There was a window. A small one, curved upwards above her head, showing shadows cracked over the white sheets, torn with holes and spread across the floor. They had tried to make her move, unto the thick, soggy thing that creaked when sat upon, moaning through the rusty springs. Eyes hid under there, yes, eyes, big open yellow ones that stared at her and made her choke. They'd laughed at her, made her move; she'd dragged, and ran. And They had come for her, again, locking her up in There, and locking the door, and laughing while she screamed and while her eyes turned white and red, with hot liquid seeping through, and the window watched all.

Clouds showed through, through the walls; the shadows drifted across her face, her mouth open, her bound feet tugged tight. The shadows were inverted, of course; scratched this way and that, miscalculated drops dripping on through the crevices made by the bars.

And she laughed, because they wouldn't get her. They couldn't.