Time

I’m here.

Feeling the desperate grip of her hand tightening around your throat as those around you watched. The splintered bones of her fingers, stripped of their flesh, pricking your skin as others ignored your frantic gasps for breath. The women surrounding you, tapping her foot impatiently as she waited, not sparing you a glance of her trained eye as the men behind you, turned his back to you and barked orders into his headset.

Thirteen.

Her frail cheek nuzzling against your hair, leaving traces of white powder throughout only to be seen by the eyes of one. Thick tendrils of vein viciously clawing their way up from the depths of your lungs, piercing the weakening tissue as her lips, thinner than a puddle’s ice, peppered against the shell of your ear; breathlessly wording your life from the word go. The women around you, groaning, reached around you and slammed her delicate hand, bejewelled with money, against the infuriating tiny button. The men placed his hand heavily on his hip, sighing – exhausted? – as he listened to the other end of his phone call.

Eight.

Her rigid fingers forcing your head back, you groan in discomfort as her grip tightens on every clock ticking onwards; forcing the end of your time to approach with painful ease. The men pay you no mind as he roughly shoves you – as if you were piles of paper on his desk; a creation of his own, a man-made barricade between he and his cocaine – further into her arms in his rush to jam his bulging fist against the same tiny button. The women glare at the men and his fist, her lips curling into a noiseless snarl as she reaches for her phone; again, trying to dial her way out of this trapped predicament amongst fruitless men and a death-reeking you.

Two.

 

Never has the silence been so profound.

Never has the pain been too much too bear.

 

One.

 

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