It's wondrous how much change light can bring into one's features. And for some, how much emotion it could shed sight on. Bright lights, dull lights, even colored lights, each an importance in their own setting.
Monqiue Salslova stood under bright white light, the cry for help, swallowed by the figure that intimidated the space she was in.
The French, dragged off by the security, had been thrown into a room that served as storage, with plastic crates and shattered light bulbs shoved to the far left corner. Her hands had banged on the door endlessly. All futile with not a soul passing by the room. The blabbering French soon got tired, voice hoarse from all the screaming.
With the heater working, Monique felt more cold than ever as something kept repeating in her that when the door opens, it won't be for salvation.
Indeed, hours later, Anna stepped in from dim passage light, and Monique, voracious in her insults and untamed manner, was prepared to battle the lady to death.
