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Drip
I've left these alone for a while. Forgive me if I'm rustier than ever.
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Drip.
Clothes rustle in the background. A thick cloth covers my eyes as I lay back on a table. My hands tied down.
Drip.
Breathing is an easily distinguishable sound, as everybody in the room (Three? Ten? Twenty? Thirty?) seems to breathe in unison.
Drip.
The only other sound that's clear is that singular, miniscule splash as a drop hits above my stomach. But more important than the sound is the feeling. Fire spreads from my solar plexus, radiating outward toward my fingers and toes.
Drip.
Words are muttered around me, echoing heavily, though the originals are as indistinguishable from the echoes as the words themselves are.
Drip.
The fire is less intense now... or maybe my mind can't handle the pain and is just numbing my body to it. God only knows now. All this pain... all this suffering. I don't know that I even believe in God now...
Drip.
Somebody's removing the cloth over my eyes. I squint to prepare for onslaught of light... which doesn't come. The room is as dark as the blindfold was. The whispers are still there, still unintelligible, but somehow more insistant.
Drip.
The lights come up as slowly as the dawn. My neck is stiff. Whether from disuse or something else, I don't know. I strain to raise my neck, to look down at my body, to calm this urge to see my solar plexus, to forget about the voices surrounding me and find the source of these pops of fire.
Drip.
I will myself to raise my head at least as much as I physically push myself to, crying in exertion, taking an eternity to reach my goal.
Drip.
And I see.... nothing. No table, no body, no pool of liquid, no fire, no people.... nothing. Only darkness in spite of the light.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
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