It is dark and blinding. Searing and searching.

There is something whispering and heckling even as there is nothing and no one. Monsters did no lurk in the shadows. Oh, but there are words something close, there is meaning and cadence, but she can't quite grasp it...

....no.

Her head shakes.

(.
..shakes.
. . . shakes.
. . . . . shakes
. . . . . . . . shakes.
. . .shak.....) es.
shakes.


Pushes shoulders into the wall.

(over-and-lurking
waiting
laughingover-and-over)

No, there is darkness and it is quite. There is nothing -

Nope. Nope. Nope.

"66372273." Can't. Can't. Can't. (a voice, high and nasally calls out.) "66372273." (shutter pulled. oly face sears into the cellroom. fat glistens, and roooools) Be. Be. Be. "66372273." hand slams against the door.

The Keys jingle and jangle.

"Byrne!" a roar, spit flying

Metal against metal. Clicking, clacking. Scraping. Scrapping

(back against the wall, heart beatbeatbeating)

The door slams, knocking against the wall with a clang, and scrape and boom, (flinching.heartscreaming.Nonononono) faster then a sweat stained, grease soaked butterball had any right to be, he snared 66372273Byrne by her neck. "Byrne, I call, you answer!" a rotting, fetid smell came from the butterball's throat. Nausea swirled up, and up and up. She refused to it spit up. She didn't want to wear it for days and weeks and more.

The butterball, the orderly's mouth opens, fetid, rotting breath caresses her face, and plunges into her gasping open mouth. Supplanting her air, with nothing she wants to breathe. "Byrne." hand around her throat. Uniform covered in sweat, and grease, and dirt and shit.

"Present." She hisses back, coughing up the fetid air. Voice, rasphy and rough, gasping around the pressure of the hand pressing, grasping, twisting. "I...am...Byrne."