Sharon's eyelids twitched once, twice, fighting against the weight of unconsciousness, as if exhaustion had sealed them with invisible glue. They parted at last, inch by agonizing inch, only to reveal utter blackness.
Where am I...?
A blindfold clamped over her eyes—coarse, heavy cloth, rough as burlap, knotted so tightly it ground into her temples and forehead.
What the fuck? I can't see. Oh, I have been blindfolded. Fuck!
It was damp, clammy with her own sweat, stiff patches of crusted blood flaking against her lashes, the itch maddening but unreachable.
Worse was her mouth—a throbbing cage of humiliation and pain. Someone had shoved a thick wad of rag deep inside, the material gritty with dirt and fibres that scraped her palate like sandpaper.
It reeked and tasted vile—sharp, acrid motor oil clinging to every thread, overlaid with the coppery penny-bite of her own dried blood from split lips and bitten tongue.
