The Third Door [NaNoWriMo 2014]

"I died.
Now I live.
But I live within the boundaries of my head.
What happens on the outside is beyond my control."
Constructive criticism is very welcome on this. I will be updating in small sections, but I will probably republish this with proper chapter splits when I finish it. © 2014 Parsavagely


3. Chapter 1 Part 2

A heavy hand pushes into the girl’s back, throwing her to the floor. Her weary arms crumple instantly, providing no support as her body hits the ground. The door slams behind her, plunging the room into darkness. A sliver of light radiates from underneath another door, allowing her to see the newest bruises on her arms. With a muffled groan she rolls onto her back to stare at the ceiling, once a pure white, now grey and cracked. Plaster falls with each movement she makes, filling the air. The girl coughs and adjusts the rags around her shoulders; she winces as she catches an open cut with the coarse fabric.

Sitting up, her eyes begin to banish the dark, the crumbling walls around her becoming more defined. Though appearing weak and frail, those walls had never relented, keeping her trapped, keeping her wishing for freedom. She brushes aside a wandering strand of hair from her face and attempts to stand. She lets out a whimper as her knee gives way beneath her and begins to bleed.

“Damn.” She curses herself for her outburst. Without even an attempt to stem the flow, she stands up again, a stream of crimson making its way down her lacerated leg. She limps towards the door she knows she can never open, light still streaming in from underneath it. Pounding her fist won’t help, but she does anyway. The wood will not relent no matter how many times she kicks it, but she does anyway. She is not permitted through, she knows, but still she begs. Still, she cries out, screaming at the silence. It won’t help, but she does anyway. There isn’t anything else to do.

Her cries become weary, her screams half-hearted, her kicks weak. She falls, once again, to the cold floor. Her leg is coated in dried blood, it stings every time she moves, but it doesn’t seem worth cleaning. After all, her whole body aches anyway, what difference does a little dried blood make? Slowly, she rests her head on her knees, letting the tears run down to her feet. The salt aggravates the pain, but she ignores it, it means very little in this place.

A heavy hand pulls her quivering wreck away from the door, she does not resist. The heavy hand opens the door she came from, she does not resist. The heavy hand starts to push her back, but with a moment’s hesitation the hand caresses her face, wiping the tears away, she draws back. The hand asserts its authority, holding her tired hair and dragging her towards him. The hand’s owner kisses her forehead, as she tries to turn away. With a smile, his heavy hand releases her; she willingly walks through the door.

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