A descriptive piece based on the song 'Stitches' by Young Guns.
It's also a giant metaphor.
Every hour is a season, every minute lasts a day, the bruising cold air crawls like a legless centipede through the minute gaps between the rusting steel bars and tickles the worn, blank canvas encased behind them. The violent stench of years of brutality clogs up the impure and bitter air, the tormenting cries of the unfortunate days gone by. The ones that has previously laid here, constantly staring into the treacherous oblivion lurked in the dusty shadows. The littlest things combined continually ebbed away at the little strength that she had left in her tattered soul. She thought she was safe beneath the smoke, but even under cover she still chokes. Eerie, deep footsteps headed towards the nervously awaiting body, shivering and writhing in the chains that held her. The footsteps spoke in a harsh and gruelling voice, the pain was far from self inflicted. She wanted to escape, to run away, but she couldn't. It was seemingly impossible...