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She was so focused on him that she failed to notice that the severed hand had started to pulsate again and move, inching its way toward her. By the time Cappy realized what was happening, it was too late. She screamed and bolted, but it had already wrapped its cold, strong fingers around her ankle. She could only watch in horror as the skin above and below the hand's death grip began to discolorfirst a hot pink blush, then darker, turning a vivid blue-black. The skin began splitting, tearing open. Blood vessels bloated and ruptured. She heard the bones compress, begin to splinter and finally shatter, exploding like tiny rifle shots as they ripped through her tormented flesh. The scream which had taken what seemed like an eternity to well up in her constricted chest now bolted through the wall of silence, ricocheting off the walls of the tiny room. She jerked violently, staggering backwards and falling halfway into the hall. That final, desperate lunge had loosened the hand's grip, and she began to crawl. |
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She clawed her way across the stretch of cold linoleum. Her hand coiled around one of the chrome-legged, plastic-padded chairs, and with surprising strength, strength she never knew she had, she knocked the object sideways, toppling it and creating a momentary barrier between her and her assailant. |
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Between hysterical sobs, she screamed |
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