Streams

“I thought of streams, scarlet streams, boiling, invigorating, fluid groups of…”

A bell button pushed, a chime, a man leaving his seat, interrupted the flow. A man walking from a room to a corridor to a door distracted her. Two people talking at each other, arguing, distracted her. She sat in silence, distracted and desperately trying to compose her thoughts before resuming her recollection of events that morning.

She had missed lunch, and a desire for food further complicated her thoughts. She could not settle. All she could hope for, all she could focus on, was release before this afternoon became this evening.

It was one word, and then a line, that distracted her. It was a total of eight syllables.

“Now! I do not care how you do it.”

It was a single sound, then, a crack. It was a crack followed by footsteps, increasingly audible. It was then the sound of people, presumably the men who had taken her, approaching her again.

She heard another crack. She slumped. She lost consciousness.

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