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She shivered as a cold bead of moisture ran down her bare arm. The sensation barely registered on her flesh.
Her clouded mind could not grasp the drop's origin; water, sweat, blood? Did it matter? One drop. One more drop.
'But where would the water come from? Wouldn't blood be warm to the touch?' She closed her eyes on the suffocating darkness.
Willed her mind to function above the most basic of levels. 'Yes, where would the water come from?' They had not fed her today.
They wanted her weak. They wanted her broken. They beat and starved her body. And now her body grew weak.
Weaker by the instant. But her mind, although clouding and deprived, was not broken. They had not broken her yet.
'This place is cold, but not damp. There is no humidity. No condensation. No precipitation.'
A second bead, (or was it the sixth, the tenth, the millionth?) ran down from her wrist. It shot straight down her forearm, and
curled around her taut tricep to sit uncomfortably in the curve of her arm pit, before following it's trail down the side of her body,
only to get lost in the damp folds of her shirt bunched around her waist.
'Would my blood not be warm to the touch? I am cold, yes, and my arms, raised above my head in this appropriately
mideval fashion, are not receiving adequate circulation, but still... blood is warm, hot even, when its first spilled.
Sweat.'
She chewed on the word. Sweat. Even dared to breathe it aloud. Her dried lips cracked with the slight movement.
'Sweat. Sweat. Sweat.' She chanted the mantra in her mind. The singular word parting the fog momentarily before
it clouded over again. The fog was growing thicker. Harder to clear, and knitting itself together again at a swifter pace.
'Sweat..Sweat...Sweat...Sweat...'