A short narration that I wrote when I was really really bored. I started it without a character in mind but the more I wrote the more the story resembled the character it could say it represents :? thus I had to go back to past paragraphs and rewerite them bit by bit.
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The unusual cold in that night of Winter could be cut with a knife. Laying on a mattress inside a room devoid of electric lighting, her bare skin reflected the pale moonlight coming through the window. The vacuous sound of still air was ringing inside her ears. The smell of aged wood, moss and dirt coming from in between the cracks on the furniture seeped into her nostrils. A metallic taste bittering the tongue lingered in every breath. The languid arms hanged from the rest of the body as her legs quietly twitched from the burning sensation coming from her womb. The trickles of blood tracing from her inner-thighs were beginning to feel cold on her skin even though the pain inside did not recede. Slender the shoulders rose and fell with the erratic inhaling and exhaling rhythm of her breathing. The hands, clenched in tight fists, went numb hours ago and no longer felt the tingle on the tip of it's fingers.
It did not matter anymore whether she closed her eyes or left them open, glazed they could still see his face as if carved in the innermost part of the brain. That face, whose disgusting breath could sill be felt all over the unripe body, was fresh in the memory, along with those hands much bigger than hers that touched the young flesh. The weight of his chest pressuring her small self against the mattress and the innumerable times his thrusts made her shake in the dulling silence of the room, broken only by his moaning, were still a very vivid experience to her.
As time went by the visits became more frequent in number and more violent in nature, until a daily call to his chambers were an everyday event on both their lives. One of the little things she kept track was a constant observation in what was starting to happen to her body, the scorching sensation that smothered her before was starting to grow dull, she no longer felt the breath coming from that face and his arms became nothing but a pile of meat that surrounded her. From time to time there was a slight sensation that brusquely shook her from one side to another or a tight grip on her neck that didn't let her breathe all too well and the occasional viscous fluids that fell on her.
The unreality of that existence was something that could barely let her keep an outline of her own self, thus she couldn't do much but let it dissolve like froth in the beating waves at an open, vast and wounded sea. Left behind was nothing more than a hollow carcass, a mold, a doll of flesh.