The room was deeply still. Not a rustle from within, nor even a stir of the window drapes. The breeze was gone.
Steamy clouds had all disappeared long ago. The washtub sat, cold, pristine, and perfect, never touched, white bath linen folded sweetly at its base, unspotted as a lamb. At its side, a crisp Company uniform lay neatly unoccupied on a seat with a velvet cushion.
But she couldn't move.
In nothing but rags, she cowered in the corner, farthest from the light of the open window. Terror-stricken, shaking, and in pieces. The silence whispered noiseless threats. The world had turned against her. And she could not fight back.
Empty heart. Hollow mind. Frozen, trapped inside her terrible fortress, where nothing could hurt her but herself.
She couldn't shake it.
It wouldn't leave.
Every creak made her jump.
Every sound was deafening.
Every voice was laced with whispered agony.
Every breeze smelled of thick, hot blood.