How To Dissect A Witch

v. tiny gradiations of loss

( cw : slight degradation, generally uncomfortable situations )

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Thankfully, it isn't really dogfood. Just normal human biscuits in pet packaging.

You've long since stopped eating when the morbid thought of your stitches reopening after a full stomach enters your mind. 

The fluorescent light is on and humming, allowing you enough view to properly inspect your hellhole.

You were right; from the farthest side is a countertop, a sink, a radio. On your right is one stool, a table covered in mint green sheet, and a metallic tray. Although this time it's empty besides from used plastic wrappers. No such luck for any sharp weapons to free yourself.

You can barely look behind you to see the rest of the room. But you vaguely make out an old door by the far left, its wood chipping off along the edges. Could lead to another place, but it seems rather begrimed to be anything of importance.

It's cold. You're wearing nothing on top but your undergarments and the bandage on your stomach. At least you can take relief your bloody clothes are disposed of. No longer sticking to your sweaty skin. No longer reminding you of the bloodbath and the people you failed.

Although your skirt's still on, thankfully, but it's stained with dried blood and . . . and whatever else . . .

You look back at your bandaged arm. Old and dry with tinges of red. The wrappings on your stomach is pink and uncomfortably itchy and loose. The numbing agents your Doctor used has long passed and you're already feeling the strains of pain in every little movement.

You don't know what time is it, but it feels like it's been hours since the maniac's visit. You're a little full, but you're rarely thankful. The discomfort grows as you become more accustomed with the eerily silent room.

It didn't help when you realize you needed to take a leak.

Crap. You shouldn't have drank so much water.

The hours whittle away. Slowly, mockingly. Your only entertainment being testing out your powers again, attempting to free your ankles from the tight bindings, or curling in pain and discomfort.

You hate the Doctor. He knew leaving that water and food would have you overindulging yourself. He knew the stitches were enough to reign you in from too much movement. He knew you'll be far uncomfortable and stressed to be able to manifest your Sensor Telekinesis. He knew almost everything to exploit you and you . . . you . . .

Like a stupid little lab rat, fell in each one of them.

The desperation grows as you begin contemplating relieving yourself on the table itself. No no, that's animal behavior. But your bladders are about to burst. You don't think dignity is important now.

No no no. Calm down. Endure it please, just a little longer. You can't humiliate yourself now . . .

The next few hours continue on with the same thoughts. Even your own mind is bullying you into admitting to humiliation. With all your might, you remind yourself how horrible it would seem once the Doctor comes in and sees you covered in your mess.

Shit. Remove the image in your mind. Erase it erase erase.

Blankly staring everywhere helped you notice all the smallest details. The gray walls seem to glitter when you move a bit. The room smells vaguely of sea salt, rubber and musky perfume. It makes you really sick.

You can't sleep. You can't even do anything besides sitting and thinking about things you miss. No point about bitter memories. The best you can do is think of convoluted plans to escape.