He woke up to the feel of the shackles on his wrists, and tested them quietly in the dark. The harsh clink of them immediately brought stillness on his part — he didn’t breathe for as long as he could help it, nearly trembling on the stone floor from the effort of remaining motionless.

After what could’ve been minutes or moments, he finally exhaled.

Trapped in his own head, devoid of sight, he had no idea how long he’d been isolated like this, and he stayed quite still in fear of pain or punishment.

The space he was in felt cool, damp — now and again, the little hairs on his arms stood on end. He was enclosed, under a low ceiling, in a small space.


He blinked, trying to figure out if things were pitch black because of the dark, or because he couldn’t see.

How long had he been here? How long had he been alone? How long would he be alone?

He had his answer to the third question when he heard a voice above him speak.

“Oh, good. You’re awake.”

About Catastrophe Jones

Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
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