Lower Levels: Sub. 01

As she comes to, she must be feeling that dull poke, pull, poke, pull of the needle leading the thick thread through her skin. She doesn’t feel the full affliction of the pain because of the sedative given upon her arrival. She is most likely unaware of her being laced into the chair she is seated in because of her bewildered state, stripped of her clothing and comfort, no matter I’m almost finished. Her calves, back of thighs, forearms, and shoulders are carefully stitched, skin pulled taught to bind with the sleazy big-armed chair, she wont want to move once she is able to feel again. Pulling through the last stitch, I tie the knot and snip the excess thread away. Slowly as she regains consciousness her eyes flutter trying to bat away the bright light above her. The intended use of the light serves the purpose of blinding her to the realization of what else is kept in this room. The only thing her senses might be able to detect is the raw, dank smell of the musty walls confining her, so much old blood thick and coagulated in the bathtubs, unused for years now, for the operation of actual bathing. There is also the faint moaning of the other victims just like her, also bound to their own devices. Blood and bile pooled in low spots on the floor, gurgles softly as though the babbling of a thick brook full of human juices. Quiet drips of blood splatter on the cold concrete or slide down the sides and legs of the once pearly white porcelain of the bathtubs; now red collects between the toes of the clawed feet.