tray, watching the latch shut the minute take the tray. She stares down at the plastic with a tilt of her head and pops her neck: Oatmeal with berries, small apple juice carton and a plastic spoon. Her eyes narrow and shuffles back to the corner, sinking down with her feet in a butterfly sitting position and the tray on her lap. Her small hands pick up the spoon, poking at the oatmeal.
"Bad. Bad. Bad." A slight whisper emerges from her throat and cocks head to the other side. "Poison...?" She murmurs so faintly, almost just mouthing the word as sniffs the small bowl the oatmeal is in, wrinkling her nose. She picks up the smallest bit on her spoon, nibbling it and eyes close.
The voice comes out clear. Scratchy, but clear like a matter of fact...and just eats.