Isadora gazed down at her hands, smudged in blood, and they recoiled on top of her lap.
Her mind reflected everything she had gone through for days. They prickled at her senses, dousing out the rest of the world as her mind plagued her.
She could still hear their voices, their peals of laughter, and slurs. She could still feel their touch marking every hair of her skin—how her body reacted despite her opposition.
They didn't finish the job, but they thrived in tarnishing her mind and body to sow torment and scar her for life.
Her skin wriggled, and her mind cracked, silent tears tapping against her bloody hands, her lips quivering tremendously.
She crammed her eyes shut, begging the gods to wipe her memories so that she would forget.
With each piece of the sensations slinking into her skin, her breath convulsed, and her fright grew, the tears gushing out of control.
She bounced her head, whimpering, puffing, forcing herself to stop recalling, but she couldn't.
