That was the first time she knew.
Her eyes fluttered open. She reached out to grab the watch on her bedside table, yet as she outstretched her arm, she felt nothing. Nothing, except a void of air.
Then it struck her. The mattress felt cold and hard, much unlike the soft and cosy bed that she was used to, against her bare legs. Her bare legs? She was sure that she had worn her nightgown to bed with her.
She screwed up her eyes and a clearer view of the room came into vision. The walls were plain, bare and were pockmarked with faded patches, as if the pale wallpaper that had once adorned it had been torn off in a burning rage. A dank, musty smell dripped from the ceiling and formed a fine mist that settled around her like a blanket.
The bed sheets were vehemently tossed aside as she tried to make for the door but then there was an awful shriek.
Her legs had been chained to the bed.
She shouted for help, but there was no reply. Still she called, as if pleading for mercy. Finally she tried again, shouting and shouting until her screams dissolved into a rasping, shaking whisper, as she collapsed, resigned to her fate.
