Posted Oct. 28, 2018, 4:07 p.m. by Myvera Statin (Prisoner (Ex-Syndicate)) (Trin S)
Cold.
Or was it hot?
It burned.
Something was searing her skin, making it nearly impossible for her to move without the arthritis of her bones acting up at every movement. She could feel the ache emanating from the core of each bone, radiating until it filled her body with the sickly feeling of an old cripple, who was barely halfway through her life. Cold, it was most definitely cold. The walls surrounding her was high rise, the Syndicate knew what she was capable of. Completely composed of the strongest metal they could accurately produce, Myvera knew she would stand no change against it, nor the bars that left her caged in this prison cell.
Bleak and melancholy, she could almost feel the depression in the walls, as they seemed to close around her. Sitting on the base of a flat, stone bed, she did not move. Her body was completely motionless, her eyes the only part of her moving even in the slightest of ways. People would pass her, and she would follow them with dark, vibrant green eyes, but never once did she get up to greet them or bother to holler. She sat there, waiting for the right person, waiting for the right time. They had taken many precautions on keeping her detainted to this cell, but there were some things that nothing could truly inhibit. And one of them, was the power of an belligerently intellectual mind.
Like a tiger laying in wait, she sat there. Hours passed, the chill seeping further into her body until she knew she was incapable of moving her toes. She had come to ignore it, her muscles so sore from their shivering, they had given up on bothering to generate enough heat to keep her in homeostasis. Staring, watching, calculating. But never once did she move. Myvera knew what they were looking for, it wasn’t a secret. They wanted knowledge, but she wasn’t positive as to what that knowledge entailed, nit yet. Clearly, they believed that by executing her death sentence, a penalty for her treason agaisnt the Syndicate, they could hang it over her head, as bait.
But that was the issue. Myvera wasn’t afraid to die. She had become so apathetic to the idea of death, she didn’t even bat an eye when she thought of it. Death was just another part of life. Perhaps that made her sick, to accept death as it was. Perhaps that made her a sociopath, to hold no sentimental or emotional value to it. Regardless of what it happened to be, it was her advantage. She had everything to gain, but nothing to lose. And that, more than anything, have her the advantage.
She waited.
They would come, she knew.
It was only a matter of time.
Myvera Statin
Prisoner
© 1991-2024 STF. Terms of Service
Version 1.15.11
RSS Feed