One beat — two beats — thunder through the floor.
The toxic air, rasping like poison, stuck fast in her throat.
Three beats — four beats — pounding at the door.
She couldn't look out, couldn't open it, must not unlock it.
Five beats — six — 'Don't open, 'tis the law!'
She had been trapped here in Hell for countless hours, air running dangerously low.
Seven beats — eight — what will win this bloody war?
S H E C O U L D N ' T B R E A T H E
Nine beats... ten. Your heart is slower than before.
Eleven beats...
Twelve...
Come and open up the door...
Half-mad with exhaustion, she stood.
YOU ARE READING
Ranger's Roundhouse
RandomOne-shots and short-stories from the mind of yours truly! c: Highest ranking: #32 - mirror #12 - Kiwi #5 - WorldWarOne
