John Doe
The air is damp and heavy, as if the rain has not left at all. Outside, the ground is wet and muddy, and the smell of the wetness mingles with the scent of dirt and musty leaves.
In here, it"s worse. The room smells like cleaning fluid and sweat. There"s the hum of the generator and the scurrying of a mouse.
If you were listening, you"d hear a woman, drugged, yet coherent enough to speak. She leans against the wall. Her eyes cannot hold still; she wants to sleep. You"d hear the man. He"s irritated. She wants to leave.
The pills he’s given her make her feel like she’s on a cloud. She has no strength, but can still feel everything.
She tasted blood before, but now her mouth is dry. She can"t even move her lips. She can"t smile. Because of him. Not that she would smile for him,
