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


34. Chapter 7 Part 1

A heavy hand closes the girl’s eyes, letting her sleep. The sword lies next to her, removed from her head with care.  He checks the top of her head, parting her hair to expose as much of the scalp as he can. A perfectly straight, subtle cut marks where the blade entered her skull. It is of little significance, though tangible in this existence, she will not feel it when she returns.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers in her ear.

He notices her eyelids twitch, warning him of her imminent consciousness. He stands up; his heavy hand retrieves the sword and wipes the blood from it. Though there is still some residue, he sheaths the blade and hides the hilt under his battered cloak. He decides against staying for her awakening, so he leaves the room, without another look behind him. His heavy hand closes the first door behind him.

The girl opens her eyes on hearing the slam of the door, sitting up immediately, breathing quickly. She brings her hand to her head, her fingers examining the cut. She flinches, but continues tracing the length of the injury. She laughs nervously, unsure what to make of her situation. She looks down at herself, covered in cuts just as large, if not larger, and bruises telling tales of impacts that shattered her insides. She can still feel every one, but now they are joined by a discomforting feeling inside her skull.

As she stands up, her rags drip with the blood she shed in her sleep. The grey material is now a deep red, matching the stained floor. They weigh her down, heavy on her weak shoulders, she shifts them slightly to try and find some comfort, but she knows there is none. Looking back, she sees where her body was dragged from the second door into the centre of the room. The streaks on the ground are smooth and even, showing no sign of difficulty or haste. She instinctively brings her hand to her wrist, now aware of the aching, presumably where his heavy hand gripped her.

A click makes her turn around, she notices the first door is open a crack. She waits, expecting some indication from his heavy hand, but none comes. She is forced to make the decision herself, either stay, refusing to return to the life she hates, or go and endure another day of longing for home.

She sees little point in staying, wallowing in her pain won’t make it go away, so she walks over to the first door, pushes it open slowly and closes her eyes. She takes a step forward.

A heavy hand closes the door behind her.

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