“Bloody feet” Belén Macías i Pérez / 1r de Batxillerat LLENGUA ANGLESA_2N PREMI Blood dripped down my eyebrows at a slow pace, it almost felt as if I were drowning inside a pool of honey. A dense liquid flowed through my face. Little to no air for me to breathe. My eyes were closing sloppily and the fear was no longer anywhere near to be seen. I was long past horror and did not have any will to go back to the life I could still redeem. How I was still alive is probably a miracle I won’t ever be able to decipher, yet I don’t want to specifically know the reason for that, nor do I want to experience that unconsciousness that hits in waves and leaves a trail each time with greater pain. God is a heck of a lot better playing at this game than I am, testing my luck like this again would probably mean I am out of my head, that I am an adrenaline junkie or that I am a descent of the devil. I’d rather keep the true reason to myself. The rope tied to my wrists started to make friction against my skin; just another injury I’ll have to take care of after I’m out of this hell-hole, or shall I say “heaven-hole”? At this point, I am not capable of knowing which side I’m on. The scratching of my nails against the hemp did not help the constant itchiness that left burns, reddening my hands. The tip of my fingers seemed to tear up with the droplets of blood that sketched the skin from my wrists to my nails, to the floor. Scratching, scraping, filing, one after another, then again, repeat. File, scrap, scratch; scraping, filing, scratching, yet again until finally, blood rushed to my nearly purple fingers. The dry veins on my fingers were drowning in the blood that was dying to get through my bonded wrists. My fingers traced the back of my pants until they perceived the pocket knife hidden behind them. I grabbed that tiny knife as if it were my last action; my final wish. From behind the iron chair, I started cutting the duct tape that immobilised my feet, as well as my legs.
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